Late, Late in the Evening

so's nobody can't get near et,' said another voice.

'So what does Oi do?'

'You asks the p'liceman ef he's seed your lettle neppers.'

'Roight again. So he says no and to keep 'em away and any other cheldren, too, 'cos et's no place for cheldren and the p'lice has their orders and to hop et. So what does Oi say to that?'

'You says, 'Oo's ben murdered, then?''

'And what do he say?'

'He says, 'What do you know about et?''

'So Oi says, 'You tell me and Oi'll tell you.' But then I sees two more on 'em comen down Loy Hell luggen a dark man atween 'em, so Oi says, 'Et's them geppos, then, es et?' And what do he say to that?'

'He says, ''Op et, 'cos your guess es as good as moine and you are obstructen me in the course of moi dooty, so sleng your 'ook and don't come yer no more.''

'So then what does Oi do?'

'You pokes your tongue out at hem and then you sees your lettle neppers and you cotches up weth them and you cleans up Bert weth some long grass and washes hem off in the brook and runs 'em both home and tells your dad about the murder whoile your mam feneshes up cleanen young Bert at the ketchen senk.''

At this moment the Sunday school superintendent came out and rang a handbell and ordered us all inside the building, but Our Sarah said to her group,

'Oi en agoen en there. Let's go down the sheepwash and see what's doen.'

'Can't, in our Sunday clothes,' said Kenneth. 'Besides, our cousins would know and they'd split on us. I think we'd better go in.'

'I shan't,' I said, as I noticed our cousins and several others sneaking away towards the gate. 'I'm never going in there again after what that man said to me last time. I vote we walk up to the big house and try to get a word with Lionel. He won't have heard about the murder and I want to be the first to tell him, and to tell him about Mr Ward because he's a relation.'

'You don't really think Mr Ward is a murderer, do you?'

'He might even be the person who got murdered. Anyway, coming with me?'

'All right. We'd better go by way of The Marsh and up Lovers' Lane, so as not to go past Aunt Kirstie's.'

'We can't go up Lovers' Lane if the police have roped off the sheepwash. They might arrest us.'

'Not they. They can only send us away.'

'We're not supposed to use Lovers' Lane, anyway, and we've done one bad thing already, not going into Sunday school.'

'You can take a horse to Sunday school but you can't make it sing hymns,' said Kenneth.

We giggled at this witticism and passed out at the Sunday school gate. As we reached Mother Honour's shop Kenneth looked across the road at the tumbledown cottage and said, 'I suppose Mr Ward couldn't be hiding in there? Let's go and look.'

'Oh, come on,' I said. 'We can't go into that filthy place in our Sunday clothes.' So we crossed over at Mother Honour's, avoided the cottage and went on to The Marsh by way of the bridge and the culvert. It was, I suppose, less than half a mile to the sheepwash and long before we got there we could see several people standing about, but none of them looked like policemen.

'Might be detectives in plain clothes,' said Kenneth.

'One of them's Uncle Arthur,' I said, for I could see the two dogs. 'We'd better go back. We don't want questions asked about Sunday school.'

But the dogs had spotted us. Floss was on a lead; Vicky, who could be trusted, was not. She came leaping and bounding up to us and Uncle Arthur turned round to order her back and saw us.

'It's a fair cop,' muttered Kenneth, as he stooped to fondle Vicky. 'What shall we say?'

As it happened, there was no need to say anything, for Uncle Arthur either had forgotten or did not realise that we ought to have been in Sunday school. Later we remembered that he had not been present when we received our marching orders.

'You two get off home,' he said. 'No place for children, this isn't.'

'Why isn't it?' I asked, playing the innocent. I noticed, incidentally, that the ropes and stakes which Our Sarah had mentioned were no longer in position and that the bystanders were neither policemen nor detectives, but Sunday morning idlers come to gawp at the spot marked with a cross.

'Something happened last night to a poor young girl,' said Uncle Arthur, 'so you mind what your dad and mam tells you, and don't you ever go speaking to no strangers.'

'We never do,' I said, forgetting for the moment that once Kenneth had spoken to Old Sukie. We fell in beside Uncle Arthur and when we reached grandfather's little wooden bridge over the brook, our uncle indicated it and told us to cut off home. This did not fit in with our plans at all, but we crossed the planks, opened the iron gate and walked a little way up the path between the currant bushes. When we snaked back to the gate and cautiously opened it, Uncle Arthur was almost up to the culvert. We watched him cross the little bridge and disappear round the corner. He had taken the road which led away from the village and, indeed, had he planned to return home, he would have accompanied us.

'He's killing time until the pub opens at twelve,' said Kenneth, 'then he'll go in and ask the men if they've