Late, Late in the Evening

'Master Lionel has gone home.'

'We know,' said Kenneth. 'Miss Margaret and Mr Kenneth Clifton, to see Mrs Kempson on business.' He handed the butler his cap. 'It's to do with the murder,' he said. The butler stood aside and let us in.

'Very good, sir,' he said ironically. 'But may I point out that it is customary for gentlemen to 'and me their 'ats after they have crossed the threshold? This way, if you please.'

He did not take us up the splendid staircase, but led the way to a small, pretty little room on the ground floor.

'Miss Margaret Clifton, Mr Kenneth Clifton,' he announced. It ought to have sounded all right and, in a way, it did sound all right, but we knew he was laughing at us.

'Oh, I'm afraid Lionel has gone home,' said Mrs Kempson. Seated in the room with her was a small, thin lady, not so old as Mrs Kempson. She had black hair and black eyes and her hands and face looked rather yellow. She was so much like a witch that I ought to have been alarmed, but (as Kenneth said later) somehow you knew she was all right.

I thought it was about time that I said something. So far, I had left all the talking to Kenneth.

'We know Lionel has gone home. He told us,' I said. 'We've come about the murder.'

'Good gracious me! What do you children know about that?'

'We know the gypsy didn't do it.'

'How can you know anything of the sort?' But, as she asked the question, she turned to the black-haired lady. 'I think perhaps I had better leave this to you, Mrs Bradley. I don't know what these children are talking about,' she said.

'Interesting,' said Mrs Bradley. 'Oh, are you leaving us?'

'Yes, I have letters to write.' Somewhat to our relief, Mrs Kempson got up to go. She told us to sit down and then she left us with the black-haired witch. She walked out very slowly, as though she was weak and ill.

'The inquest is tomorrow,' said Mrs Bradley, fixing her sharp eyes on us. 'This will be the preliminary enquiry, you know, when the body is formally identified and the medical evidence taken, so you have come at a very good time. Forgive me if it is an impertinent question, but are not the school holidays over?'

'We don't really belong here,' said Kenneth. 'We expect to go back to London any day now.'

'I see. And what did you want to tell Mrs Kempson?'

'It wasn't so much Mrs Kempson,' I explained. 'It's just that we had to tell somebody important, and she's the only important person we know except our grandfather, and I don't think he'd be interested.'

'Oh, and why is that?'

'He doesn't like gypsies. He says they raid his chicken-run and I think perhaps they do.'

'I see. Suppose you begin at the beginning. I feel that your story will be fraught with interest.'

I wondered whether she also was laughing at us. In what turned out to be a long acquaintance with her, for we were among the first to congratulate her when, many years later, she was made a D.B.E. and had to be addressed (rather to our embarrassment) as Dame Beatrice, we never really did know when she was laughing at us, but she was so good to us-helping us to get good jobs and rooting for Kenneth to get him into Parliament later on-that we did not mind even if she was indulging her unpredictable sense of humour at our expense, for it was puzzling but never hurtful.

Anyway, before we left Mrs Kempson's house that day we had laid all before her and she had promised to see that Sukie's man got justice. I do not know, even to this day, what gave us such complete confidence in her, but she came to see Uncle Arthur and he agreed to give Bellamy Smith a complete alibi, as was only just and right.

* * *

'Well,' said Kenneth, when we were on our way back to Aunt Kirstie's. 'I think we can depend on her, don't you? She seems a very reliable sort of person. She talked to us as if we were grown-up and she didn't ask any silly questions.'

'There's an awful lot of the day left. What shall we do after dinner?' I asked.

'I know what I want to do, but I don't know whether you'll agree, and it's not a job I want to tackle on my own.'

'You mean the hermit's cottage, don't you? I don't want to go there again.'

'I thought you wouldn't, but remember that filled-in hole!'

'What about it?'

'I rather think,' said Kenneth, kicking a stone in front of him as we walked down the hill, 'I rather think Mr Ward may have buried something there, you know.'

'Why? What makes you think so?' I no longer thought of buried treasure. I had murder in mind and I was frightened.

'Well, why should he dig a hole like that and then fill it in again if he wasn't burying something?' said Kenneth. 'He'd never do all that work for nothing. Nobody would.'

'He might if he was a madman.'

'They think a madman murdered that girl, and we think Mr Ward is a bit mad. Tell you what! Suppose there's some important clue to him being the murderer and he's buried it in that cottage so the police won't find it? Wouldn't it be a score if we dug it up and it turned out to be just the thing the police were looking for? It could be, you know, because I don't suppose they realise Mr Ward used to go to the cottage and dig up the floor.'