[Mrs Bradley 50] - Late, Late in the Evening

by Gladys Mitchell

  'Oh, blow!' said Kenneth. 'Now what do we do?'

  'If it's a workman to do some repairs, he'll knock off at twelve,' I said. 'Let's go and spend our money and wait for him to go.'

  'It's hours before twelve. I vote we snake in by the front door and see who's there. If it's a workman he'll only tell us to hop it.'

  'But I don't believe it is a workman,' I said. 'I heard Uncle Arthur tell Aunt Kirstie that all the place was fit for was to come down and that he was sorry for the chaps who had to do the job because the bugs would be worse than a London slum. Anyway, it's Saturday. They wouldn't start a job like that on a Saturday.'

  'Then it's Mr Ward. He might get waxy if we spied on him.'

  'All right, then, let's spend. Brandy balls or Old Mother Honour?'

  'We've got enough for both.' We stopped at Miss Summers' shop. It was not a real shop, as Old Mother Honour's was. By that I mean it had been built as an ordinary house, but Miss Summers' father, who had had it before her, had altered the front window and made it into a big, square bay with a broad shelf behind on which were loaves and buns and a couple of jars of sweets to show that she sold those as well.

  As we were looking in at the window, Our Ern came up behind us.

  'Hullo! Spenden?' he asked covetously. 'Me, Oi be saven up for the fair.'

  'Oh, so are we,' said Kenneth. 'How much have you got?'

  'Two shellen and tuppence. Oi ben sellen buckets o' dung. Our Sarah, her got near enough foive bob. Her ben taken lettle babies out. Sometoimes her gets gev as much as a sexpence for that.'

  'Where does she get the babies from?' (Kenneth knew that nobody in the village would give twopence, let alone sixpence, for pushing a baby out in its perambulator.)

  'En the town of a Saturday afternoon when her's done out our bedrooms.'

  'And where do you get the manure?'

  'At the stables where the College gents keeps their 'orses. Oi reckons to 'ave foive bob, too, come the fair.'

  'You could take babies out, couldn't you?' said Kenneth, when Our Ern had gone.

  'No, I couldn't. I hate babies,' I said. 'And you wouldn't be allowed to collect buckets of manure, so you needn't think any more about it.'

  'I could get it from old Polly's stable, but I wouldn't know where to sell it.'

  'Old Polly bites and kicks. Look, the coast's clear. Let's buy the brandy balls.'

  We did this, and bought four ounces between us instead of two ounces each.

  'That way,' said Kenneth, when we left the shop, 'she can only cheat us out of one brandy ball, not two.' I did not need this explanation, as the manoeuvre was one we had used before. The only snag was that sometimes, when it came to the divvying up, there was an odd instead of an even number of brandy balls. However, we were accustomed to solve this problem by taking turns at sucking the extra sweet. On arrival at Mother Honour's we saw a couple of the village children coming towards us, so we did not stop, but strolled on as though we were going on to The Marsh.

  'Ent you got nothen to spend, then?' asked one child, with a sneer. 'Thought you was rech!'

  'Saving up for the fair,' said Kenneth promptly. 'What about you?'

  'Oh,' said the other, 'us too an' all. Bet you ent got as much as Oi 'ave.'

  'Six shillings,' said Kenneth, lying, of course.

  'Garn! Oi don't believe et! Let's see et, then.'

  'You'll see it when the time comes.'

  'Foight you for et!'

  'You don't think I carry it about with me, do you? My uncle is minding it for me. You can fight him for it, if you like.' We strolled on. As we turned the corner I glanced back.

  'O.K. They've gone into their house,' I said. As we came out of Mother Honour's we saw Mr Ward come out of the hermit's cottage. Kenneth pulled me back inside the shop, so Mr Ward did not see us. As we watched from the doorway, he took the road which led to the pub.

  'So that's who it was in there,' I said. 'I thought as much. Good thing we didn't go in.'

  'Let's see what he's been up to,' said Kenneth. 'He's sure to be gone at least half an hour.'

  'I'm not interested now I know it's Mr Ward. He's always digging,' I said. 'First the gladioli, then the chicken run and now this.'

  'I know he's always digging,' said Kenneth. 'Come on! He wasn't carrying anything when he came out, so he can't have found the treasure.' I think my brother had convinced himself by this time that treasure had been hidden in the cottage. I was not equally convinced. I was two years older than Kenneth. Besides, I was very much afraid of Mr Ward. I thought he was slightly mad and I wanted nothing to do with him or his affairs. 'We've nothing to dig with,' I said feebly.

  'Don't be daft! His spade and things will be in there, won't they?'

  I had no more excuses to offer. We crossed the road and sneaked in at the open doorway. Like the rest of the cottages, this one had no front hall. We found ourselves in what had been the parlour before the hermit had turned it into a pigsty. The only light came in through the doorway, for the window was filthy with grime and covered in cobwebs. The whole place stank horribly and we were very careful not to go near the walls.

  Somebody ('I bet it was Mr Ward,' said Kenneth) had dug a deep, wide hole in the boardless floor. It reminded me of a grave. A spade and a pickaxe were lying on the ground near it.

  'Let's get out of here,' I said.

  We talked about the cottage as we walked home.

  'There couldn't be treasure in a place like that,' I said.

  'If there is, I bet the hermit put a curse on it,' my brother said. 'What did you make of Mr Ward's hole?'

  'It could had been a grave. You don't think he's murdered somebody, do you?'

  'He looks like a murderer. I call him a very sinister sort of man. I tell you what! Why don't we keep an eye on Mr Ward?-tail him, you know, like they do in the Secret Service.'

  'He'd find out and complain to Aunt Kirstie or perhaps even go for us. If he is a murderer, then he must be fleeing from justice and he would be capable of anything,' I protested.

  'Well, let's not actually tail him, then, but just sort of keep an eye on him. It ought to be easy enough because I've thought how we could get into that cottage garden if we really wanted to.'

  'How? We can't manage that ladder. Much too heavy and if we asked Our Sarah or some others to help us carry it, we'd have to let them into the garden, too. Besides, Our Ern would sneak.'

  'My plan wouldn't need anybody except you and me and that iron bar in Uncle Arthur's toolshed.'

  'What's the idea, then?'

  I'll show you on Monday. Some big boys at our London school did it to get into the recreation ground from the canal bank without having to go all the way round by the road.'

  Chapter 3

  The Sheepwash

  I guessed what Kenneth meant to do, although I doubted whether even our combined strength could accomplish it.

  'The boys you mean were bigger and tougher than us,' I said.

  'Oh, we shall manage all right. It's only a question of leverage. Mr Crandon told us that with proper leverage you could turn the world upside down if only you could find somewhere else to stand while you were doing it.'

  'You'd have to stand on the moon, I should think. That would be the nearest.' (This, of course, was many years before the miracle occurred and men actually did land on the moon.)

  'Well, be that as it may (that's another of Mr Crandon's gags), you know what I mean, because at home we got through the gap ourselves one Saturday morning when the park-keeper wasn't about, so on Monday we'll try with Uncle Arthur's iron bar. Tomorrow I think we'll go down to the sheepwash and see if we can spot Old Sukie again,' said Kenneth.

  'On a Sunday?'

  'Oh, I see what you mean.' The fact that we knew perfectly well that the sheepwash was forbidden to us could be passed over on weekdays, but to sin on a Sunday was different. There was the never-to-be-forgotten occasion on which, surprisingly, Uncle Arthur had decided to take us for a walk on a Sunday morning and
as we reached the outskirts of the town we found a paper-shop open. Uncle Arthur went in and bought a Sunday paper and came out with some nut-milk chocolate for us. We ate it, of course, but, although it was an almost unheard-of luxury, I cannot say I enjoyed it very much.

  'Do you think we'll go to hell for eating things bought on a Sunday?' Kenneth had enquired.

  'We didn't do the actual buying ourselves,' I pointed out.

  'When Aunt Lally was talking about boys scrumping pears and strawberries off those people opposite and sharing them out, on a promise not to tell, she said the receiver was worse than the thief.'

  'Yes, but Uncle Arthur didn't steal the chocolate. He bought it fair and square with his own money. Besides, we couldn't refuse it. He would have been awfully offended. Nut-milk chocolate is about the most expensive sweet you can buy.'

  'Perhaps we could make up for eating it. Put ourselves right some way.'

  'Give most of our next brandy balls to Our Ern?' (That year we had only a halfpenny a week pocket-money.)

  'No, that would be going too far. I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll each put one brandy ball down the well as a sacrifice. That ought to get us in the clear.'

  'We'd only have three left.'

  'Yes, well, let's just add a private bit when we say our prayers tonight. That ought to do. Even God couldn't really expect us not to eat the chocolate when Uncle Arthur had bought it for us.'

  As it turned out, when Sunday came and went, our consciences were clear. We spent no money, having none left to spend, and we even allowed Aunt Lally to pressurise us into going to Sunday school. She was always suggesting it and our usual response was to make ourselves scarce as soon as we could.

  On this particular Sunday, however, we were unlucky. The blow fell at the very beginning of the day. We had come downstairs at nine because Aunt Lally always allowed herself what she called 'a long lie-in' on Sunday mornings, and were about to go over to Aunt Kirstie's when grandfather, seated as usual in his big leather-covered armchair, said, 'You'll breakfast and dine with us today. Kirstie and Arthur have business up at the manor.'

  We asked no questions. Grandfather, in addition to his patriarchal appearance and dignified bearing, was autocratic and short-tempered and, I think, not very fond of children, having had eight of his own.

  Kenneth said (daringly, I thought),

  'They generally leave us something on their bedside table. We go in to say good morning and there's chocolate cream or something.'

  'It's here,' said grandfather, pointing to the sideboard with the silver-topped ebony stick he always had by him. 'You may have it after breakfast.'

  After breakfast, which was bacon and eggs and fried bread, but not nearly such good fried bread as Aunt Kirstie's, we were told to go upstairs again and put on our best clothes.

  'But we never change until after Sunday dinner,' I said, looking down at my print frock.

  'Your grandfather likes to see you dressed up pretty on a Sunday,' said Aunt Lally, ushering us up the stairs as though she thought we would cut and run if she were not there to superintend us. 'He'll give you a button-hole to wear to Sunday school if you're good children.'

  'But we don't go to Sunday school. It's a waste of time,' said Kenneth.

  'That's wicked talk,' said Aunt Lally, shocked. 'Besides, your cousins are coming to call for you at a quarter to ten. They always go to Sunday school in the morning, yes, and to Mission Hall at night.'

  The only cousins still young enough to go to Sunday school were Uncle George's children, Cissie and Dannie. We despised them, and they disliked us. However, it was of no use to argue. Along with them we had to go. I had tumbled down the day before and was not anxious to exhibit my scars in public, so the triumph of Cissie and Dannie was complete when, near the beginning of the proceedings, the Sunday school superintendent, a bearded man with a cast in one eye, pointed straight at me and said sternly,

  'Stop talking, that little girl with the scrazed nose!' (I was not talking. It was Cissie.)

  However, we were free at last, and just as we reached grandfather's front gate and were discussing what there was likely to be for Sunday dinner-'Chicken, I hope,' said Kenneth-we saw Aunt Kirstie and Uncle Arthur coming towards us down the hill. We rushed up to them.

  'Thank you for the chocolate cream pigs,' I said. 'We've been to Sunday school. It was horrible. We knew much more about the Romans than the teacher who took our class. She was just plain ignorant. She only knew what was in the Bible.'

  'That's no way to talk,' said Aunt Kirstie, who always paid lip-service, but no more, to religious observances. 'Sunday school is very nice and proper.'

  'Can we have dinner with you instead of with Aunt Lally?' asked Kenneth.

  'No, that you can't. Lally has killed and plucked a chicken specially. Besides, ours isn't even in the oven yet.'

  'Aunt Lally said you went to the manor house. Did you really?'

  'Your aunt don't tell lies,' said Aunt Kirstie. 'You'll maybe hear all about it later on.'

  'Was it about Mr Ward?'

  'Now why on earth should you ask me that?'

  'Only because Lionel let out one day that Mr Ward was some kind of relation of his. He said he was a remittance man. What does that mean, Aunt Kirstie?'

  'Only that he's kept by the family and doesn't have to work for his living.'

  'Why doesn't he?'

  'Because he was a gentleman born and has delicate health. And now you'd better run along, else Lally's dinner will spoil and I'll get the blame for keeping you talking.'

  'You know what I think,' said Kenneth, when Sunday dinner was over and we had been settled on our own in the sitting-room with copies of an uplifting but dull periodical which Aunt Lally bought each Saturday when she went to the town for her shopping. 'I think Mr Ward is an ex-convict and Mrs Kempson or someone pays Aunt Kirstie to look after him, because the family don't want to own him any more. Lionel practically said as much, you know.'

  'He could even be a lunatic,' I said. 'He acts like one at times.'

  'We ought to be careful. He might be a criminal lunatic, and we did wonder whether he was a murderer. I'm glad we don't sleep at Aunt Kirstie's.'

  'Why do you think they had to go to the manor house? It was something to do with Mr Ward. I'm sure of it.'

  'Perhaps to ask for more money for looking after him.'

  'Aunt Kirstie wouldn't do that.'

  'Well, perhaps Uncle Arthur would.'

  'I don't think they went of their own accord. I think they were sent for. It would be much more likely.'

  'Oh, I don't know. They're not Mrs Kempson's servants.'

  Speculation was idle. We gave it up, but, on the following day, when we were able to resume our normal routine, our suspicions that Mr Ward was not altogether compos mentis received a new fillip. We went along to the sheepwash in search of Our Sarah and her gang, for there was no sign of Lionel that morning and this was disappointing, since we had planned to ask him whether he knew of our relatives' visit to the manor house in the hope that he might be able to tell us something about it. However, nobody was at the sheepwash except Mr Ward. He stood up to his thighs in the water, swinging his pickaxe. Water and mud were flying in all directions and he himself was so wet that we could see the sun shining on the drops of water in his hair.

  'Down!' whispered Kenneth.

  'Where?'

  'In the brook. He's got his back to us. Take your shoes off and leave them on the bank.'

  'I've got stockings on.'

  'They'll soon dry.' So we took off our shoes and waded into the brook where the bank was steepest and peered out at Mr Ward from behind the tall summer grasses. We gained nothing. Mr Ward hacked away with his pickaxe, sending up mud mixed with rainbow spray, then, suddenly, he lofted the pickaxe so that it described an arc before it fell fifteen feet away on to The Marsh. He took out his watch, looked at it, put it back in his pocket, came out of the sheepwash, regained his pickaxe and began to walk towards us.


  We crouched down, my frock and Kenneth's shorts getting wetter and wetter, but apparently Mr Ward was unconscious of our presence. To our relief (although I now cannot see that we had anything to fear) he passed by us on the drove road and made his way back to the plank bridge. We gave him a good ten minutes, I should think, before we followed him on to grandfather's land and up to Aunt Kirstie's house for a washing-day dinner.

  As usual, Mr Ward did not eat with us. He went up to his room by way of the back stairs, changed his wet clothes and went out again. We were anxious to follow him, but the food-cold roast pork and jacket potatoes-was already on the table, so we sat down quickly to conceal our wet clothes and began our meal.

  We always hated washing-day. At home where the scullery in our London house was very small and most of the space was taken up by the copper, the gas-cooker and the sink, it was worse, but even at Aunt Kirstie's the whole of the downstairs smelt of heat and suds and wet clothes and our dinner was plonked down in front of us while Aunt Kirstie, with pink, horrid-looking, water-softened hands, flushed and perspiring brow, untidy hair and sleeves rolled up above her elbows, continued with her rinsing and wringing and Aunt Lally helped her by banging out the clothes on a long line which stretched the whole length of the garden.

  We ate our dinner as fast as we could. There were no 'afters' on washing-day unless there was some apple pie or baked rice or bread and butter pudding left over from Sunday, and on this particular Monday there was nothing, although Aunt Kirstie called out that we could have a bit of bread and jam if we liked.

  Kenneth, however, was too anxious to put his plan into execution to stop for anything as unexciting as bread and jam, so we put our empty plates together, got the iron bar out of Uncle Arthur's shed the minute the garden was clear of Aunt Lally, and made for the iron fence at the bottom of the hermit's garden.

  It was simple enough. Two of the iron uprights of the fence were soon forced apart by our united efforts with the bar and we were able to squeeze through the opening without much trouble, although it was fortunate that we were thin and had narrow heads. The garden was overgrown with tall, rank grass, thistles, docks, nettles and every other kind of weed. There were elder bushes, currant bushes long untended, some raspberry canes and near the back of the cottage a collection of empty tins which seemed to prove that the hermit had eaten other things besides Miss Summers' discarded loaves. At the bottom of the garden there was a doorless, stinking earth-closet and an equally doorless woodshed out of which a rat scurried at our cautious approach.