The one place we felt we must not visit was the sheepwash. We had been put on our honour not to go near it, so when Our Ern and a bigger boy suggested a visit to it, we said we were compelled to refuse.
'Aw, come on, then!' they said.
'Can't. We've promised not to.'
'Aw, come on!'
'No, not this time.'
'Dare ee!'
'No good. No dare taken.'
'Checken-'earted, then!'
'If you say that again,' said Kenneth, 'the next time we go bathing down by Long Bridges I shall drown you.'
Long Bridges was about two miles from the village. It was a back-water of the river around part of which the town council had put corrugated iron fencing and had built dressing-sheds. There were stone steps slippery with weed leading down to the water. As a treat we were allowed to go there in charge of a village girl who came in once a week to help Aunt Kirstie turn out Mr Ward's rooms and who received an extra sixpence for taking us to the bathing-place.
Unlike Lionel at his private school, we were compelled in so public a place to wear bathing costumes. These had been fabricated for us by Aunt Kirstie out of one of her voluminous red flannel petticoats.
'Ought to be blue stockinette,' said Uncle Arthur, and how heartily we agreed with him!
'Flannel will keep them warm in the water,' said Aunt Kirstie. 'I don't want them catching their deaths.'
Kenneth's threat to drown Our Ern was met by a far more formidable counter-threat.
'Ef ee don't come down the sheepwash Oi'll tell Gov'ness you ent attenden school. Your auntie and uncle'll go to preson ef you ent attenden school.'
So we forfeited our honour and went along to the sheepwash, deeming it better to feel besmirched than to risk putting Uncle Arthur and Aunt Kirstie in gaol.
''Tes 'ereabouts as her bled,' said Our Ern ghoulishly. We searched diligently for bloodstains, but did not find any.
'Anyways, they've got 'em as done et,' Our Ern went on.
'Garn!' said the big boy. They never!'
'Tell ee they 'ave, then. They've tooken that geppo what go weth Old Sukie. Our Sarah said so. Strong as a loyon he be, and took four p'licemen to get hem ento the Black Maria.'
'Oi warnts moi tea,' said the boy, abandoning the argument. On the way back we saw Uncle Arthur coming home from work across The Marsh. He had whitewash on his clothes and carried his bag of tools. We waited for him. Kenneth took the bag and I held on to Uncle Arthur's arm.
'No good you canoodling round me,' he said, not attempting, however, to disengage himself. 'You been down the sheepwash, I'll lay.'
'We couldn't help it,' I said, 'and we're going to tell Aunt Kirstie. Is it true the police have arrested one of the gypsies? Is it Old Sukie's man?'
'So I heard tell.'
'But they can't do that,' said Kenneth. The murder happened at night, didn't it?'
'What do you know about it?'
'It's all over the village. Everybody knows. The thing is, you see, the gypsy couldn't have done it.'
'Oh?' We crossed the plank bridge. I had been the one to open the iron gate. I stayed to close it. Kenneth, who had been tagging along behind with the bag of tools, caught up with Uncle Arthur.
'Of course he couldn't,' he said. 'Don't you remember? He was at the fair. Why should they think he did it? Didn't he tell them where he was? And didn't Sukie back him up? She was there, too, you know. She tried to fight those beasts who set on him.'
'Oh, nobody don't pay no attention to what them gyppos says,' said Uncle Arthur. 'Liars and thieves, every man jack of 'em.'
'But if the police think he's a murderer they might hang him,' I said. (Hanging was then the punishment for murder.)
'Good riddance to bad rubbish,' said Uncle Arthur. 'Ten to one, if it wasn't him it was another of 'em. They're all alike.' But we could not leave it at that. We talked matters over and then decided to go next day to see Mrs Kempson. This time we went to the front door. When the butler opened it and saw us, he said,
'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.'