did say she believed her husband was murdered. Maybe he wasn’t, and maybe he was. Come to think of it, it wouldn’t be so easy to drown natural in the splash—would it now?”
The small, very bright blue eyes of old Barr looked sharply at Edward from under a thatch of white woolly eyebrow.
Edward said,
“Oh, I don’t know—a chap might if he’d had one or two over the eight—just as William Jackson did the other day.”
The sharp gaze persisted for a moment. Then Mr. Barr swung round and kicked at a log in the fire. It broke in a shower of sparks. He came about again and said, bluff and casual,
“Oh, well, that’s as may be, but Kezia always thought her husband had been murdered.”
Edward went out into a dark cloudy evening. The air was cold and fresh after Barr’s fuggy room. There was a good driving road to Embank, and a lane about a mile away which connected it with Greenings, but he took the bridle-path through Lord Burlingham’s woods and came out upon the rough track which led down to the splash, a saving of nearly half a mile and pleasanter walking at that. He liked the crack of a stick under foot, the stir in the undergrowth which told of other creatures abroad on their no doubt unlawful occasions. Only who was man that he should say to fox or rabbit, badger, stoat or cat, “I only have the right to hunt”?
He walked on, not hurrying. The nights were getting colder. These woods were very old. There were oaks that must have stood five hundred years, yews that were older still. He had seen a map of the county dated 1469, and it showed forest right across this corner, and since then owner after owner had come and gone. Norman names, English names—tombs in the churchyard, brasses in the church. And in the end Lord Burlingham taking his name, as they all had done, from Burlingham village three miles away. He had been born Tom Thomson and had run barefoot and sold papers in the streets when he was a boy, and now he was Lord of the Manor like all the rest of them had been. The new trees grew up amongst the old, and they were strong and lusty.
He came out from among the trees into the track where it sloped towards the splash. The sound of the running water came to him. The stream was swollen still, but the stepping-stones should be clear of it if not too dry. He put on his torch, came over easily, and had before him the slope on the other side, with the church to the right, its shape just distinguishable against the sky, and the black smear running down from it which was the old yew way. He put out his torch as soon as he was over the splash, and where his eyes did not serve him memory did.
He was passing the lych gate, when something moved there. A voice said,
“Edward, is that you?” The words came on a hurried breath.
The voice shook a little.
It was Clarice Dean’s voice, and it annoyed him sharply. What did she think she was doing, waiting about for him like this? Because waiting for him she undoubtedly was. She could have no possible business up at the church, and since it was all of twenty past seven, the Vicarage would be hotting its soup or doing whatever you did do to fish or eggs preparatory to producing them at the evening meal. He spoke her name with an involuntary sharpness.
“Clarice!”
She came running over the grass verge to link her arm with his.
“Edward, you don’t know how glad I am to see you! Not that one can see anything in this horrid dark, but I saw your torch, and I didn’t think it could be anyone else, because Mrs. Deacon says you always come this way and hardly anyone else does—not now poor William Jackson—” She broke off, catching her breath. “Do you know, I thought of the horridest things waiting there in the dark! Your boots squelched when you came up from the splash!”
“I got them wet. There’s quite a lot of water in the stream.”
She dug her fingers into his arm.
“I know! But I thought how awful it would be if it wasn’t you at
The small, very bright blue eyes of old Barr looked sharply at Edward from under a thatch of white woolly eyebrow.
Edward said,
“Oh, I don’t know—a chap might if he’d had one or two over the eight—just as William Jackson did the other day.”
The sharp gaze persisted for a moment. Then Mr. Barr swung round and kicked at a log in the fire. It broke in a shower of sparks. He came about again and said, bluff and casual,
“Oh, well, that’s as may be, but Kezia always thought her husband had been murdered.”
Edward went out into a dark cloudy evening. The air was cold and fresh after Barr’s fuggy room. There was a good driving road to Embank, and a lane about a mile away which connected it with Greenings, but he took the bridle-path through Lord Burlingham’s woods and came out upon the rough track which led down to the splash, a saving of nearly half a mile and pleasanter walking at that. He liked the crack of a stick under foot, the stir in the undergrowth which told of other creatures abroad on their no doubt unlawful occasions. Only who was man that he should say to fox or rabbit, badger, stoat or cat, “I only have the right to hunt”?
He walked on, not hurrying. The nights were getting colder. These woods were very old. There were oaks that must have stood five hundred years, yews that were older still. He had seen a map of the county dated 1469, and it showed forest right across this corner, and since then owner after owner had come and gone. Norman names, English names—tombs in the churchyard, brasses in the church. And in the end Lord Burlingham taking his name, as they all had done, from Burlingham village three miles away. He had been born Tom Thomson and had run barefoot and sold papers in the streets when he was a boy, and now he was Lord of the Manor like all the rest of them had been. The new trees grew up amongst the old, and they were strong and lusty.
He came out from among the trees into the track where it sloped towards the splash. The sound of the running water came to him. The stream was swollen still, but the stepping-stones should be clear of it if not too dry. He put on his torch, came over easily, and had before him the slope on the other side, with the church to the right, its shape just distinguishable against the sky, and the black smear running down from it which was the old yew way. He put out his torch as soon as he was over the splash, and where his eyes did not serve him memory did.
He was passing the lych gate, when something moved there. A voice said,
“Edward, is that you?” The words came on a hurried breath.
The voice shook a little.
It was Clarice Dean’s voice, and it annoyed him sharply. What did she think she was doing, waiting about for him like this? Because waiting for him she undoubtedly was. She could have no possible business up at the church, and since it was all of twenty past seven, the Vicarage would be hotting its soup or doing whatever you did do to fish or eggs preparatory to producing them at the evening meal. He spoke her name with an involuntary sharpness.
“Clarice!”
She came running over the grass verge to link her arm with his.
“Edward, you don’t know how glad I am to see you! Not that one can see anything in this horrid dark, but I saw your torch, and I didn’t think it could be anyone else, because Mrs. Deacon says you always come this way and hardly anyone else does—not now poor William Jackson—” She broke off, catching her breath. “Do you know, I thought of the horridest things waiting there in the dark! Your boots squelched when you came up from the splash!”
“I got them wet. There’s quite a lot of water in the stream.”
She dug her fingers into his arm.
“I know! But I thought how awful it would be if it wasn’t you at
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