The villagers, with tension relaxing, saw him depart. Sir Hugh called Ed-me-boy and muttered something to him.

‘Sir Hugh says,’ announced Ed-me-boy in his very husky new voice, ‘it’s a sad day for all of us and there is ale for all in the brewery now.’ Here Sir Hugh muttered again. ‘And Sir Hugh says no singing and keep your voices down so as not to wake Jill in the Hall.’ More mutters from Sir Hugh. ‘And Sir Hugh says this is not a celebration.’ This was the first time that Ed-me-boy had publicly deputized for his father. It made him feel very grown-up and he was almost glad that Tom was up in the graveyard with the criminal.

The ale was not particularly rich or satisfying, having been surreptitiously watered by Milly half an hour before, anticipating that the offer of drink would be made and fearing there would not be enough, but it was refreshing enough and after drinking and many low-voiced exchanges of views, the villagers started moving off to their homes.

A steady drizzle set in. Marion glanced up at the sky, westwards towards her home. The dreamy orange colour over the forest was barred with dark grey clouds, and all the rest of the sky was gloomily dark. She looked up the hill, and there in the gloom beyond the church she could see Dobbin sitting on the earth with his feet in the shallow little trough that he had scraped out. The rain, perhaps mixed with tears, was running down his beard on to his bloody knees. Marion was filled with disgust, with pity too perhaps, but disgust overwhelmingly. She took Peter’s arm.

‘We must collect Alice,’ she said, pulling her cloak around her against the rain.

‘Do you think they remembered to fasten the church door?’ said Peter as they went along the Common path. ‘Remember what happened to that Rockwell child when the foxes got in.’

‘Tom was there,’ said Marion. ‘He’d see to it.’

‘Glad I got that bit dug before this rain,’ Peter said a little later. They were both trying to put the horrid events of the day out of their minds.

‘I wonder if M’Dame put my eggs somewhere safe,’ said Marion, her mind going back to before the tragedy. ‘Wonder if she did tell Rollo.’

MAY

Above him in the white thorn bush

That oer the leaning stile bends low

Loaded wi mockery of snow

Mozzld wi many a lushing thread

Of crab tree blossoms delicate red

It was a chilly blustery morning, with bright sunlight and swiftly moving white clouds that combined to give Marion a headache. Peter and Peterkin had left for the village at dawn, the latter with a large basket of spools of spun wool.

‘Make Rollo count them,’ she had said to Peterkin, ‘out loud, and you repeat the number after him – there’s seventeen spools, all full. And bring the basket back.’