‘I’ll have a word with Tiny myself,’ said Jonathan. ‘If the boys were on my land I suppose he thought he had a right to interfere. Boys are destructive little beasts, and it’s part of their lives to be so. Still, of course—’

‘Yes, he is your agent,’ put in Miss Hughes, without waiting for the sentence to be concluded, ‘and boys can be cheeky and provocative. We should need to know the whole tale before we could judge. In my opinion—’

The young choirmaster seemed prepared to make an angry reply to her eminently reasonable remarks, but he thought better of it when he met Miss Hughes’ amused but challenging stare, and merely replied that he thought he could trust his choirboys to tell the truth even if they were not successful in the impossible task of shaming the devil.

‘“Truth, they say, lives in a well,”’ quoted Mrs Bradley solemnly. ‘“Why I vow I ne’er could see; let the water-drinkers tell; there she’ll always stay for me.”’ In support of this statement she helped herself to port, a hybrid beverage which she had always detested. At this point Mansell and Obury came back.

‘We didn’t go all the way with them,’ they said.

When young Emming had gone to his lodging, Jonathan remarked, ‘First time I knew his father was an Anglo-Indian. I heard he was a London man, and that young Emming was – Oh, well! Not our business. What shall we all do tomorrow?’

‘That young man reminds me of somebody,’ said Mrs Bradley, refusing to be side-tracked. ‘Tell me more about him, please.’

‘I don’t think we know any more about him, do we, Deb?’ asked Jonathan.

Deborah hesitated. Then she shook her head.

CHAPTER 3

The Expected Begins to Happen

‘Tis custom, Lord, this day to send

A gift to every vulgar friend.’

Nathaniel Eaton

However happy the Christmas, there is usually a deep-seated human instinct which feels tremendous relief when it is over. This emotion attacked all three Bradleys on the day which followed Boxing Day. Miss Hughes, Mansell and Obury all departed and the household sighed and settled down.

Deborah and Mrs Bradley remained indoors and took stock of the scraps. The servants, toiling loyally and stoically through the snow, which was now very deep, returned at approximately the appointed time. Jonathan went out for a scrambling walk through the drifts, and followed a track which led him a wild dance up to his thighs in the soft white morass on the hillside.

‘What about the ghost’s footprints?’ asked Deborah, when he returned.

‘Didn’t go that way,’ replied Jonathan. ‘What about a bath? Is the plumbing, as such, in tune?’

‘Yes. There’s plenty of hot water. Go on up.’

Whilst he bathed, Deborah and Mrs Bradley looked again at their Christmas gifts.

‘Book tokens; that means Cheltenham or Gloucester,’ pronounced Deborah, shuffling a dozen bright cards. ‘When shall we go? – Tomorrow?’