She said, in a voice which was more town than country, an ordinary voice with a hint of deference which Rhoda thought deceptive, “I’ve brought your morning tea, madam. I’m Sharon Bateman and I help in the kitchen. The tray’s outside. Do you want it in here?”

“Yes, in a moment. Is the tea freshly made?”

“Yes, madam. I brought it up immediately.”

Rhoda was tempted to say that the word “madam” was inappropriate but let it pass. She said, “Then leave it for a couple of minutes to brew. I’ve been looking at the stone circle. I’ve been told about it but didn’t realise that it was so close to the Manor. Presumably it’s prehistoric.”

“Yes, madam. The Cheverell Stones. They’re quite famous. Miss Cressett says they’re over three thousand years old. She says stone circles are rare in Dorset.”

Rhoda said, “Last night, when I was opening the curtain, I saw a light flickering. It looked like a torch. It came from that direction. Perhaps someone was walking among the stones. Presumably the circle attracts a lot of visitors.”

“Not that many, madam. I don’t think most people know they’re here. The villagers keep away. It was probably Mr. Chandler-Powell. He’s fond of walking in the grounds at night. We didn’t expect him, but he arrived last night. No one from the village goes to the stones after dark. They’re scared of seeing the ghost of Mary Keyte walking and watching.”

“Who is Mary Keyte?”

“The stones are haunted. She was tied to the middle stone and burnt there in 1654. It’s different from all the other stones, taller and darker. She was condemned as a witch. It’s usually old women who got burnt as witches, but she was only twenty. You can still see the brown patch where the fire was. No grass ever grows in the middle of the stones.”

Rhoda said, “No doubt because people over the centuries have ensured that it doesn’t. Probably by pouring on something to kill the grass. Surely you don’t believe that nonsense?”

“They say that her screams could be heard as far as the church. She cursed the village as she burnt, and afterwards nearly all the children died. You can see the remains of some of the gravestones in the churchyard, although the names are too faint now to be read. Mog says that on the date she was burnt you can still hear her screams.”

“On a windy night, presumably.”

The conversation was becoming tiresome, but Rhoda felt it difficult to put a stop to it. The child—she looked little more and was probably not much older than Mary Keyte had been—was obviously morbidly obsessed with the burning. Rhoda said, “The village children died of childhood infections, tuberculosis perhaps, or a fever. Before she was condemned, they blamed Mary Keyte for the illnesses, and after she was burnt, they blamed her for the deaths.”

“So you don’t believe that the spirits of the dead can come back to visit us?”