She had asked who or what was the Puddler, and received three different, very definite answers. The Puddler was a Thing that lived in the water and would drag you down if you went too close; it didn’t like to be disturbed. Puddler was, on the other hand, the ghost of somebody who had drowned in the dark water. Puddler was nothing of the sort; he was a man who had dug clay to make himself a house, long ago, and so made the Pond.

It had been plain to her then that for the children the place had the fascination of horror, of something forbidden, and that was why they had suggested it to her, the innocent stranger, when she asked where they should go. She had said that it was a damp, dreary place and suggested that the picnic should be enjoyed elsewhere; so they had passed on to a more cheerful spot and there vied with one another in pressing sausage rolls and hard-boiled eggs and currant buns upon the new teacher, who had come unprovided. It had been a very happy outing and one Which Miss Mayfield had intended to repeat before the end of the summer term.

Now, staring at the cup of tea which she dared not attempt to lift in case she should slop it, she said:

‘Berta, have you a bicycle?’

‘Yes. Back home.’

‘Then I want you to take a note for me. To Miss Benson, you know . . . at Mr Frisby’s. I want her to have it before she sets out for school. So never mind about breakfast; I can get it.’

‘All right,’ Berta said.

Miss Mayfield hurried down, snatched paper and pen and wrote:

‘I may be a bit late. Start them off, will you please, and tell mine to get on with their own work. Juliet Reeve will supervise. I shan’t be long. D.M.’

She folded the paper, gave the flap of the envelope a hasty perfunctory lick and stuck it down.

As soon as Berta had left the house, Miss Mayfield ran up to the bathroom, which was at the back of the house, and looked out of the window. There was no need, she saw, for her to go along the road and turn in at the gateway. She could go over her own back-yard wall – as Smut had so many times done – cut diagonally across a meadow and so, very quickly, reach the path which led to the Pond.

Having made certain of that, she ran into her bedroom and threw on the minimum of clothing. No stockings, no corset – a waste of time.