He ate his cold rabbit and his hot potatoes with enjoyment but with a slightly distracted mind. When he had finished he went upstairs to his own room and shut the door. There was no key in the door, but when he had any private business he would pull the bed across it, which was quite satisfactory from his point of view. The room was bare enough, the bed a welter of untidy clothes roughly pulled together. Yet a millionaire might have envied the sweet sleep which Dicky enjoyed in it.

But today he was not bent on sleep. When he had secured the door he turned out his pockets on the bed. This, which was his grand account, took place as a rule only when the pockets were full to bursting. By putting it off as long as possible he not only saved time, but he enhanced the interest of the proceedings. If, for instance, some time had passed, it was possible that an added interest would have accrued to something that had merely been stuffed in as an afterthought. There was Mrs. Merridew’s earring for example. He had found it just outside her front gate, and it had never occurred to him that there was anything special about it-not for a week. And then his mum had come in, in one of her talking moods. She didn’t get them very often, and when she did he didn’t always listen. Grown-up people-the things they worried about! But this time he had taken notice of what she said, and just as well he had, for it seemed that Mrs. Merridew had lost an earring.

“What’s it like, Mum?” Dicky had said, only half interested, and out had come a whole lot of explanations-Mrs. Merridew had a pair of them, and they were worth a lot of money. Dicky pricked up his ears.

“What’s a lot of money, Mum?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure. Some people have all the luck whichever way it goes.”

The affair of the earring stuck in his mind. He had put it in his pocket and forgotten about it, and if his mum hadn’t come home in one of her talking moods, that might have been the end of it. It was bent, and muddy, and twisted. He’d seen something like it in a shop window in Collingdon, and the price was ten-and-six. He hadn’t thought that one broken earring would be worth anything at all, but he’d kept it just on the chance, and the day after his mum had come back with her story he had gone over to Mrs. Merridew with his limpid smile and a “My mum says as how you lost an earring. Would this be it?” Mrs. Merridew was in a state, and when she was in a state she scolded all the time, but you didn’t have to take any notice of that. When she had gone on for as long as seemed proper, he pulled out the earring and showed it. And the end of it was that she had given him half a sovereign and sent him away very much exalted in his mind.

But this was a different matter. This required deep thought. The letter to Jenny was in the bottom of his pocket. He got it out and he looked at it. More than a week in the welter of his pocket had not improved its appearance, but it was plainly legible. He read it:

“Jenny, don’t say anything to anyone, but come out and meet me up on the heath as soon as it is quite dark.

Mac

Bring this with you.”

And in the top left-hand corner there was a date.

The date was that of last Saturday week, the same date that the note had been given to him. He was quite clear about that. He was quite clear about the whole thing. The note was dated last Saturday week. This was Monday-the second Monday since the murder. He’d got it quite clear in his mind. The question was, did he do anything about it, or didn’t he? There were things he could do, he knew that very well. The question was, would it pay him to do them? He wasn’t sure. And he’d got to be quite sure before he said anything to anyone. Not sure about what happened-he was perfectly sure about that, and no one would get him from it. Not if he decided that way. But he thought that he wouldn’t decide yet. He’d got to be certain of other things besides the facts. It was the facts that he had to speak about and swear to. A tingle went all through him as he thought about that. He’d been in a court, but not for a murder trial of course. He had only had to hold the Book and swear to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth when there was a case about a motor accident in the village and as luck would have it he had been right there on the spot when it happened. He had enjoyed that case, but he wasn’t so sure about a murder. They might want to know too much. Suppose they were to ask him why he hadn’t spoken up at once-what was he going to say to that?

He shook his head. He didn’t know what to think. On the one hand there was the exhilarating mental picture of himself in the witness-box as the only person who knew the truth. And if he was to get this young fellow, this Jimmy Mottingley off, what would he get out of it? They said his father was a rich man. Dicky hadn’t seen him, but Bob Wilkins had. Bob was a softy. He wouldn’t take his word about anyone, not if it was ever so. If he had seen Mr. Mottingley himself he would know. He began to devise ways of seeing him. Only he’d have to be very careful not to give anything away until he had really made up his mind. He wasn’t going to do anything in a hurry. Once you’d got in with the law they’d see to it that you didn’t get out again. He’d have to think it out very carefully. Very, very carefully.

His mind went back to his meeting with this Mac in the road. It was dark, and he couldn’t see much of him, but that wouldn’t matter as long as he’d got the note addressed to Miss Jenny Hill. It was signed Mac. The police would find him easy enough, but would it be safe for Dicky? That was the question. That was another thing that wanted a lot of thinking about. The note was to Miss Jenny Hill, but it wasn’t Miss Jenny Hill who had been killed, it was the girl who had been visiting Mrs. Merridew-the same one as had been there in the summer. Now what had she got to do with it? It all went round and round in his head.

Chapter XXXIV

Carter and the two little girls had gone into Langton for the afternoon. Joyce was rather quiet, but Meg was in a prancing mood. They went and came by bus, and she chattered all the time. Joyce sat very genteelly, as Carter put it, with her hands clasped in her lap, and her little serious face rather pale under a new blue felt hat. The children were always dressed alike, so Meg had on a twin hat and a twin coat, and showed them off with the full consciousness of their being new. They sat one on either side of Carter. They had new shoes on, too. Meg kicked her feet, one in, one out, and watched them complacently. She thought that she was going to have pretty feet. Her mother’s feet were rather large, but she always wore such good shoes that it didn’t matter. Meg thought that if she could keep her feet from growing they would be rather nice. They were much smaller than her mother’s at present, but there were years of growing in front of them, and that made her feel rather sad. But she wasn’t going to be sad today-not about her feet or about anything else. It was very exciting to be going on the bus to Langton. It was only the third time they had ever gone there, and they wouldn’t be going now if their mother hadn’t wanted some ribbon matched in a hurry. It was the ribbon she ran into her nightgowns, pink and blue. Meg thought that when she was grown up she would have yellow ribbon in hers, and she wouldn’t let Joyce have the same colour. Joyce could have pink or blue or green if she liked, but not yellow. And Meg would have all the different shades of it, bright gold, and primrose, and pale cream colour. She would have lots and lots of yellow nightgowns, and a furry yellow dressing-gown as warm as warm, and furry yellow slippers. She kicked with her legs, and Carter said in a disapproving whisper, “Now, Meg, behave.”