“Did he say anything about going to the funeral?”

“Did he, now? Wait, now. I canna say for certain but I carry the impression he passed a remark that led me to suppose he’d be attending the obsequies. That,” said Bruce, summing up, “is the length and breadth of my total recollection.” He took up his shovel.

The wee laddie, who had not uttered nor ceased with frantic zeal to cast earth on earth, suddenly gave tongue.

“I seen ’im,” he said loudly.

Bruce contemplated him. “You seen who, you puir daftie?” he asked kindly.

“Him. What you’re talking about.”

Bruce slightly shook his head at Alleyn, indicating the dubious value of anything the gangling creature had to offer. “Did ye noo?” he said tolerantly.

“In the village. It weren’t ’alf dark, ’cept up here where you was digging the grave, Mr. Gardener, and had your ’ceterlene lamp.”

“Where’d you been, then, young Artie, stravaging abroad in the night?”

“I dunno,” said Artie, showing the whites of his eyes.

“Never mind,” Alleyn intervened. “Where were you when you saw Mr. Carter?”

“Corner of Stile Lane, under the yedge, weren’t I? And him coming down into Long Lane.” He began to laugh again: the age-old guffaw of the rustic oaf. “I give him a proper scare, din’ I?” He let out an eldritch screech. “Like that I was in the yedge and he never knew where it come from. Reckon he was dead scared.”

“What did he do, Artie?” Alleyn asked.

“I dunno,” Artie muttered, suddely uninterested.

“Where did he go, then?”

“I dunno.”

“You must know,” Bruce roared out. “Oot wi’ it. Where did he go?”

“I never see. I was under the yedge, wasn’ I? Up the steps, then, he must of, because I yeard the gate squeak. When I come out ’e’d gone.”

Bruce cast his eyes up and shook his head hopelessly at Alleyn. “What are you trying to tell us, Artie?” he asked patiently. “Gone wheer? I never saw the man and there I was, was I no’? He never came my way. Would he enter the church and keep company wi’ the dead?”

This produced a strange reaction. Artie seemed to shrink into himself. He made a movement with his right hand, almost as if to bless himself with the sign of the cross, an age-old self-defensive gesture.

“Did you know,” Alleyn asked quietly, “that Mrs. Foster lay in the church last night?”

Artie looked into the half-filled grave and nodded. “I seen it. I seen them carry it up the steps,” he whispered.

“That was before you saw Mr. Carter come down the lane?”

He nodded.

Bruce said: “Come awa’, laddie. Nobody’s going to find fault with you. Where did Mr. Carter go? Just tell us that now.”

Artie began to whimper, “I dunno,” he whined. “I looked out of the yedge, din’ I? And I never saw ’im again.”

“Where did you go?” Alleyn asked.

“Nowhere.”

Bruce said: “Yah!” and with an air of hardly controlled exasperation returned to his work.

“You must have gone somewhere,” Alleyn said. “I bet you’re quite a one for getting about the countryside on your own. A night bird, aren’t you, Artie?”

A look of complacency appeared. “I might be,” he said and then with a sly glance at Bruce. “I sleep out,” he said, “of a night. Often.”

“Did you sleep out last night? It was a warm night, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Artie conceded off-handedly, “it was warm. I slep’ out.”

“Where? Under the hedge?”

“In the yedge. I got a place.”

“Where you stayed hid when you saw Mr. Carter?”

“That’s right.” Stimulated by the recollection he repeated his screech and raucous laugh.

Bruce seemed about to issue a scandalized reproof but Alleyn checked him. “And after that,” he said, “you settled down and went to sleep? Is that it?”

“ ’Course,” said Artie haughtily and attacked his shovelling with renewed energy.

“When you caught sight of him,” Alleyn asked, “did you happen to notice how he was dressed?”

“I never see nothing to notice.”

“Was he carrying anything? A bag or suitcase?” Alleyn persisted.

“I never see nothing,” Artie repeated morosely.

Alleyn jerked his head at Artie’s back. “Is he to be relied cm?” he said quietly.

“Hard to say. Weak in the head but truthful as far as he goes and that’s not far.” Bruce lowered his voice. “There’s a London train goes through at five past eleven: a slow train with a passenger carriage. Stops at Great Quintern. You can walk it in an hour,” said Bruce with a steady look at Alleyn.

“Is there, indeed?” said Alleyn. “Thank you, Bruce. I won’t keep you any longer but I’m very much obliged to you.”

As he turned away Artie said in a sulky voice and to nobody in particular: “He were carrying a pack. On his back.” Pleased with the rhyme he improvised: “Pack on ’is back and down the track,” and, as an inspired addition: “E’d got the sack.”

“Alas, alack,” Alleyn said and Artie giggled. “Pack on ’is back and got the sack,” he shouted.

“Och, havers!” said Bruce disgustedly. “You’re nowt but a silly, wanting kind of crittur. Haud your whist and get on with your work.”

“Wait a moment,” said Alleyn, and to Artie. “Did you sleep out all night? When did you wake up?”

“When ’e went ’ome,” said Artie, indicating the indignant Bruce. “You woke me up, Mr. Gardener, you passed that close. Whistling. I could of put the wind up you, proper, couldn’t I? I could of frown a brick at you, Mr. Gardener. But I never,” said Artie virtuously.

Bruce made a sound of extreme exasperation.

“When was this, Artie? You wouldn’t know, would you?” said Alleyn.

“Yes, I would, then. Twelve. Church clock sounded twelve, din’ it?”

“Is that right?” Alleyn asked Bruce.

“He can’t count beyond ten. It was nine when I knocked off.”

“Long job, you had of it”

“I did that. There’s a vein of solid clay runs through, three foot depth of it. And after that the pine boughs to push in. It was an unco weird experience. Everybody in the village asleep by then and an owl overhead and bats flying in and out of the lamplight. And inside the kirk, the leddy herself, cold in her coffin and me digging her grave. Aye, it was, you may say, an awfu’, uneasy situation, yon. In literature,” said Bruce, lecturing them, “it’s an effect known as Gothic. I was pleased enough to have done it.”

Alleyn lowered his voice. “Do you think he’s got it right?”

“That he slept under the hedge and woke as I passed? I daresay. It might well be, puir daftie.”

“And that he saw Carter, earlier?”

“I’d be inclined to credit it. I didna see anything of the man mysel’ but then I wouldn’t, where I was.”

“No, of course not. Well, thanks again,” Alleyn said. He returned to the front of the church, ran down the steps and found Fox waiting in the car.

“Back to Quintern,” he said. “The quest for Charmless Claude sets in with a vengeance.”

“Skiddadled?”

“Too soon to say. Bruce indicates as much.”

“Ah, to hell with it,” said Fox in a disgusted voice, “What’s the story?”

Alleyn told him.

“There you are!” Fox complained when he had finished. “Scared him off, I daresay, putting our chap in. Here’s a pretty kettle of fish.”

“We’ll have to take up the Dover possibility, of course, but I don’t like it much. If he’d considered it as a getaway port he wouldn’t have been silly enough to ask Bruce about trains. Still, we’ll check. He’s thought to have some link with a stationer’s shop in Southhampton.”

“Suppose we do run him down, what’s the charge?”

“You may well ask. We’ve got nothing to warrant an arrest unless we can hold him for a day or two on the drug business and that seems to have petered out. We can’t run him in for grubbing up an old fireplace in a disused room in his stepmother’s stable yard. Our chap’s found nothing to signify, I suppose?”

“Nothing, really. You’ve had a better haul, Mr. Alleyn.”

“I don’t know, Foxkin, I don’t know. In one respect I think perhaps I have.”