"What is this tale that the house I have rented is haunted?"
"It's only Peggy Peeple's nonsense," said the postmistress. "Although you can't wonder at her, poor thing. There's plenty about here to swear the old lady was murdered. They do say it was her niece, Miss Bella Foxley, the one that inherited the money."
"Wasn't someone tried for it?—the niece, or some other relative?" said Mrs. Bradley, innocent of all real knowledge of the subject, but determined to get to the bottom of it.
"Oh, no, not for that. It was never brought in as murder, that wasn't. Oh, no! It's only people's wickedness to talk the way they do, but, of course, she did come in for the money, Miss Bella did, and then she was tried for murdering her cousin, and that set people off again. But the poor thing committed suicide in the end—drowned herself, so I heard—and some thought it was remorse that made her do it. But all that talk about her aunt, there was nothing so far as we knew, though they do say no smoke without fire."
Other customers came in then, and the conversation was abandoned. Neither did Mrs. Bradley find any occasion to resume it during her grandson's visit, for every time after that that she visited the shop, Derek happened to be with her.
At last the time came for him to return home, but he suggested that he should stay another week, so, despite his parents' protests that they missed him, and wanted him back, stay he did until the following Thursday.
During his visit Mrs. Bradley had heard, at intervals, of a holiday task he had been set. He went to school, but Caroline preferred that it should be a day school until he was nine.
The last day of his visit was wet. He woke up to a rainy morning, and although he pressed his nose to the glass of the window for nearly half an hour before he aroused his grandmother, the rain showed no sign of ceasing.
He was a philosophical child, and, when he did wake her up, he merely remarked that it was raining. Mrs. Bradley, however, viewed the inclement weather with some concern, and at breakfast voiced her thoughts.
"Too bad it should be wet for your last day. What would you like to do?"
Her grandson looked up from his plate.
"It would be a good idea to do my holiday task," he replied in his serious way. "I've got all my scraps; some I brought with me and the others I've collected down here. But, you see, Gran, I haven't a book to paste them in, and I haven't any paste."
"I dare say we could find a book," said Mrs. Bradley.
"Well, I have sort of found a book," said the little boy. "I found it on the shelf in your bedroom cupboard; only it's partly wrote in."
"Written in?"
"Yes; so I thought if I showed it to you and you said I could have it, perhaps we could make some paste and perhaps you've got a brush. A piece of paper would do, only I'd rather have a brush. It does it neater. Do you think I'll get the prize Gran?"
"Do you think you'll get the prize?"
"I expect so. If I could have a brush."
"In that case we must certainly provide a brush. Go and ask George about it. Perhaps he'll run you down to the village in the car, and then you could choose one for yourself."
"Oh, may I really, Gran? Oh, thanks!"
"Perhaps I'd better see the book before you go. If it isn't quite the thing, you could see what they've got at the village shop."
"They haven't got anything, because I asked. They've only got the miserable-est little drawing-books and exercise books and things. This one I found has got stiff-covers and it's thick. I suppose," he added, as a gloomy afterthought, "it really belongs to Miss Hodge."
Miss Hodge was the old servant who had inherited the house from Miss Bella's Aunt Flora, who had died (or, if one accepted Miss Peeple's warped view, thought Mrs. Bradley, had been murdered) in it. Miss Hodge was a woman of nearly seventy, and Mrs. Bradley and Derek both liked her.
"Well, we'd better look at this book of-yours," said Mrs. Bradley, "and then we can judge whether Miss Hodge would be likely to let us have it."
Her grandson led the way upstairs. The book, produced most carefully for her inspection, proved to be one of those large, thick, stiff-covered diaries which are produced, judging from the letterpress, for the use of business men in South Africa. About a quarter of it, or rather less, had been used. The rest was blank. The diary was six years out of date.
"It doesn't look very important," said Mrs. Bradley. "I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll call on Miss Hodge on the way to the village shop, and take the book with us, and see what she has to say."
George had hoped for an undisturbed morning during which he proposed to re-read and to psycho-analyse Nietzsche (for he was an unobtrusive but indefatigable student of Mrs. Bradley's methods, and had attended all her public lectures in England), but he put the book down and rose to his feet when his employer and her grandson entered the kitchen.
"George, I want a brush for pasting my scraps, and Gran wants to ask Miss Hodge about the book in her bedroom," said the little boy. "So we shall have to go to the village, if you don't mind."
"Very good, sir," said George.
"And, George, I shall have to ask your advice about the brush."
"Yes, sir?"
"And, George——"
"Sir?"
"Do you think I shall win the prize?"
"I sincerely hope so, sir. But kissing goes by favour, as they say."
"Is that what you say to yourself when you don't get what you want, George?"
"No, sir. I merely say Aliud alia dicunt. That comforts me a good deal, sir."
Mrs. Bradley cackled.
The cottage in which Miss Hodge lived whilst her house was let was about three-quarters of a mile from the sea and on the outskirts of the village. There was no pavement to walk on, but on either side of the front door flowers flourished in their season, as they did in front of all the cottages on that side of the village inn. The front door led directly into the parlour, and was opened to the visitors almost before they had finished knocking.
Miss Hodge, a thin, upright, fresh-faced, pleasant, elderly woman, had come directly from the kitchen, wafted towards the visitors upon an odour of cooking. She wiped her hands on her apron.
"Good morning, madam," she said. "Good morning, Master Derek. A nasty morning! Will you come in? Nothing wrong, I hope?"
"Nothing at all. It is just a question of a book which Derek has found," said Mrs. Bradley.
"You see, Miss Hodge, it would make an awfully nice scrap-book, and I have to give in a scrap-book, as my holiday task, to Miss Winter at school. Now, I've got the scraps—I think you would like to see them ..."
"I'm sure, Master Derek."
"... and all I want, you see, is the book." He produced it. Miss Hodge gave her hands an extra rub on the apron, and then took up the diary, but did no more than glance at the beginning of it.
"Dear me, Master Derek! Now what can you have got hold of here, I wonder?" she said mildly. "This isn't the mistress's writing. I don't seem to know this hand." She looked at Mrs. Bradley. "He can have the empty pages and welcome, Madam, if that would do, but I'd better p'raps just see what it is, as it seems to be wrote out so neat. Now, where did I put my glasses?"