“Mother Ginny’s cottage was burned down,” said Jacco.

“Oh, aye, so ’tis said.”

“And she was in it.”

“So they’m telling me.”

“It’s a terrible thing,” I said.

“’Tis so, Miss Annora.”

“And,” demanded Jacco, “what of the boy Digory?”

“Don’t ’ee ask me, Mr. Jacco. I know naught.”

I thought: That is what they will all say. They know naught. They are all ashamed. They are all going to pretend they were not there.

We moved on. We spoke to some of the others and it was the same with them all. They had all heard of it and it was a terrible thing to have happened—even to a witch, some added.

I said angrily to Jacco: “They are all going to plead innocence.”

“The guilty always do.”

“There were a lot of them in the woods last night.”

“They will all say they were on the moor or the quay or in their beds.”

To all of them we mentioned Digory. Nobody called him the Varmint now. They believed he had been in the cottage and died with his grandmother. That certain respect which was due to the dead was accorded him.

“He’ll be safe in the Dogs’ Home,” I said. “They think he’s dead.”

“We’ll keep him there.”

“Till our father comes home,” I added.

I waited two days before I tried to see Rolf. I could not imagine what I should say to him if we came face to face. I had always felt there was a special understanding between us—but that was over now. I blamed him more than I did people like Mrs. Penlock. They were ignorant. He was not. He was clever; he had incited the people to behave as they did. Why? Perhaps he wanted to experiment. He wanted to see how close people of today were to their ancestors. He wanted to discover how far a modern mob would go in its savagery. I had always understood his desire for learning; but this was sheer callousness.

I could never forget it and whenever I saw him I would remember him in the midst of that crowd … urging them on.

But I had to talk to him. I rode without Jacco to Dorey Manor.

How grand it was becoming! It lacked the antiquity of Cador but it had stood there for three hundred years—just a Manor House, but the woods were now extensive and my father had said they must have almost as many pheasants as we had at Cador.

But I was not interested in these matters at the moment.

I rode into the stables and left my horse with the groom as I always did. Then I went to the house. I pulled the bell at the side of the iron-studded door and a maid appeared.

“Oh good afternoon, Miss Annora. I’ll tell the master you are here.”

I went into the hall with its linen-fold panelling so beautifully restored. Shortly afterwards I was mounting the wooden staircase decorated with Tudor roses of which Rolf was so proud. I was ushered into the drawing room and Mr. Hanson came forward to greet me.

“My dear Annora, this is a pleasure. Have you come to have a cup of tea with me?”

“That would be nice, thank you.”

He turned to the maid who had brought me up. “We’ll have some tea please, Annie,” he said. Then: “There, my dear. Sit down. When are your parents coming home?”

“Very soon now.”

“It was very sad about your grandpapa. But it was expected. I daresay you’re missing them. I shall want to be asked over to hear how things are in that corner of England—and I don’t doubt your parents stayed in London for a while, so they should be well informed of the latest news.”

“Yes, they would of course have a little time there.”

“You’re wondering where Rolf is. I guessed you came to see him, eh?”

“Oh, Mr. Hanson …”

“Don’t apologise. I understand. I know you like to talk to Rolf … and so does your brother. He’s well, I hope.”

I said Jacco was very well.

“A sad thing about that old woman.”

“Oh yes … on Midsummer’s Eve. Is … Rolf out?”

“That is what I’m getting to. He’s away, my dear. He’ll be away at least another week.”

“He went away then?”

“Yes. Staying with a friend who’s going to the University with him. They’re going to study something … ancient documents or something. You know the sort of thing.”

“Oh … I see.”

I felt bewildered and while Mr. Hanson went on talking about something—I forget what, for I was not paying much attention—the tea came in.

I had to spend nearly an hour with him, and all the time I was thinking of Rolf. He must be ashamed of the part he had played on that terrible night and like everyone else connected with it was trying to pretend it had never happened.

We gave ourselves wholeheartedly to the task of keeping Digory hidden. Jacco did not mention the figure in the robe whom we had seen that night. Some of them did wear fancy dress on the night of the bonfire, bringing out old smocks and hats which their grandfathers had worn. I remembered that the robe had been mentioned in his presence, but Jacco was the type to forget things like that, particularly if he was interested in something else at the time. I was glad he did not refer to it and I was certainly not going to bring the matter up.

Then my parents came home.

I had never seen my mother so sad. She had loved her father dearly.

We had to choose the right moment to speak to our parents and the opportunity did not come until after dinner.

I thought the meal would never end. There was a great deal of talk about Eversleigh and the family there. They had wanted to bring my grandmother back with them but she had said that she felt too distraught for travel just yet. We must all be together soon.

“So we shall be going to Eversleigh,” I said.

“It’s such a long journey for her to come here,” my mother pointed out. “Perhaps we could meet in London. It would do your grandmother good to get away for a while, I am sure.”

We kept talking about Grandfather Dickon and what a wonderful man he had been and how strange it would be without him.

My father said: “That was a terrible thing about the fire.”

“That poor woman,” said my mother.

“And the boy too,” added my father.

There was silence. Jacco looked at me warningly. There were servants about, he implied. As if I would have forgotten the need for secrecy even now.

As we rose from the table, I said: “We want to speak to you … Jacco and I.”

“Somewhere quiet,” said Jacco.

“Am I included?” asked our mother.

“Of course,” replied Jacco.

“Something troubling you?” My father spoke anxiously. “Come into my study at once.”

So we told them how we had gone out, how the cat had been thrown into the fire and how the mob had gone into the woods. I did not mention Rolf.

“Oh, my God,” said my mother. “They are savages.”

“Go on,” said my father.

“When they threw her into the river,” said Jacco, “the boy ran out.”

“No one saw him but us,” I added.

“He was hiding close to us,” went on Jacco. “They threw the torches at the roof and she … walked into the fire. I took him up on my horse and I brought him away. We escaped.”

“Good boy. You did well. What happened to him?”

“We kept him in the Dogs’ Home. He’s been there all this time.”

“I took him food from the pantry,” I added.

My father put an arm round us both and there were tears in my mother’s eyes as she looked at us.

“I’m proud of you,” said my father. “Proud of you both. We’ll bring the boy out now.”

I looked at him fearfully. “You’ve no idea what the people can be like. Nobody could know who hadn’t seen them. They’re not like the people we know generally … They were mad … wicked … cruel. They might harm Digory.”

“They will not,” said my father. “They will know they have to answer to me.”

“What will happen to Digory?” I asked.

“He’ll work for us. He will be under our roof … under my care.”

An immense relief swept over me.

I knew that my father would know what to do.

We went at once to the Dogs’ Home. When Digory saw my father he made as though to run but Jacco caught him and said: “It’s all right. He’s one of us.”

I saw my father’s lips turn up at the corners at that and he said in a wonderfully gentle voice: “He’s right, my boy. Everything will be all right now. You’re going to live here … work for me, and I look after people who do that.”

Digory was silent. He had changed a little from that boy whom we had at first brought here, but the hunted look remained in his eyes. He was suspicious of everyone except Jacco and me. I knew that he had gone into the woods at night and seen that burned-out cottage. I could well imagine his emotions at the sight. If I had grown up in that terrible night, so had he.

He had lost that impish bravado, that desire to show he was as good as—no, better than—the rest of us. There was in a way a sort of resignation, an acceptance of the tragedy of life; but I knew, too, that there was a burning resentment.

My father said: “First we’ll find a bed for you.”

“They’ll take me … like they did me granny. They threw her in the river. They tried to drown her. Then they burned her all up.”

“They will not dare,” said my father. “I shall make them understand that. Come to the house with me now.”

He was still reluctant, but Jacco took him by the arm and he trusted Jacco. I felt my spirits lift because of the trust he had in us.

We walked to the house and my father told Jacco to take Digory into the small room which led from the hall and to come out when he called to them.

Then he rang one of the bells and in a short time Isaacs appeared.

“Isaacs,” he said, “I want all the servants assembled in the hall.”

“Now, Sir Jake?”

“Immediately.”

“Very good, sir.”

I could almost feel the tremor which passed through the house. I was aware of running footsteps, whispering voices. In a very short time they were all present, forming two lines with Mrs. Penlock at the head of one and Isaacs at the other.

My father addressed them very seriously: “A wicked and most shameful event took place during my absence. Senseless savages murdered a defenseless old woman. Oh, I know that you are telling yourselves that the fire in the woods was an accident, but in your hearts you know it was not so. It is hard to believe that anyone today, people we meet in our everyday life, who before this had seemed ordinary decent folk, could be guilty of such a crime. I am not asking you to come forward and confess your guilt—if any of you are guilty you will know that and have to live with your consciences—but let me tell you this: there will be no more savagery on these lands, for the simple reason that anyone who is caught performing these evil deeds will no longer be on this land. On Midsummer’s Eve an old woman was sent to her death. She had a grandson living with her. Providentially that boy was saved from a mob of hooligans. He has been deprived of his home and his guardian and he is now under my care. He will work here; he will live among us. He has suffered a great deal and we shall remember that. If I hear of any persecution of this boy, it will be worse for those who are guilty of it. Jacco, come out now.”

Jacco came out, Digory with him.

There was a gasp through the hall, and I had never heard such silence.

My father laid a hand on Digory’s shoulder.

He went on. “This boy, Digory, is now a member of my household. I hope that is clear to you all.” He turned to John Ferry, the head groom. “Ferry,” he said. “You’ve got a spare room over the stables. The boy can use that until we decide what he is going to do here.”

“Yes, sir,” said Ferry.

“Take him now. He’ll no doubt need to learn a lot if he is going to work with the horses.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jacco said: “You can go with Ferry. He’ll do as my father says.”

Digory still did not speak. How different he was from that truculent boy I had met in the woods.

John Ferry said: “Come on, me lad.”

He grasped Digory by the shoulder and they went to the door, Digory still walking as though in a trance.

My father said: “Oh … Ferry?”

Ferry paused and turned. “Yes, sir?”

“Remember what I said.”

“Yes, sir. I will, sir.”

At a sign from my father the servants were dismissed.

“You two come into the drawing room and talk to your mother and me,” he said to us. “There’s a great deal I want to ask.”

So we went and we sat up late telling them all that had happened on that terrible night.