LITMIR.BIZ

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eh?’ he said. ‘Were you running away, by any chance?’

      Nan nodded.

      ‘From whom?’

      ‘Grandmama and Miss Bolt.’

      ‘Merciful heavens!’ he ejaculated. ‘What’s your name?’ ‘Anna Linnet,’ said Nan.

      The elderly gentleman gave a deep groan and looked down at the others. ‘You three down there. Come up. Come in. Bring the dog. In for a penny, in for a pound. If there is anything I dislike more than a child it’s a dog. Merciful heavens! And I trusted never to set eyes on a child again.’

      He made a despairing gesture and led the way into his library. The children followed in single file, Absolom bringing up the rear with his tail between his legs. Then he caught sight of the owl, barked joyously and leapt up into the elderly gentleman’s chair. The owl took off and floated to the top of a large oil painting of some ruins and a thunderstorm that hung over the fireplace. Then he opened his beak, said, ‘Hick’, and a pellet shaped like a plum-stone shot out of it and hit Absolom on the nose. Glancing off on to the carpet, the pellet broke open and disintegrated into a collection of small beaks and claws and a threepenny bit. ‘Do not do that again,’ said the elderly gentleman to Absolom. ‘If Hector is annoyed he shoots out undigested matter in this unpleasant fashion. You, boy, what’s your name? Speak up. What? Timothy? Shovel up the beaks and claws and put them in the fire. You may keep the threepenny bit. Sit down. Do not touch my books or my papers. In twenty minutes I shall for my sins be with you again. Merciful heavens, here’s a kettle of fish!’

      He left the room, banging the door behind him. They heard his footsteps in the hall and another door banged.

      ‘Is he quite right inside his head?’ asked Robert hoarsely.

      ‘Quite right,’ said Nan. ‘Let’s sit down, like he told us, and get warm.’

      They sat in front of the fire and looked about them. It was a big room, but the bookcases that lined the walls could not hold the number of books the elderly gentleman possessed and they had overflowed on to the chairs and the floor. Where the carpet could be seen it was deep crimson, and so were the velvet curtains at the three long windows, but they were faded and torn and the deep leather armchairs had the stuffing bursting out of them. The mantelpiece was comfortably littered with pipes and tobacco jars, and the grandfather clock and the wonderful globe of the world were as kindly presences in the room as the glowing fire. Suddenly they felt befriended, in spite of Hector’s outraged gaze. It was a friendly room, smelling of leather and tobacco and burning logs and home. Absolom expressed the feelings of them all when he flopped down on the woolly hearthrug in front of the fire, laid his chin on his extended paws, sighed twice and fell asleep. Betsy fell asleep too, in Nan’s arms in the deepest armchair, and the boys sat on the rug by Absolom and fed the fire with fircones from a basket that stood on the hearth. The grandfather clock ticked gently and Hector’s expression slowly changed from outrage to resignation.

      And then suddenly their drowsy peace was shattered by the sound of a quickly trotting horse coming from the direction of the village. The rider came past the house, slowing down where the hill was steep, crossed the bridge at the bottom and then urged his horse to a canter up the long slope beyond. The sound of the hooves died away in the distance and the children looked at each other in dismay. There were no telephones in those days, and only rich people had cars, so urgent messages were often carried on horseback.

      ‘Has he sent a message to Grandmama?’ gasped Timothy.

      ‘How could he?’ asked Nan. ‘He doesn’t know where she lives.’

      ‘Don’t be such a fool, Tim,’ said Robert.

      Yet in spite of the impossibility of a message being sent to Grandmama, they all felt a little uneasy, and still more so when the elderly gentleman returned looking grimmer than ever and capable of anything. ‘I see nothing for it but for you to stay the night,’ he growled. ‘Dog and all. Merciful heavens, what an infliction! Since nothing is left of my groceries except marmalade and soap and Hector’s sardines, I presume you are not hungry. You are, however, extremely dirty and one of you is smelling abominably of violet scent. I dislike scent. That is why I am a bachelor. You must wash and get to bed. I know nothing of the routine of getting children to bed, but you, I presume,’ and he pointed a long forefinger at Nan, ‘can superintend the horrid business. I’ll show you where the bed is and provide you with hot water, and then I do not wish to hear a chirp out of any of you until the morning.’

      He led the way out of the room and they followed him exactly as the children had followed the Pied Piper. He was more severe with them even than Grandmama and the Thunderbolt, yet they would have done anything he told them and followed him anywhere. And so would Absolom, who flopped along keeping as near him as he possibly could. Out in the hall the elderly gentleman lit the two candles that were on the table, took one himself and gave the other to the children. ‘That’s Ezra Oake’s candle,’ he said. ‘He is my gardener and general factotum and sleeps in the house. When you appropriated Jason and the trap he was in the Wheatsheaf, and I must warn you that when he returns, having no doubt strengthened himself with strong drink for the walk home, it is possible that he may create a considerable disturbance. If so do not be alarmed.’

      ‘How will he go to bed if we have his candle?’ asked Nan.

      ‘In the dark,’ said the elderly gentleman. ‘Give me the child. She is too heavy for your strength. This way to the kitchen.’ He took Betsy from Nan, settling her in the curve of his free arm in a way that seemed to Nan very handy for a man who did not like children, and led the way down the passage. It was a glorious house. It had not been spring-cleaned for years. Delicate festoons of spiders’ webs swayed beautifully in the draught all the way down the passage, and when they reached the big stone-floored kitchen it was the most wonderful place they had ever seen. Apart from the settle by the hearth, and the black kettle murmuring gently on top of the range, everything was in the wrong place. A basket full of a cat and six kittens was on the draining board, the dishes and plates and two pairs of boots were stacked on the table, the cuckoo clock was in the sink, the saucepans were on the floor, and the mantelpiece, windowsills and dresser were crowded with plants in pots, bast and string and seed boxes. Some women, but no men or children, might have considered this a kitchen, but they would have been wrong. It was not dirty because it smelt right. It smelt of onions, herbs, geraniums and good earth, but not dirt. Cobwebs were spun between the rafters, but the washing-up had been done before the cat and the cuckoo clock had been put on the draining board and into the sink, and the copper saucepans on the floor were so bright that you could see your face in them. Nan, Robert and Timothy sighed with delight and wanted to look at the kittens, but the elderly gentleman would not let them linger. Handing his candle to Robert, he picked up the steaming kettle and led them all out again. ‘I’ll not have Andromache disturbed,’ he said. ‘Her accouchement took place only last Wednesday.’

      He led them up a staircase, down a passage and into a room full of moonlight so bright that its reflection in the polished oak of the old wavy floor was almost dazzling. There was a four-poster bed, with maroon curtains and a flight of steps leading up to it, a bow-fronted chest of drawers and a vast washstand with two sets of willow-patterned jugs and basins.

      ‘My spare room,’ said the elderly gentleman. ‘It has never been slept in, for if there is one thing I dislike more than paying visits, it is receiving them. As to the condition of the bedding, if any, I am unable to inform you.’ He set down the steaming kettle on the washstand and lifted the patchwork quilt which lay on the bed. Under it was a pile of feather pillows and blankets but no sheets. ‘Are they damp?’ he asked a little anxiously. ‘I should not like the child to take cold.’

      He did not so much as glance at Betsy as he spoke, but yet Nan knew he liked Betsy, and liked her. What he felt about the boys she was not so sure.

      ‘Betsy never takes cold,’ she reassured him. ‘Timothy does, but I’ll make him keep his combinations on.’

      ‘Combinations of what?’ asked the elderly gentleman.

      ‘Just combinations,’

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