groceries. Sometimes the most persistent, staying past the departure of the second bus (and thus making necessary a night spent in the arms of the Carriage Stop Inn) were able to catch sight of a tall figure dressed in black, moving past the upper windows of the house.
The village story, no matter who was lucky enough to capture the tourists, seldom varied: “They couldn’t prove it on her, see, because no one knew why she did it, and being fifteen years old and all, she got off. They said at the time it was a crazy idea she was even put on trial, because no jury in their right minds could see her sitting there, quiet and sad and looking like any young kid, and really believe she did it. We knew her around the village—she was born here, after all, and her two brothers besides, and even we couldn’t think, sometimes, she was up to it. Now right here, right along these bushes here by the road, is where she fell when she said she was running for help, and here’s where they found the hammer later, and she said it was a tramp chasing her, one got in through the back cellar window and he must have dropped the hammer here. She run all the way down the road to Parker’s Bakery yelling for help. Later we’ll go round the back and look through the fence and you can see the window she said the tramp got in at, even though they said, the prosecution, it hadn’t been opened for years, but the defense got an expert said there were clear signs someone had been walking around the cellar near the window. Right there, that window on the second floor third from the end, that was the window of the room where her mother and father slept and they say she sleeps in there now—remorse, or something. Or maybe it just has the best bed, though not many people would want to sleep in that bed, I guess—it’s where she did them in, you know. The two boys were around back, we can see their window when we go around. Her room was on the very end, down there, and they say she got up when it was still dark and she had the hammer with her—took it to bed with her the night before, you know—and came right down the hall to her parent’s bedroom and wham! Then, across the hall to the boys. Wham again. Nothing to it, says Harriet. Then, down the stairs, and down the front walk, left the gate open, fell into the bushes back where I showed you, dropped the hammer, and down the road in her nightgown to Parker’s Bakery; Bill Parker, he didn’t believe her at first—she yelled him out of bed and he put his head out of the window and told her to go home. Then she told him again and he got some pants on and got up Straus the butcher and old Watkins and they went up—before you take the bus you go see old Watkins; he’ll tell you what it looked like when they got up here. One funny thing—she was barefoot and all cut and scratched from the bushes when Mrs. Parker took her in, but no blood on her. The prosecution, they said she couldn’t hardly do such a set of things as that without getting blood on her, and they say she did it and then washed herself and put on a clean nightgown. The prosecution said she burned the bloody nightgown in the stove, but the defense, they got in an expert said it wasn’t nothing but old rags in the stove, even though no one said why anyone wanted to go burning old rags; round here, we mostly take our old junk over to the dump, although you ask my wife, she’ll tell you she wears our old rags.
“No one ever knew, though. She got off, and she came back here to the house where she was born, and she lives there now. Goes out for walks at night, they say, although me, I wouldn’t like to meet her—can’t tell what might happen if she come to take a dislike to you. Funny thing, though, Straus—he’s the butcher—says they never order meat, though they used to. A vegetarian, Harriet Stuart.
“Come around the side and I’ll show you the shed the hammer come from, and then we’ll look through the fence and maybe
The village story, no matter who was lucky enough to capture the tourists, seldom varied: “They couldn’t prove it on her, see, because no one knew why she did it, and being fifteen years old and all, she got off. They said at the time it was a crazy idea she was even put on trial, because no jury in their right minds could see her sitting there, quiet and sad and looking like any young kid, and really believe she did it. We knew her around the village—she was born here, after all, and her two brothers besides, and even we couldn’t think, sometimes, she was up to it. Now right here, right along these bushes here by the road, is where she fell when she said she was running for help, and here’s where they found the hammer later, and she said it was a tramp chasing her, one got in through the back cellar window and he must have dropped the hammer here. She run all the way down the road to Parker’s Bakery yelling for help. Later we’ll go round the back and look through the fence and you can see the window she said the tramp got in at, even though they said, the prosecution, it hadn’t been opened for years, but the defense got an expert said there were clear signs someone had been walking around the cellar near the window. Right there, that window on the second floor third from the end, that was the window of the room where her mother and father slept and they say she sleeps in there now—remorse, or something. Or maybe it just has the best bed, though not many people would want to sleep in that bed, I guess—it’s where she did them in, you know. The two boys were around back, we can see their window when we go around. Her room was on the very end, down there, and they say she got up when it was still dark and she had the hammer with her—took it to bed with her the night before, you know—and came right down the hall to her parent’s bedroom and wham! Then, across the hall to the boys. Wham again. Nothing to it, says Harriet. Then, down the stairs, and down the front walk, left the gate open, fell into the bushes back where I showed you, dropped the hammer, and down the road in her nightgown to Parker’s Bakery; Bill Parker, he didn’t believe her at first—she yelled him out of bed and he put his head out of the window and told her to go home. Then she told him again and he got some pants on and got up Straus the butcher and old Watkins and they went up—before you take the bus you go see old Watkins; he’ll tell you what it looked like when they got up here. One funny thing—she was barefoot and all cut and scratched from the bushes when Mrs. Parker took her in, but no blood on her. The prosecution, they said she couldn’t hardly do such a set of things as that without getting blood on her, and they say she did it and then washed herself and put on a clean nightgown. The prosecution said she burned the bloody nightgown in the stove, but the defense, they got in an expert said it wasn’t nothing but old rags in the stove, even though no one said why anyone wanted to go burning old rags; round here, we mostly take our old junk over to the dump, although you ask my wife, she’ll tell you she wears our old rags.
“No one ever knew, though. She got off, and she came back here to the house where she was born, and she lives there now. Goes out for walks at night, they say, although me, I wouldn’t like to meet her—can’t tell what might happen if she come to take a dislike to you. Funny thing, though, Straus—he’s the butcher—says they never order meat, though they used to. A vegetarian, Harriet Stuart.
“Come around the side and I’ll show you the shed the hammer come from, and then we’ll look through the fence and maybe
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