Three Bags Full
be), but what they saw lying in the dust in front of them was just a kind of thin chain with a piece of metal on it. Sure enough, it didn’t come to an end, because it formed a circle. But that was all there was to its endlessness. They stared scornfully at the human Thing.
    “There really are signs on it,” said Sir Ritchfield, who was embarrassed by the way he had lost his train of thought a little while ago. Now his good eyesight could regain him respect. “The first sign is sharp like a bird’s beak pointing upwards,” he added, “with a line through the middle of it. And the other one is like a stomach on two legs. That means it stands for one of the Two Legs. I think it’s a bad sign!” Ritchfield looked resolutely at the rest of them.
    Mopple wanted to throw the Thing off the cliffs.
    Zora wouldn’t hear of throwing it off the cliffs. She thought the cliffs were too good for a Thing like that.
    Maude bleated in surprise, but no one took any notice of her.
    Sir Ritchfield thought they should bury the Thing, although he didn’t want to touch it personally.
    Maude bleated again.
    Mopple wouldn’t have minded touching the Thing, but he didn’t want to bury it and then maybe find himself grazing on top of it later.
    Miss Maple surprised them all.
    “We’ll keep the Thing,” she said. “It’s a clue. It turned up after George’s death. It may be something the murderer dropped. Well, like our own droppings, I mean,” she added, when Sir Ritchfield looked at her blankly.
    “It doesn’t smell like droppings,” objected Mopple.
    Maude bleated in alarm.
    Maple shook her head impatiently. “It occurred to me back in the barn just now. Human beings are attached to Things. Things attach themselves to human beings. If we keep a close eye on Things we’ll find the murderer.”
    At this moment Maude squeezed her way in under the dolmen with the others, and seconds later a beam of light swept past them. Three people followed it closely. The beam of light came to rest on George’s caravan and swept up the walls. It was looking for somewhere to hide.
    “Switch that damnfool torch off,” said a voice. “Bright enough to count grains of wheat out here, and Tom O’Malley has to bring a torch along!” The beam of light had found a gap to slip through, and suddenly disappeared.
    “That’s right, keep on shouting our names out! I’m wondering did we put these stupid stocking masks on for nothing?” complained another voice. The sheep knew that voice from the day before: Harry the Sinner.
    Tom O’Malley chuckled. The sheep noticed that he didn’t smell of drink. They’d almost failed to recognize him. “Hey,” he said, “hey, why so jumpy? We’re not doing nothing wrong. We’re doing what’s got to be done—for Glennkill!”
    “For Glennkill!” murmured Harry.
    “For my arse,” said the voice they had heard first. The thin man called Josh. “Either we stop right here to sing ‘Where Glennkill’s Bonny Hills So Bright,’ or we finally get that damn van open and look for the stuff.”
    No one opted for singing. The sheep were relieved. Three shadowy figures marched toward the door of the shepherd’s caravan, two stout forms and a tall thin one. Metal glinted in the moonlight, and keys rattled. They rattled for a long time.
    “It don’t fit,” said Harry the Sinner.
    The thin man kicked the door three times. “Fuck George! That’s it, then.” He pressed his nose flat against the two little glass windows of the caravan. He was so tall that he didn’t even have to stand on tiptoe to do it.
    “Now what?” asked Tom.
    “We need that grass,” said Harry. “So we break the door down.”
    “Are you crazy?” said Josh. “I’m not doing that. That’s a crime, that is.”
    “So disposing of evidence is legal, is it?” said Harry scornfully. “If they find the dope here it’s all over. No Faerie Dolmen. No pony rides. No Celtic Cultural Center. No whiskey specialities. And you can stuff

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