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everything because they've put on breeches and gone for a ride on a tractor. But it's gardening that's needed here. And that isn't learned in a day. Gardening, that's what this place needs.”
    “It looks as though it does,” said Craddock.
    The old man chose to take this remark as an aspersion.
    “Now look here, mister, what do you suppose I can do with a place this size? Three men and a boy, that's what it used to 'ave. And that's what it wants. There's not many men could put in the work on it that I do. 'Ere sometimes I am till eight o'clock at night. Eight o'clock.”
    “What do you work by? An oil lamp.”
    “Naterally I don't mean this time o' year. Naterally. Summer evenings I'm talking about.”
    “Oh,” said Craddock, “I'd better go and look for Mrs. Haymes.”
    The rustic displayed some interest.
    “What are you wanting 'er for? Police, aren't you? She been in trouble, or is it the do there was up to Little Paddocks? Masked men bursting in and holding up a roomful of people with a revolver. An' that sort of thing wouldn't 'ave 'appened afore the war. Deserters, that's what it is. Desperate men roaming the countryside. Why don't the military round 'em up?”
    “I've no idea,” said Craddock. “I suppose this holdup caused a lot of talk?”
    “That it did. What's us coming to? That's what Ned Barker said. Comes of going to the pictures so much, he said. But Tom Riley he says it comes of letting these furriners run about loose. And depend on it, he says, that girl as cooks up there for Miss Blacklog and 'as such a nasty temper - she's in it, he said. She's a communist or worse, he says, and we don't like that sort 'ere. And Marlene, who's behind the bar, you understand, she will 'ave it that there must be something very valuable up at Miss Blacklog's. Not that you'd think it, she says, for I'm sure Miss Blacklog goes about as plain as plain, except for them great rows of false pearls she wears. And then she says - Supposin' as them pearls is real, and Florrie (what's old Bellamy's daughter) she says, 'Nonsense,' she says -' noovo ar - that's what they are - costume jewellery,' she says. Costume jewellery - that's a fine way of labelling a string of false pearls. Roman pearls; the gentry used to call 'em once - and Parisian diamonds - my wife was a lady's maid and I know. But what does it all mean - just glass! I suppose it's 'costume jewellery' that young Miss Simmons wears - gold ivy leaves and dogs and such like. 'Tisn't often you see a real bit of gold nowadays - even wedding rings they make of this grey plattinghum stuff. Shabby, I call it - for all that it costs the earth.”
    Old Ashe paused for breath and then continued:
    “'Miss Blacklog don't keep much money in the 'ouse, that I do know,' says Jim Huggins, speaking up. He should know, for it's his wife as goes up and does for 'em at Little Paddocks, and she's a woman as knows most of what's going on. Nosey, if you take me.”
    “Did he say what Mrs. Huggins' view was?”
    “That Mitzi's mixed up in it, that's what she thinks. Awful temper she 'as, and the airs she gives herself! Called Mrs. Huggins a working woman to her face the other morning.”
    Craddock stood a moment, checking over in his orderly mind the substance of the old gardener's remarks.
    It gave him a good cross-section of rural opinion in Chipping Cleghorn, but he didn't think there was anything to help him in his task. He turned away and the old man called after him grudgingly:
    “Maybe you'd find her in the apple orchard. She's younger than I am for getting the apples down.”
    And sure enough in the apple orchard Craddock found Phillipa Haymes. His first view was a pair of nice legs encased in breeches sliding easily down the trunk of a tree. Then Phillipa, her face flushed, her fair hair ruffled by the branches, stood looking at him in a startled fashion.
    “Make a good Rosalind,” Craddock thought automatically, for Detective-Inspector Craddock was a Shakespeare