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casual glance. “Writing a book, eh? Novel?”
    “Folklore,” said Bridget.
    “You've come to the right place for that,” said the lawyer. “Wonderfully interesting part of the world here.”
    “So I've been led to understand,” said Luke. “I dare say you could help me a bit. You must come across curious old deeds or know of some interesting surviving customs.”
    “Well, I don't know about that. Maybe - maybe.”
    “No haunted houses?”
    “No, I don't know of anything of that kind.”
    “There's the child superstition, of course,” said Luke. “Death of a boy child - a violent death, that is - the boy always walks. Not a girl child - interesting that.”
    “Very!” said Mr. Abbot. “I never heard that before.”
    Since Luke had just invented it, that was hardly surprising. “Seems there's a boy here - Tommy something - was in your office at one time. I've reason to believe they think that he's walking.”
    Mr. Abbot's red face turned slightly purple.
    “Tommy Pierce? A good-for-nothing, prying, meddlesome jackanapes. Who's seen him? What's this story?”
    “These things are difficult to pin down,” said Luke. “People won't come out into the open with a statement. It's just in the air, so to speak.”
    “Yes, yes, I suppose so.”
    Luke changed the subject adroitly, “The real person to get hold of is the local doctor. They hear a lot in the poorer cases they attend. All sorts of superstitions and charms - probably love philters and all the rest of it.”
    “You must get on to Thomas. Good fellow Thomas, thoroughly up-to-date man. Not like poor old Humbleby.”
    “Bit of a reactionary, wasn't he?”
    “Absolutely pigheaded; a diehard of the worst description.”
    “You had a real row over the water scheme, didn't you?” asked Bridget.
    Again a rich ruddy glow suffused Abbot's face. “Humbleby stood dead in the way of progress,” he said sharply. “He held out against the scheme! He was pretty rude, too, in what he said. Didn't mince his words. Some of the things he said to me were positively actionable.”
    Bridget murmured, “But lawyers never go to law, do they? They know better.”
    Abbot laughed immoderately. His anger subsided as quickly as it had risen. “Pretty good, Miss Bridget! And you're not far wrong. We who are in it know too much about the law, ha-ha. Well, I must be getting along. Give me a call if you think I can help you in any way, Mr. - er -”
    “Fitzwilliam,” said Luke. “Thanks, I will.”
    As they walked on, Bridget said, “If you want to hear more about Amy Gibbs, I can take you to someone who could help you.”
    “Who is that?”
    “A Miss Waynflete. Amy went there after she left the Manor. She was there when she died.”
    “Oh, I see.” He was a little taken aback. “Well, thank you very much.”
    “She lives just here.”
    They were crossing the village green. Inclining her head in the direction of the big Georgian house that Luke had noticed the day before, Bridget said: “That's Wych Hall. It's a library now.”
    Adjoining the Hall was a little house that looked rather like a doll's house in proportion. Its steps were dazzlingly white, its knocker shone and its window curtains showed white and prim. Bridget pushed open the gate and advanced to the steps. As she did so, the front door opened and an elderly woman came out. She was, Luke thought, completely the country spinster. Her thin form was neatly dressed in a tweed coat and skirt, and she wore a gray silk blouse with a cairngorm brooch. Her hat, a conscientious felt, sat squarely upon her well-shaped head. Her face was pleasant and her eyes, through their pince-nez, decidedly intelligent.
    “Good morning. Miss Waynflete,” said Bridget. “This is Mr. Fitzwilliam.” Luke bowed. “He's writing a book - about deaths and village customs and general gruesomeness.”
    “Oh, dear,” said Miss Waynflete. “How very interesting.” And she beamed encouragingly upon him.
    He was reminded of Miss