Heaven Knows Who by Christianna Brand

that went on there. This watch he could maintain without the use of spectacles; indeed Jess had told her that he could see perfectly, even to read the newspapers.
    On the morning after the murder, however, Elizabeth in her turn unwittingly did a little spying. At about half-past ten, she saw the old man come out into the back garden looking round surreptitiously as though to see that he was not observed and then go down to the shed at the end for some coals. Her curiosity perhaps was piqued by this. At any rate she popped round that afternoon to borrow a spade.
    The old man answered the door. He told her to come with him and they went down through the basement to the back door and out into the garden, where the tools were kept in a shed at the further end. But halfway down the garden he stopped and turned back; he said that the door was locked so he couldn’t get the spade after all, and ‘the girl was out.’
    Elizabeth suggested that the key might be in the kitchen, but he said no it wasn’t, because he had looked. She glanced in at the kitchen as she passed the door; screens of linen were airing before the fire, but she did not particularly notice anything else. She went off saying she’d come another time for the spade, and he said, yes, to come some other time.
    That evening at about six, Andrew Darnley turned up. He was a pattern-maker from Falkirk and had known Jess when she worked in his father’s house—the family had kept up with her since, though the reason of her leaving their service had been one of her two ‘misfortunes.’ He rang the front door bell and an old gentleman answered.
    Andrew asked ‘if this was whaur Mr Fleming stopped.’ The old man said yes. He then asked if there was one, Jess M’Pherson, here. The old man said yes. He appeared to be a little deaf. Andrew, persisting, said well, was she in the house? The old man said no.
    â€˜Do you no ken whaur she is?’ said Andrew, and when he said again no, ‘Well, has she been gone long?’
    The old gentleman said she had been out a good while. (‘That’s what he said,’ repeated Andrew Darnley firmly, at the trial). He left his name and said he would be going home to Falkirk that night; and went away.
    The next day was Sunday. If Jessie M’Lachlan left her house that day, we have no record of it. Mr Fleming, however, was up and dressed by the time the milk boy called: once again he was for nae milk. At ten to eleven a friend met him trotting off to Mr Aikman’s, the Presbyterian church in Anderston—a ‘ward’ or district of Glasgow where he had had his manufacturing business, no distance from Sandyford Place.
    He made some remark about the weather and Mr M’Allister asked, ‘Are you still going down to the old church, Mr Fleming?’
    â€˜Yes,’ said the old gentleman, ‘it’s no use changing now.’
    This was the church where, ten years ago, he had made his confession of fornication. No doubt he considered that the devil who knew might be better than the devil who didn’t: no offence intended to the Reverend Aikman.
    That evening at about seven Andrew Darnley presented himself again at the front door of No. 17. He had not after all gone home to Falkirk, as he had told Mr Fleming he would the evening before, but had stayed the night with a friend. Mr Fleming answered the bell and he asked if Jess was in tonight.
    Mr Fleming said, ‘No.’ Andrew, who probably knew all about his being fashious if Jess had visitors, remarked that she was surely often oot the noo? The old man made no reply and Andrew said he had a friend waiting for him, and took his departure.
    On Monday morning Mr Fleming was up and dressed as before to receive the milk boy; and as before took nae milk. George Paton and Donald M’Quarrie thought it all very strange. No. 17 which had, for the past year at any rate, regularly taken milk morning and afternoon,