Mrs. Tarnley walked a few steps towards her, and beckoning with her lean finger, the girl drew near.
“Ye’ll have to go over Cressley Common, girl, to Wykeford. Ye know Wykeford?”
“Yes, please ’m.”
“Well, ye must go through the village, and call up Mark Topham. Ye know Mark Topham’s house with the green door, by the bridge-end?”
“Yes please, Mrs. Tarnley, ma’am.”
“And say he’ll be wanted down here at the Grange—for murder mind—and go ye on to Mr. Rodney at t’other side o’ the river. Squire Rodney of Wrydell. Ye know that house, too?”
“Yes, ’m,” said the girl, with eyes momentarily distending, and face of blanker consternation.
“And ye’ll tell Mr. Rodney there’s been bad work down here, and murder all but done, and say ye’ve told Mark Topham, the constable, and that it is hoped he’ll come over himself to make out the writin’s and send away the prisoner as should go. We being chiefly women here, and having to keep Tom Clinton at home to mind the prisoner—ye understand—and keep all safe, having little other protection. Now run in, lass, and clap your bonnet on, and away wi’ ye; and get ye there as fast as your legs will carry ye, and take your time comin’ back; and ye may get a lift, for they’ll not be walkin’, and you’re like to get your bit o’ breakfast down at Wrydell; but if ye shouln’t, here’s tuppence, and buy yourself a good bit o’ bread in the town. Now, ye understand?”
“Yes, ’m, please.”
“And ye’ll not be makin’ mistakes, mind?”