Another surprise for Kester. He had expected to hear that she had been dead several days—a week perhaps. But only half an hour!
“Who was with her when she died?” he asked, after a minute’s pause.
“Me and Dirty Jack.”
“Dirty Jack! who is he?”
“Why Dirty Jack. Everybody knows him. He lives in Duxley, and has a wooden leg, and does writings for folk.”
“Does writings for folk!” A shiver ran through Kester. “And has he been doing anything for your grandmother?”
“That he has. A lot.”
“A lot—about what?”
“About you.”
“About me? Why about me?”