Brat considered the shoe he had made, while Mr. Pilbeam made ready to call it a day.
"I ought to hang that up," Mr. Pilbeam said, nodding at Brat's handiwork, "and label it: Made by Patrick Ashby of Latchetts. And I couldn't make a better one myself," he added handsomely.
"Give it to old Abel to nail on his door."
"Bless you, old Abel wouldn't have cold iron on his threshold. Keep his visitors away."
"Oh. Friendly with 'them, is he?"
"Do all his washing up and keep his house clean, if you'd believe all you hear."
"I wouldn't put it past him," Brat said. And set out for Latchetts.
So Simon had an alibi. Simon had been nowhere near the cliffs that afternoon. He had never been out of the Clare valley.
And so that was that.
On his way home up the ride between the paddocks he met Jane. Jane had every appearance of "hanging around," and he wondered if it was to intercept him that she lingered there. She was talking to Honey and her foal, and made no effort to efface herself as she had done hitherto at his approach.