Polly looked round and saw one of the Children sitting half-hidden in the hedge, watching them. She looked harder at the girl, making sure which one it was.

'Judy,' Polly said, with sudden misgiving. 'Is it you doing this?'

The girl's nod was barely perceptible.

'But you mustn't,' Polly protested. 'We want to go to Trayne to see Uncle Hubert. He was hurt. He's in hospital.'

'You can't go,' the girl told her, with a faintly apologetic inflection.

'But, Judy. He has to arrange lots of things with me for the time he'll have to be away.'

The girl simply shook her head, slowly. Polly felt her temper rising. She drew breath to speak again, but Mrs Leebody cut-in, nervously:

'Don't annoy her, Polly. Wasn't last night enough of a lesson for all of us?'

Her advice went home. Polly said no more. She sat glaring at the Child in the hedge, with a muddle of frustrated emotion that brought tears of resentment to her eyes.

Mrs Leebody succeeded in finding reverse, and moved the lever into it. She tentatively put her right foot forward and found that it now reached the accelerator without any difficulty. They backed a few yards, and changed seats again. Polly drove them back to the Vicarage, in silence.

At Kyle Manor we were still having difficulty with the Chief Constable.

'But,' he protested, from under corrugated brows, 'our information supports your original statement that the villagers were marching on The Grange to bum the place.'

'So they were,' agreed Zellaby.

'But you also say, and Colonel Westcott agrees, that the children at The Grange were the real culprits – they provoked it.'

'That's true,' Bernard agreed. 'But I'm afraid there's nothing we can do about that.'

'No evidence, you mean? Well, finding evidence is our job.'

'I don't mean no evidence. I mean no imputability under the law.'

'Look,' said the Chief Constable, with conscientious patience. 'Four people have been killed – I repeat killed ; thirteen are in hospital; a number more have been badly knocked about. It is not the sort of thing we can just say "what a pity" about, and leave it at that. We have to bring the whole thing into the open, decide where responsibility lies, and draw up charges. You must see that.'

'These are very unusual Children -' Bernard began.

'I know. I know. Lot of wrong-side-of-the-blanket stuff in these parts. Old Bodger told me about that when I took over. Not quite firing on all cylinders, either – special school for them, and so on.'

Bernard repressed a sigh.

'Sir John, it's not that they are backward. The special school was opened because they are different . They are morally responsible for last night's trouble, but that isn't the same as being legally responsible. There's nothing you can charge them with.'

'Minors can be charged – or somebody responsible for them can. You're not going to tell me that a gang of nine-year-old children can somehow – though I'm blest if I can see how – promote a riot in which people get killed, and then just get away with it scot free! It's fantastic!'

'But I've pointed out several times that these Children are different . Their years have no relevance – except in so far as they are children, which may mean that they are crueller in their acts than in their intentions. The law cannot touch them – and my Department doesn't want them publicized.'

'Ridiculous,' retorted the Chief Constable. 'I've heard of those fancy schools. Children mustn't be what-do-you-call it? – frustrated. Self-expression, co-education, wholemeal bread, and all the rest of it. Damned nonsense! More frustrated by being different about things than they would be if they were normal. But if some Departments think that because a school of that kind happens to be a government-run institution the children there are in a different position as regards the law, and can be – er – uninhibited as they like – well, they'll soon learn differently.'

Zellaby and Bernard exchanged hopeless glances. Bernard decided to try once more.

'These Children, Sir John, have strong willpower – quite remarkably strong – strong enough, when they exert it, to be considered a form of duress. Now, the law has not, so far, encountered this particular form of duress; consequently, having no knowledge of it, it cannot recognize it. Since, therefore, the form of duress has no legal existence, the Children cannot in law be said to be capable of exerting it. Therefore, in the eyes of the law, the crimes attributed by popular opinion to its exercise must (a) never have taken place at all, or (b) be attributable to other persons, or means. There cannot, within the knowledge of the law, be any connexion between the Children and the crimes.'

'Except that they did 'em, or so you all tell me,' said Sir John.

'As far as the law is concerned they've done nothing at all. And, what is more, if you could find a formula to charge them under you'd not get anywhere. They would bring this duress to bear on your officers. You can neither arrest them, nor hold them, if you try to.'

'We can leave those finer points to the lawyer fellows – that's their job. All we need is enough evidence to justify a warrant,' the Chief Constable assured him.

Zellaby gazed with innocent thoughtfulness at a corner of the ceiling. Bernard had the withdrawn air of a man who might be counting ten, not too quickly. I found myself troubled by a slight cough.

'This schoolmaster fellow at The Grange – what's his name – Torrance?' the Chief Constable went on. 'Director of the place. He must hold the official responsibility for these children, if anyone does. Saw the chap last night. Struck me as evasive. Everybody round here's evasive, of course.' He studiedly met no eye. 'But he definitely wasn't helpful.'

'Dr Torrance is an eminent psychiatrist, rather than a schoolmaster,' Bernard explained. 'I think he may be in considerable doubt as to his right course in the matter until he can take advice.'

'Psychiatrist?' repeated Sir John, suspiciously. 'I thought you said this is not a place for backward children?'

'It isn't,' Bernard repeated, patiently.

'Don't see what he has to be doubtful about. Nothing doubtful about the truth, is there? That's all you've got to tell when the police make inquiries: if you don't, you're in for trouble – and so you ought to be.'

'It's not quite as simple as that,' Bernard responded. 'He may not have felt himself at liberty to disclose some aspects of his work. I think that if you will let me come along with you and see him again he might be more willing to talk – and much better able to explain the situation than I am.'

He got to his feet as he finished. The rest of us rose, too. The Chief Constable's leave-taking was gruff. There was a barely perceptible flicker to Bernard's right eye as he said au revoir to the rest of us, and escorted him out of the room.

Zellaby collapsed into an easy chair, and sighed deeply. He searched absent-mindedly for his cigarette case.

'I've not met Dr Torrance,' I said, 'but I already feel quite sorry for him.'

'Unnecessary,' said Zellaby. 'Colonel Westcott's discretion has been irritating, but passive. Torrance's has always had an aggressive quality. If he has now got to make the situation lucid enough for Sir John, it's simply poetic justice.

'But what interests me more at the moment is your Colonel Westcott's attitude. The barrier there is down quite a bit. If he could have got as far as a mutually understandable vocabulary with Sir John, I do believe he might have told us all something. I wonder why? This seems to me just the kind of situation that he has been trying so hard to avoid all along. The Midwich bag is now very nearly too small for the cat. Why, then, doesn't he appear more concerned?' He lapsed into a reverie, tattooing gently on the chair-arm.