The crumble that never was

No blueberries had come home. There was a hole in the bottom of the basket and Martha could not work out whether it was as Billy said, that he had not noticed them tumbling out, or that he had eaten them and used the hole for exculpation. On the one hand, Billy was stupid, and loved the plants of the wood, and the birds; she could see him distracted by a thrush or wagtail, oblivious to the purple fruits bursting beneath his boots.

But that did not explain the stains on his palms and at the corners of his mouth.

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