Ten

At No. 62, Wilbraham Crescent, Mrs. Ramsay was saying to herself encour-agingly, “Only two days now. Only two days.”

She pushed back some dank hair from her forehead. An almighty crashcame from the kitchen. Mrs. Ramsay felt very disinclined even to go andsee what the crash portended. If only she could pretend that there hadn’tbeen a crash. Oh well—only two days. She stepped across the hall, flung thekitchen door open and said in a voice of far less belligerence than it wouldhave held three weeks ago:

“Now what have you done?”

“Sorry, Mum,” said her son Bill. “We were just having a bit of a bowlingmatch with these tins and somehow or other they rolled into the bottom ofthe china cupboard.”

“We didn’t mean them to go into the bottom of the china cupboard,”

said his younger brother Ted agreeably.

“Well, pick up those things and put them back in the cupboard andsweep up that broken china and put it in the bin.”

“Oh, Mum, not now.”

“Yes, now.”

“Ted can do it,” said Bill.

“I like that,” said Ted. “Always putting on me. I won’t do it if you won’t.”

“Bet you will.”

“Bet I won’t.”

“I’ll make you.”

“Yahh!”

The boys closed in a fierce wrestling match. Ted was forced back againstthe kitchen table and a bowl of eggs rocked ominously.

“Oh, get out of the kitchen!” cried Mrs. Ramsay. She pushed the twoboys out of the kitchen door and shut it, and began to pick up tins andsweep up china.

“Two days,” she thought, “and they’ll be back at school! What a lovely,what a heavenly thought for a mother.”

She remembered vaguely some wicked remark by a woman columnist.

Only six happy days in the year for a woman.

The first and the last days of the holidays. How true that was, thoughtMrs. Ramsay, sweeping up portions of her best dinner service. With whatpleasure, what joy, had she contemplated the return of her offspring abare five weeks before! And now? “The day after tomorrow,” she repeatedto herself, “the day after tomorrow Bill and Ted will be back at school. Ican hardly believe it. I can’t wait!”

How heavenly it had been five weeks ago when she met them at the sta-tion. Their tempestuous and affectionate welcome! The way they hadrushed all over the house and garden. A special cake baked for tea. Andnow—what was she looking forward to now? A day of complete peace. Noenormous meals to prepare, no incessant clearing up. She loved the boys—they were fine boys, no doubt of that. She was proud of them. But theywere also exhausting. Their appetite, their vitality, the noise they made.

At that moment, raucous cries arose. She turned her head in sharpalarm. It was all right. They had only gone out in the garden. That was bet-ter, there was far more room for them in the garden. They would prob-ably annoy the neighbours. She hoped to goodness they would leave Mrs.

Hemming’s cats alone. Not, it must be confessed, for the sake of the cats,but because the wired enclosure surrounding Mrs. Hemming’s garden wasapt to tear their shorts. She cast a fleeting eye over the first-aid box whichlay handy on the dresser. Not that she fussed unduly over the natural acci-dents of vigorous boyhood. In fact her first inevitable remark was: “Nowhaven’t I told you a hundred times, you are not to bleed in the drawingroom! Come straight into the kitchen and bleed there, where I can wipeover the linoleum.”

A terrific yell from outside seemed to be cut off midway and was fol-lowed by a silence so profound that Mrs. Ramsay felt a real feeling ofalarm spring up in her breast. Really, that silence was most unnatural. Shestood uncertainly, the dustpan with broken china in her hand. The kitchendoor opened and Bill stood there. He had an awed, ecstatic expressionmost unusual on his eleven-year-old face.

“Mum,” he said. “There’s a detective inspector here and another man withhim.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Ramsay, relieved. “What does he want, dear?”

“He asked for you,” said Bill, “but I think it must be about the murder.

You know, the one at Miss Pebmarsh’s yesterday.”

“I don’t see why he should come and wish to see me,” said Mrs. Ramsay,in a slightly vexed voice.

Life was just one thing after another, she thought. How was she to getthe potatoes on for the Irish stew if detective inspectors came along at thisawkward hour?

“Oh well,” she said with a sigh. “I suppose I’d better come.”

She shot the broken china into the bin under the sink, rinsed her handsunder the tap, smoothed her hair and prepared to follow Bill, who wassaying impatiently, “Oh, come on, Mum.”

Mrs. Ramsay, closely flanked by Bill, entered the sitting room. Two menwere standing there. Her younger son, Ted, was in attendance upon them,staring at them with wide appreciative eyes.

“Mrs. Ramsay?”

“Good morning.”

“I expect these young men have told you that I am Detective InspectorHardcastle?”

“It’s very awkward,” said Mrs. Ramsay. “Very awkward this morning.

I’m very busy. Will it take very long?”

“Hardly any time at all,” said Detective Inspector Hardcastle reassur-ingly. “May we sit down?”

“Oh, yes, do, do.”

Mrs. Ramsay took an upright chair and looked at them impatiently. Shehad suspicions that it was not going to take hardly any time at all.

“No need for you two to remain,” said Hardcastle to the boys pleasantly.

“Aw, we’re not going,” said Bill.

“We’re not going,” echoed Ted.

“We want to hear all about it,” said Bill.

“Sure we do,” said Ted.

“Was there a lot of blood?” asked Bill.

“Was it a burglar?” said Ted.

“Be quiet, boys,” said Mrs. Ramsay. “Didn’t you hear the—Mr. Hard-castle say he didn’t want you in here?”

“We’re not going,” said Bill. “We want to hear.”

Hardcastle moved across to the door and opened it. He looked at theboys.

“Out,” he said.

It was only one word, quietly uttered, but it had behind it the quality ofauthority. Without more ado both boys got up, shuffled their feet andshuffled out of the room.

“How wonderful,” thought Mrs. Ramsay appreciatively. “Now why can’tI be like that?”

But then, she reflected, she was the boys’ mother. She knew by hearsaythat the boys, when they went out, behaved in a manner entirely differentfrom at home. It was always mothers who got the worst of things. But per-haps, she reflected, one would rather have it like that. To have nice quietattentive polite boys at home and to have little hooligans going out, creat-ing unfavourable opinions of themselves, would be worse — yes, thatwould be worse. She recalled herself to what was required of her, as In-spector Hardcastle came back and sat down again.

“If it’s about what happened at Number 19 yesterday,” she saidnervously, “I really don’t see that I can tell you anything, Inspector. I don’tknow anything about it. I don’t even know the people who live there.”

“The house is lived in by a Miss Pebmarsh. She’s blind and works at theAaronberg Institute.”

“Oh, I see,” said Mrs. Ramsay. “I’m afraid I know hardly anybody in thelower Crescent.”

“Were you yourself here yesterday between half past twelve and threeo’clock?”

“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Ramsay. “There was dinner to cook and all that. Iwent out before three, though. I took the boys to the cinema.”

The inspector took the photograph from his pocket and handed it to her.

“I’d like you to tell me if you’ve ever seen this man before.”

Mrs. Ramsay looked at it with a slight awakening of interest.

“No,” she said, “no, I don’t think so. I’m not sure if I would remember if Ihad seen him.”

“He did not come to this house on any occasion—trying to sell you insur-ance or anything of that kind?”

Mrs. Ramsay shook her head more positively.

“No. No, I’m sure he didn’t.”

“His name, we have some reason to believe, is Curry. Mr. R. Curry.”

He looked inquiringly at her. Mrs. Ramsay shook her head again.

“I’m afraid,” she said apologetically, “I really haven’t time to see or no-tice anything during the holidays.”

“That’s always a busy time, isn’t it,” said the inspector. “Fine boys you’vegot. Full of life and spirits. Rather too many spirits sometimes, I expect?”

Mrs. Ramsay positively smiled.

“Yes,” she said, “it gets a little tiring, but they’re very good boys really.”

“I’m sure they are,” said the inspector. “Fine fellows, both of them. Veryintelligent, I should say. I’ll have a word with them before I go, if you don’tmind. Boys notice things sometimes that nobody else in the house does.”

“I don’t really see how they can have noticed anything,” said Mrs. Ram-say. “It’s not as though we were next door or anything.”

“But your gardens back on each other.”

“Yes, they do,” agreed Mrs. Ramsay. “But they’re quite separate.”

“Do you know Mrs. Hemming at Number 20?”

“Well, in a way I do,” said Mrs. Ramsay, “because of the cats and onething and another.”

“You are fond of cats?”

“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Ramsay, “it’s not that. I mean it’s usually com-plaints.”

“Oh, I see. Complaints. What about?”

Mrs. Ramsay flushed.

“The trouble is,” she said, “when people keep cats in that way—fourteen,she’s got—they get absolutely besotted about them. And it’s all a lot of non-sense. I like cats. We used to have a cat ourselves, a tabby. Very goodmouser, too. But all the fuss that woman makes, cooking special food—hardly ever letting the poor things out to have a life of their own. Ofcourse the cats are always trying to escape. I would, if I was one of thosecats. And the boys are very good really, they wouldn’t torment a cat in anyway. What I say is cats can always take care of themselves very well.

They’re very sensible animals, cats, that is if they are treated sensibly.”

“I’m sure you’re quite right,” said the inspector. “You must have a busylife,” he went on, “keeping those boys of yours amused and fed during theholidays. When are they going back to school?”

“The day after tomorrow,” said Mrs. Ramsay.

“I hope you’ll have a good rest then.”

“I mean to treat myself to a real lazy time,” she said.

The other young man who had been silently taking down notes, startledher a little by speaking.

“You ought to have one of those foreign girls,” he said. “Au pair, don’tthey call it, come and do chores here in return for learning English.”

“I suppose I might try something of that kind,” said Mrs. Ramsay, consid-ering, “though I always feel that foreigners may be difficult. My husbandlaughs at me. But then of course he knows more about it than I do. Ihaven’t travelled abroad as much as he has.”

“He’s away now, isn’t he?” said Hardcastle.

“Yes—he had to go to Sweden at the beginning of August. He’s a con-structional engineer. A pity he had to go just then—at the beginning of theholidays, too. He’s so good with the children. He really likes playing withelectric trains more than the boys do. Sometimes the lines and the mar-shalling yards and everything go right across the hall and into the otherroom. It’s very difficult not to fall over them.” She shook her head. “Menare such children,” she said indulgently.

“When do you expect him back, Mrs. Ramsay?”

“I never know.” She sighed. “It makes it rather—difficult.” There was atremor in her voice. Colin looked at her keenly.

“We mustn’t take up more of your time, Mrs. Ramsay.”

Hardcastle rose to his feet.

“Perhaps your boys will show us the garden?”

Bill and Ted were waiting in the hall and fell in with the suggestion im-mediately.

“Of course,” said Bill apologetically, “it isn’t a very big garden.”

There had been some slight effort made to keep the garden of No. 62,Wilbraham Crescent in reasonable order. On one side there was a borderof dahlias and Michaelmas daisies. Then a small lawn somewhat unevenlymown. The paths badly needed hoeing, models of aeroplanes, space gunsand other representations of modern science lay about, looking slightlythe worse for wear. At the end of the garden was an apple tree with pleas-ant-looking red apples on it. Next to it was a pear tree.

“That’s it,” said Ted, pointing at the space between the apple and thepear, through which the back of Miss Pebmarsh’s house showed clearly.

“That’s Number 19 where the murder was.”

“Got quite a good view of the house, haven’t you,” said the inspector.

“Better still, I expect, from the upstairs windows.”

“That’s right,” said Bill. “If only we’d been up there yesterday lookingout, we might have seen something. But we didn’t.”

“We were at the cinema,” said Ted.

“Were there fingerprints?” asked Bill.

“Not very helpful ones. Were you out in the garden at all yesterday?”

“Oh, yes, off and on,” said Bill. “All the morning, that is. We didn’t hearanything, though, or see anything.”

“If we’d been there in the afternoon we might have heard screams,” saidTed, wistfully. “Awful screams there were.”

“Do you know Miss Pebmarsh, the lady who owns that house, by sight?”

The boys looked at each other, then nodded.

“She’s blind,” said Ted, “but she can walk around the garden all right.

Doesn’t have to walk with a stick or anything like that. She threw a ballback to us once. Quite nice about it she was.”

“You didn’t see her at all yesterday?”

The boys shook their heads.

“We wouldn’t see her in the morning. She’s always out,” Bill explained.

“She usually comes out in the garden after tea.”

Colin was exploring a line of hosepipe which was attached to a tap inthe house. It ran along the garden path and was laid down in the cornernear the pear tree.

“Never knew that pear trees needed watering,” he remarked.

“Oh, that,” said Bill. He looked slightly embarrassed.

“On the other hand,” said Colin, “if you climbed up in this tree.” Helooked at both boys and grinned suddenly. “You could get a very nice littleline of water to play on a cat, couldn’t you?”

Both boys scuffled the gravel with their feet and looked in every otherdirection but at Colin.

“That’s what you do, isn’t it?” said Colin.

“Aw, well,” said Bill, “it doesn’t hurt ’em. It’s not,” he said with an air ofvirtue, “like a catapult.”

“I suppose you used to use a catapult at one time.”

“Not properly,” said Ted. “We never seemed to hit anything.”

“Anyway, you do have a bit of fun with that hose sometimes,” said Colin,“and then Mrs. Hemming comes along and complains?”

“She’s always complaining,” said Bill.

“You ever get through her fence?”

“Not through that wire here,” said Ted, unguardedly.

“But you do get through into her garden sometimes, is that right? Howdo you do it?”

“Well, you can get through the fence — into Miss Pebmarsh’s garden.

Then a little way down to the right you can push through the hedge intoMrs. Hemming’s garden. There’s a hole there in the wire.”

“Can’t you shut up, you fool?” said Bill.

“I suppose you’ve done a bit of hunting about for clues since themurder?” said Hardcastle.

The boys looked at each other.

“When you came back from the cinema and heard what had happened,I bet you went through the fence into the garden of 19 and had a jolly goodlook round.”

“Well—” Bill paused cautiously.

“It’s always possible,” said Hardcastle seriously, “that you may havefound something that we missed. If you have—er—a collection I should bemuch obliged if you would show it to me.”

Bill made up his mind.

“Get ’em, Ted,” he said.

Ted departed obediently at a run.

“I’m afraid we haven’t got anything really good,” admitted Bill. “We only—sort of pretended.”

He looked at Hardcastle anxiously.

“I quite understand,” said the inspector. “Most of police work is likethat. A lot of disappointments.”

Bill looked relieved.

Ted returned at a run. He passed over a grubby knotted handkerchiefwhich chinked. Hardcastle unknotted it, with a boy on either side of him,and spread out the contents.

There was the handle off a cup, a fragment of willow pattern china, abroken trowel, a rusty fork, a coin, a clothes peg, a bit of iridescent glassand half a pair of scissors.

“An interesting lot,” said the inspector solemnly.

He took pity on the eager faces of the boys and picked up the piece ofglass.

“I’ll take this. It may just possibly tie up with something.”

Colin had picked up the coin and was examining it.

“It’s not English,” said Ted.

“No,” said Colin. “It’s not English.” He looked across at Hardcastle. “Wemight perhaps take this, too,” he suggested.

“Don’t say a word about this to anyone,” said Hardcastle in a conspirat-orial fashion.

The boys promised delightedly that they wouldn’t.