The Clocks - Agatha Christie [29]
“Sure to be,” said her husband.
He accompanied Hardcastle and Colin to the front door, repeating once more how sorry he was that he couldn’t help them.
“Well,” said Hardcastle. “What do you think of him?”
“I wouldn’t care to let him build a house for me,” said Colin. “But a crooked little builder isn’t what I’m after. I’m looking for a man who is dedicated. And as regards your murder case, you’ve got the wrong kind of murder. Now if Bland was to feed his wife arsenic or push her into the Aegean in order to inherit her money and marry a slap-up blonde—”
“We’ll see about that when it happens,” said Inspector Hardcastle. “In the meantime we’ve got to get on with this murder.”
Ten
At No. 62, Wilbraham Crescent, Mrs. Ramsay was saying to herself encouragingly, “Only two days now. Only two days.”
She pushed back some dank hair from her forehead. An almighty crash came from the kitchen. Mrs. Ramsay felt very disinclined even to go and see what the crash portended. If only she could pretend that there hadn’t been a crash. Oh well—only two days. She stepped across the hall, flung the kitchen door open and said in a voice of far less belligerence than it would have held three weeks ago:
“Now what have you done?”
“Sorry, Mum,” said her son Bill. “We were just having a bit of a bowling match with these tins and somehow or other they rolled into the bottom of the 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 and sweep 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 against the kitchen table and a bowl of eggs rocked ominously.
“Oh, get out of the kitchen!” cried Mrs. Ramsay. She pushed the two boys out of the kitchen door and shut it, and began to pick up tins and sweep 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, thought Mrs. Ramsay, sweeping up portions of her best dinner service. With what pleasure, what joy, had she contemplated the return of her offspring a bare five weeks before! And now? “The day after tomorrow,” she repeated to herself, “the day after tomorrow Bill and Ted will be back at school. I can hardly believe it. I can’t wait!”
How heavenly it had been five weeks ago when she met them at the station. Their tempestuous and affectionate welcome! The way they had rushed all over the house and garden. A special cake baked for tea. And now—what was she looking forward to now? A day of complete peace. No enormous 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 they were also exhausting. Their appetite, their vitality, the noise they made.
At that moment, raucous cries arose. She turned her head in sharp alarm. It was all right. They had only gone out in the garden. That was better, there was far more room for them in the garden. They would probably 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 was apt to tear their shorts. She cast a fleeting eye over the first-aid box which lay handy on the dresser. Not that she fussed unduly over the natural accidents of vigorous boyhood. In fact her first inevitable remark was: “Now haven’t I told you a hundred times, you are not to bleed in the drawing room! Come straight into the kitchen and bleed there, where I can wipe over the linoleum.”
A terrific yell from outside