The Clocks - Agatha Christie [30]
“Mum,” he said. “There’s a detective inspector here and another man with him.”
“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 get the potatoes on for the Irish stew if detective inspectors came along at this awkward 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 hands under the tap, smoothed her hair and prepared to follow Bill, who was saying impatiently, “Oh, come on, Mum.”
Mrs. Ramsay, closely flanked by Bill, entered the sitting room. Two men were 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 Inspector Hardcastle?”
“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 reassuringly. “May we sit down?”
“Oh, yes, do, do.”
Mrs. Ramsay took an upright chair and looked at them impatiently. She had 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. Hardcastle 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 the boys.
“Out,” he said.
It was only one word, quietly uttered, but it had behind it the quality of authority. Without more ado both boys got up, shuffled their feet and shuffled out of the room.
“How wonderful,” thought Mrs. Ramsay appreciatively. “Now why can’t I be like that?”
But then, she reflected, she was the boys’ mother. She knew by hearsay that the boys, when they went out, behaved in a manner entirely different from at home. It was always mothers who got the worst of things. But perhaps, she reflected, one would rather have it like that. To have nice quiet attentive polite boys at home and to have little hooligans going out, creating unfavourable opinions of themselves, would be worse—yes, that would be worse. She recalled herself to what was required of her, as Inspector Hardcastle came back and sat down again.
“If it’s about what happened at Number 19 yesterday,” she said nervously, “I really don’t see that I can tell you anything, Inspector. I don’t know 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 the Aaronberg Institute.”
“Oh, I see,” said Mrs. Ramsay. “I’m afraid I know hardly anybody in the lower Crescent.”
“Were you yourself here yesterday between half past twelve and three o’clock?”
“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Ramsay. “There was dinner to cook and all that. I went 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 I had seen him.”
“He did not come to this house