The Clocks - Agatha Christie [31]
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 notice anything during the holidays.”
“That’s always a busy time, isn’t it,” said the inspector. “Fine boys you’ve got. 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. Very intelligent, I should say. I’ll have a word with them before I go, if you don’t mind. Boys notice things sometimes that nobody else in the house does.”
“I don’t really see how they can have noticed anything,” said Mrs. Ramsay. “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 one thing and another.”
“You are fond of cats?”
“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Ramsay, “it’s not that. I mean it’s usually complaints.”
“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 nonsense. I like cats. We used to have a cat ourselves, a tabby. Very good mouser, 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. Of course the cats are always trying to escape. I would, if I was one of those cats. And the boys are very good really, they wouldn’t torment a cat in any way. 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 busy life,” he went on, “keeping those boys of yours amused and fed during the holidays. 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, startled her a little by speaking.
“You ought to have one of those foreign girls,” he said. “Au pair, don’t they call it, come and do chores here in return for learning English.”
“I suppose I might try something of that kind,” said Mrs. Ramsay, considering, “though I always feel that foreigners may be difficult. My husband laughs at me. But then of course he knows more about it than I do. I haven’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 constructional engineer. A pity he had to go just then—at the beginning of the holidays, too. He’s so good with the children. He really likes playing with electric trains more than the boys do. Sometimes the lines and the marshalling yards and everything go right across the hall and into the other room. It’s very difficult not to fall over them.” She shook her head. “Men are 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 a tremor 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 immediately.
“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 border of dahlias and Michaelmas daisies. Then a small lawn somewhat