Hemmingâs cats alone. Not, it must be confessed, for the sake of the cats, but because the wired enclosure surrounding Mrs. Hemmingâs 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: âNow havenât 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.â
A terrific yell from outside seemed to be cut off midway and was followed by a silence so profound that Mrs. Ramsay felt a real feeling of alarm spring up in her breast. Really, that silence was most unnatural. She stood uncertainly, the dustpan with broken china in her hand. The kitchen door opened and Bill stood there.He had an awed, ecstatic expression most unusual on his eleven-year-old face.
âMum,â he said. âThereâs a detective inspector here and another man with him.â
âOh,â said Mrs. Ramsay, relieved. âWhat does he want, dear?â
âHe asked for you,â said Bill, âbut I think it must be about the murder. You know, the one at Miss Pebmarshâs yesterday.â
âI donât see why he should come and wish to see me,â 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?
âOh well,â she said with a sigh. âI suppose Iâd better come.â
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, âOh, come on, Mum.â
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.
âMrs. Ramsay?â
âGood morning.â
âI expect these young men have told you that I am Detective Inspector Hardcastle?â
âItâs very awkward,â said Mrs. Ramsay. âVery awkward this morning. Iâm very busy. Will it take very long?â
âHardly any time at all,â said Detective Inspector Hardcastle reassuringly. âMay we sit down?â
âOh, yes, do, do.â
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.
âNo need for you two to remain,â said Hardcastle to the boys pleasantly.
âAw, weâre not going,â said Bill.
âWeâre not going,â echoed Ted.
âWe want to hear all about it,â said Bill.
âSure we do,â said Ted.
âWas there a lot of blood?â asked Bill.
âWas it a burglar?â said Ted.
âBe quiet, boys,â said Mrs. Ramsay. âDidnât you hear theâMr. Hardcastle say he didnât want you in here?â
âWeâre not going,â said Bill. âWe want to hear.â
Hardcastle moved across to the door and opened it. He looked at the boys.
âOut,â 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.
âHow wonderful,â thought Mrs. Ramsay appreciatively. âNow why canât I be like that?â
But then, she reflected, she was the boysâ 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
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