The Clocks by Agatha Christie

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 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.
    â€œMum,” he said. “There’s a detective inspector here and another man with him.”
    â€œOh,” said Mrs. Ramsay, relieved. “What does he want, dear?”
    â€œHe asked for you,” said Bill, “but I think it must be about the murder. You know, the one at Miss Pebmarsh’s yesterday.”
    â€œI 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?
    â€œOh 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.
    â€œMrs. Ramsay?”
    â€œGood morning.”
    â€œI expect these young men have told you that I am Detective Inspector Hardcastle?”
    â€œIt’s very awkward,” said Mrs. Ramsay. “Very awkward this morning. I’m very busy. Will it take very long?”
    â€œHardly any time at all,” said Detective Inspector Hardcastle reassuringly. “May we sit down?”
    â€œOh, 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.
    â€œNo need for you two to remain,” said Hardcastle to the boys pleasantly.
    â€œAw, we’re not going,” said Bill.
    â€œWe’re not going,” echoed Ted.
    â€œWe want to hear all about it,” said Bill.
    â€œSure we do,” said Ted.
    â€œWas there a lot of blood?” asked Bill.
    â€œWas it a burglar?” said Ted.
    â€œBe quiet, boys,” said Mrs. Ramsay. “Didn’t you hear the—Mr. Hardcastle say he didn’t want you in here?”
    â€œWe’re not going,” said Bill. “We want to hear.”
    Hardcastle moved across to the door and opened it. He looked at the boys.
    â€œOut,” 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.
    â€œHow 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