The Clocks by Agatha Christie Page A

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.
    â€œIf 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.”
    â€œThe house is lived in by a Miss Pebmarsh. She’s blind and works at the Aaronberg Institute.”
    â€œOh, I see,” said Mrs. Ramsay. “I’m afraid I know hardly anybody in the lower Crescent.”
    â€œWere you yourself here yesterday between half past twelve and three o’clock?”
    â€œOh, 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.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œNo,” she said, “no, I don’t think so. I’m not sure if I would remember if I had seen him.”
    â€œHe did not come to this house on any occasion—trying to sell you insurance or anything of that kind?”
    Mrs. Ramsay shook her head more positively.
    â€œNo. No, I’m sure he didn’t.”
    â€œHis name, we have some reason to believe, is Curry. Mr. R. Curry.”
    He looked inquiringly at her. Mrs. Ramsay shook her head again.
    â€œI’m afraid,” she said apologetically, “I really haven’t time to see or notice anything during the holidays.”
    â€œThat’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.
    â€œYes,” she said, “it gets a little tiring, but they’re very good boys really.”
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œI don’t really see how they can have noticed anything,” said Mrs. Ramsay. “It’s not as though we were next door or anything.”
    â€œBut your gardens back on each other.”
    â€œYes, they do,” agreed Mrs. Ramsay. “But they’re quite separate.”
    â€œDo you know Mrs. Hemming at Number 20?”
    â€œWell, in a way I do,” said Mrs. Ramsay, “because of the cats and one thing and another.”
    â€œYou are fond of cats?”
    â€œOh, no,” said Mrs. Ramsay, “it’s not that. I mean it’s usually complaints.”
    â€œOh, I see. Complaints. What about?”
    Mrs. Ramsay flushed.
    â€œThe 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 womanmakes, 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.”
    â€œI’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?”
    â€œThe day after tomorrow,” said Mrs. Ramsay.
    â€œI hope