slippers. It rained last night and the garden’s muddy.”
“All right. He likes walking in a muddy garden with slippers.”
“But there was no mud on his slippers.”
He was shaken, but not convinced. “That’s odd, but I find it hard to believe that Deverell – after all, he’s only a boy.”
“So is Derek Winterbottom, but nobody has any doubt that he’s capable of murder. Anyway, we’re on to something, don’t you agree? And it’s something to do with Bogue and this house. There’s a man in Bramley who can tell us things about Bogue, if anybody can. That’s old Anscombe, who keeps the general store and post office. Let’s go down and see him now.”
Chapter Twelve
The village store of legend has a window in which gobstoppers, liquorice bootlaces and sherbet suckers nestle side by side with little bits of local pottery. There will be teapots made in the form of cottages and milk bowls with such mottoes as “He complains soon who complains of his porridge” or “Look before you leap.” A bell tinkles when the door is opened. Inside the place is very poky but spotlessly clean, and the storekeeper is able to produce from some little box in an almost inaccessible cranny anything you want – as long as what you want is sufficiently quaint and unusual, like an ounce of snuff or a cut-throat razor.
The village store at Bramley was not very much like that. Its window had been filled with boxes of soapless detergent piled high in a pyramid. Some of these had fallen on their sides to reveal the words “Dummy Packet for Display” on them. The little bell was there, and tinkled when Hedda opened the door. Inside Applegate noted with approval gobstoppers and liquorice bootlaces, but a film of dirt seemed to rest over the whole interior. Two bad oranges were slowly corrupting the good ones in a bowl. Decorations and party hats unsold at Christmas stood at one end of the counter. At the other end a great neuter cat rested happily on some wrapped toffees, and regarded disdainfully an old, dull-looking piece of ham.
The girl who came from an inner room to serve them was lank-haired and sluttish. What a delicious little essay on the decay of the English countryside could be prompted by this village shop, Applegate reflected happily – and how many such essays had no doubt already been written. Hedda, he was amused to see, adopted a lady of the manor briskness in speaking to the girl, quite unlike her usual speech.
“Good morning, Jennifer.” Jennifer, Applegate thought with a sense of outrage, her name should be Ellen. “Father in?”
“Yes, Miss Pont.” The girl opened the door and shouted: “Dad.” A little, red-faced, cheerful man came in, wiping his hands on his trousers. Like the bell and the gobstoppers, he appeared faithful to the legend. “Morning, Miss Pont. Terrible affair that up at the school. Have they found that young Winterbottom yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Mark my words, Miss Pont, and I mean no disrespect to anyone by saying it, school is no place for young rascals like that. We talked about this very subject last week in the Murdstone and district discussion group.” Oh, dear, Applegate thought, another segment of the legend dissolving. Discussion group, indeed. “The question was, are we too kind to our juvenile delinquents, and we had a very good speaker down, Mr Ormsby from the headquarters of the Kent Juvenile Welfare. He had a rough passage, I can tell you. I hope I’m as progressive as the next man, but spare the rod and spoil the child, you know, there’s a lot in it.”
Had the rod, Applegate wondered, been spared with Jennifer, who now stood listening to her father with her mouth slightly open? Hedda quite evidently took this kind of conversation in her stride. “We shan’t agree about that,” she said, with an air of finality. “What I wanted from you, Mr Anscombe, was a little information.”
Anscombe had protuberant eyes, and at these words they seemed to stand
“All right. He likes walking in a muddy garden with slippers.”
“But there was no mud on his slippers.”
He was shaken, but not convinced. “That’s odd, but I find it hard to believe that Deverell – after all, he’s only a boy.”
“So is Derek Winterbottom, but nobody has any doubt that he’s capable of murder. Anyway, we’re on to something, don’t you agree? And it’s something to do with Bogue and this house. There’s a man in Bramley who can tell us things about Bogue, if anybody can. That’s old Anscombe, who keeps the general store and post office. Let’s go down and see him now.”
Chapter Twelve
The village store of legend has a window in which gobstoppers, liquorice bootlaces and sherbet suckers nestle side by side with little bits of local pottery. There will be teapots made in the form of cottages and milk bowls with such mottoes as “He complains soon who complains of his porridge” or “Look before you leap.” A bell tinkles when the door is opened. Inside the place is very poky but spotlessly clean, and the storekeeper is able to produce from some little box in an almost inaccessible cranny anything you want – as long as what you want is sufficiently quaint and unusual, like an ounce of snuff or a cut-throat razor.
The village store at Bramley was not very much like that. Its window had been filled with boxes of soapless detergent piled high in a pyramid. Some of these had fallen on their sides to reveal the words “Dummy Packet for Display” on them. The little bell was there, and tinkled when Hedda opened the door. Inside Applegate noted with approval gobstoppers and liquorice bootlaces, but a film of dirt seemed to rest over the whole interior. Two bad oranges were slowly corrupting the good ones in a bowl. Decorations and party hats unsold at Christmas stood at one end of the counter. At the other end a great neuter cat rested happily on some wrapped toffees, and regarded disdainfully an old, dull-looking piece of ham.
The girl who came from an inner room to serve them was lank-haired and sluttish. What a delicious little essay on the decay of the English countryside could be prompted by this village shop, Applegate reflected happily – and how many such essays had no doubt already been written. Hedda, he was amused to see, adopted a lady of the manor briskness in speaking to the girl, quite unlike her usual speech.
“Good morning, Jennifer.” Jennifer, Applegate thought with a sense of outrage, her name should be Ellen. “Father in?”
“Yes, Miss Pont.” The girl opened the door and shouted: “Dad.” A little, red-faced, cheerful man came in, wiping his hands on his trousers. Like the bell and the gobstoppers, he appeared faithful to the legend. “Morning, Miss Pont. Terrible affair that up at the school. Have they found that young Winterbottom yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Mark my words, Miss Pont, and I mean no disrespect to anyone by saying it, school is no place for young rascals like that. We talked about this very subject last week in the Murdstone and district discussion group.” Oh, dear, Applegate thought, another segment of the legend dissolving. Discussion group, indeed. “The question was, are we too kind to our juvenile delinquents, and we had a very good speaker down, Mr Ormsby from the headquarters of the Kent Juvenile Welfare. He had a rough passage, I can tell you. I hope I’m as progressive as the next man, but spare the rod and spoil the child, you know, there’s a lot in it.”
Had the rod, Applegate wondered, been spared with Jennifer, who now stood listening to her father with her mouth slightly open? Hedda quite evidently took this kind of conversation in her stride. “We shan’t agree about that,” she said, with an air of finality. “What I wanted from you, Mr Anscombe, was a little information.”
Anscombe had protuberant eyes, and at these words they seemed to stand
Similar Books
