Walk with Care by Patricia Wentworth Page B

row?” said Jeremy. “The bacon’s top-hole.”
    Mrs Walker was stripping his bed and folding his pyjamas. She paused with the coat in her hand—a firmly built, not unhandsome woman in the early forties, with a surprisingly fresh colour for a Londoner and a lot of iron-grey hair which she wore in a neat bun.
    â€œWell, you always was a good sleeper, but I shouldn’t ha’ thought as anyone could ha’ slept through the row those Evanses made last night. Mr Brown, he says to Sam this morning, ‘How’s the corpses this morning?’ he says—and I’m sure by the sound of it there might ha’ been a dozen.”
    â€œMr Mannister kept me late. I didn’t get in till half-past one. Everything was quiet enough by then. Who’s Brown?”
    Mrs Walker tucked in the under sheet and began to thump the pillows.
    â€œHe’s got the next garridge this side. Mrs Beamish lodges ’im. ’Im and Sam got talking about Injia, and Sam says ’e never come across a chap ’e took to more—nice quiet fellow as gets on with his job and lets Sam talk. Scotch ’e is. And Sam comes ’ome and says, ‘Lizzie,’ he says, ‘women’s all very well,’ he says, ‘but when it comes to intelligent conversation give me a man.’” She twitched the blankets into place and tucked them in. All her movements were very quick and sure, “‘All right, Sam’ I says, ‘so long as intelligent conversation don’t mean more beer than you can carry, at the George, you’re welcome, and so far as I can see, Mr Brown’s a superior person and won’t do you no Aarm,’”—she accented the aitch strongly—“though as far as conversation goes, if he hever gets beyond a yes or a no, it’s not when I’m anywhere around—and couldn’t you do with another sausage, Master Jeremy? There’s one all ready sizzling in the pan.”
    â€œI’m going out to lunch,” said Jeremy.
    About half an hour later than this, Mr Benbow Collingwood Horatio Smith was having a telephone conversation with Colonel Garrett. Mr Smith was very urbane, and Colonel Garrett was very cross. He did not expect to be asked to talk shop before ten o’clock on a Sunday morning. He said so.
    Mr Smith’s parrot, Ananias, always deeply interested in the telephone, cocked an attentive ear and obliged with a response in Arabic.
    â€œIs that that damned bird of yours?” said Garrett fiercely down the wire.
    â€œIt was Ananias. Imitation is—er—the sincerest form of flattery. He undoubtedly imagined you to be cursing me. He was, I am afraid, asserting your descent from a line of jackals.”
    â€œDid you ring me up in order to talk about Ananias?”
    â€œWell—er—no—though there are less interesting subjects. Hush, Ananias—that’s enough! As a matter of fact, I rang you up to say that I should like to make the acquaintance of Mr Jeremy Ware.”
    â€œWhy?” Garrett sounded very cross.
    â€œI feel an—er—urge. In my experience it is unwise to neglect a prompting of this—er—nature.”
    â€œI entirely disapprove!”
    â€œQuite so,” said Mr Smith. “Can you furnish me with his address?”
    â€œNumber Three Nym’s Row. Mews back of Marsh Street. He’s lodging with a taxi-driver who married an old family servant. Respectable people called Walker.”
    â€œYou know everything,” said Mr Smith gratefully. “You cannot, I suppose, inform me what are the young man’s plans for to-day?”
    Garrett snapped out an exclamation which Ananias received respectfully. He appeared to be trying it over sotto voce.
    â€œI think you had better be careful,” said Mr Smith. “You are exciting Ananias, and I cannot be responsible for his language when he is excited. I should be sorry to add to your already