The Clocks (7 page)

A
t No. 62, Wilbraham Crescent, Mrs. Ramsay was saying to herself encouragingly, “Only two days now. Only two days.”

She pushed back some dank hair from her forehead. An almighty crash came from the kitchen. Mrs. Ramsay felt very disinclined even to go and see what the crash portended. If only she could pretend that there
hadn't
been a crash. Oh well—
only two days.
She stepped across the hall, flung the kitchen door open and said in a voice of far less belligerence than it would have held three weeks ago:

“
Now
what have you done?”

“Sorry, Mum,” said her son Bill. “We were just having a bit of a bowling match with these tins and somehow or other they rolled into the bottom of the china cupboard.”

“We didn't mean them to go into the bottom of the china cupboard,” said his younger brother Ted agreeably.

“Well, pick up those things and put them back in the cupboard and sweep up that broken china and put it in the bin.”

“Oh, Mum, not
now.
”

“Yes, now.”

“Ted can do it,” said Bill.

“I like that,” said Ted. “Always putting on me. I won't do it if you won't.”

“Bet you will.”

“Bet I won't.”

“I'll make you.”

“Yahh!”

The boys closed in a fierce wrestling match. Ted was forced back against the kitchen table and a bowl of eggs rocked ominously.

“Oh, get out of the kitchen!” cried Mrs. Ramsay. She pushed the two boys out of the kitchen door and shut it, and began to pick up tins and sweep up china.

“Two days,” she thought, “and they'll be back at school! What a lovely, what a heavenly thought for a mother.”

She remembered vaguely some wicked remark by a woman columnist.

The first and the last days of the holidays. How true that was, thought Mrs. Ramsay, sweeping up portions of her best dinner service. With what pleasure, what joy, had she contemplated the return of her offspring a bare five weeks before! And now? “The day after tomorrow,” she repeated to herself, “the day after tomor
row Bill and Ted will be back at school. I can hardly believe it. I can't wait!”

How heavenly it had been five weeks ago when she met them at the station. Their tempestuous and affectionate welcome! The way they had rushed all over the house and garden. A special cake baked for tea. And now—what was she looking forward to now? A day of complete peace. No enormous meals to prepare, no incessant clearing up. She loved the boys—they were fine boys, no doubt of that. She was proud of them. But they were also exhausting. Their appetite, their vitality, the
noise
they made.

At that moment, raucous cries arose. She turned her head in sharp alarm. It was all right. They had only gone out in the garden. That was better, there was far more room for them in the garden. They would probably annoy the neighbours. She hoped to goodness they would leave Mrs. 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.

“Mum,” he said.
“There's a detective inspector here and another man with him.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Ramsay, relieved. “What does he want, dear?”

“He asked for you,” said Bill, “but I think it must be about the murder. You know, the one at Miss Pebmarsh's yesterday.”

“I 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?

“Oh 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.

“Mrs. Ramsay?”

“Good morning.”

“I expect these young men have told you that I am Detective Inspector Hardcastle?”

“It's very awkward,” said Mrs. Ramsay. “Very awkward this morning. I'm very busy. Will it take very long?”

“Hardly any time at all,” said Detective Inspector Hardcastle reassuringly. “May we sit down?”

“Oh, 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.

“No need for you two to remain,” said Hardcastle to the boys pleasantly.

“Aw, we're not going,” said Bill.

“We're not going,” echoed Ted.

“We want to hear all about it,” said Bill.

“Sure we do,” said Ted.

“Was there a lot of blood?” asked Bill.

“Was it a burglar?” said Ted.

“Be quiet, boys,” said Mrs. Ramsay. “Didn't you hear the—Mr. Hardcastle say he didn't want you in here?”

“We're not going,” said Bill. “We want to hear.”

Hardcastle moved across to the door and opened it. He looked at the boys.

“Out,” 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.

“How 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 be worse—yes, that would be worse. She re
called herself to what was required of her, as Inspector Hardcastle came back and sat down again.

“If 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.”

“The house is lived in by a Miss Pebmarsh. She's blind and works at the Aaronberg Institute.”

“Oh, I see,” said Mrs. Ramsay. “I'm afraid I know hardly anybody in the lower Crescent.”

“Were you yourself here yesterday between half past twelve and three o'clock?”

“Oh, 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.

“I'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.

“No,” she said, “no, I don't think so. I'm not sure if I would remember if I had seen him.”

“He 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.

“No. No, I'm sure he didn't.”

“His name, we have some reason to believe, is Curry. Mr. R. Curry.”

He looked inquiringly at her. Mrs. Ramsay shook her head again.

“I'm afraid,” she said apologetically, “I really haven't time to see or notice
anything
during the holidays.”

“That'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.

“Yes,” she said, “it gets a little tiring, but they're very good boys really.”

“I'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.”

“I don't really see how they can have noticed anything,” said Mrs. Ramsay. “It's not as though we were next door or anything.”

“But your gardens back on each other.”

“Yes, they do,” agreed Mrs. Ramsay. “But they're quite separate.”

“Do you know Mrs. Hemming at Number 20?”

“Well, in a way I do,” said Mrs. Ramsay, “because of the cats and one thing and another.”

“You are fond of cats?”

“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Ramsay, “it's not that. I mean it's usually complaints.”

“Oh, I see. Complaints. What about?”

Mrs. Ramsay flushed.

“The 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 woman
makes, 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.”

“I'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?”

“The day after tomorrow,” said Mrs. Ramsay.

“I hope you'll have a good rest then.”

“I mean to treat myself to a real lazy time,” she said.

The other young man who had been silently taking down notes, startled her a little by speaking.

“You ought to have one of those foreign girls,” he said. “
Au pair,
don't they call it, come and do chores here in return for learning English.”

“I suppose I might try something of that kind,” said Mrs. Ramsay, considering, “though I always feel that foreigners may be difficult. My husband laughs at me. But then of course he knows more about it than I do. I haven't travelled abroad as much as he has.”

“He's away now, isn't he?” said Hardcastle.

“Yes—he had to go to Sweden at the beginning of August. He's a constructional engineer. A pity he had to go just then—at the beginning of the holidays, too. He's so good with the children. He really likes playing with electric trains more than the boys do. Sometimes the lines and the marshalling yards and everything go right across the hall and into the other room. It's very difficult not
to fall over them.” She shook her head. “Men are such children,” she said indulgently.

“When do you expect him back, Mrs. Ramsay?”

“I never know.” She sighed. “It makes it rather—difficult.” There was a tremor in her voice. Colin looked at her keenly.

“We mustn't take up more of your time, Mrs. Ramsay.”

Hardcastle rose to his feet.

“Perhaps your boys will show us the garden?”

Bill and Ted were waiting in the hall and fell in with the suggestion immediately.

“Of course,” said Bill apologetically, “it isn't a very
big
garden.”

There had been some slight effort made to keep the garden of No. 62, Wilbraham Crescent in reasonable order. On one side there was a border of dahlias and Michaelmas daisies. Then a small lawn somewhat unevenly mown. The paths badly needed hoeing, models of aeroplanes, space guns and other representations of modern science lay about, looking slightly the worse for wear. At the end of the garden was an apple tree with pleasant-looking red apples on it. Next to it was a pear tree.

“That's
it,
” said Ted, pointing at the space between the apple and the pear, through which the back of Miss Pebmarsh's house showed clearly. “That's Number 19 where the murder was.”

“Got quite a good view of the house, haven't you,” said the inspector. “Better still, I expect, from the upstairs windows.”

“That's right,” said Bill. “If only we'd been up there yesterday looking out, we might have seen something. But we didn't.”

“We were at the cinema,” said Ted.

“Were there fingerprints?” asked Bill.

“Not very helpful ones. Were you out in the garden at all yesterday?”

“Oh, yes, off and on,” said Bill. “All the morning, that is. We didn't hear anything, though, or see anything.”

“If we'd been there in the afternoon we might have heard screams,” said Ted, wistfully. “Awful screams there were.”

“Do you know Miss Pebmarsh, the lady who owns that house, by sight?”

The boys looked at each other, then nodded.

“She's blind,” said Ted, “but she can walk around the garden all right. Doesn't have to walk with a stick or anything like that. She threw a ball back to us once. Quite nice about it she was.”