‘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, comeon, 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 wasnot 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’tI 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 recalled 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 noticeanything 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 verybig 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.