“How?”
“I’m not at liberty to divulge that.” It was all coming back to Kramer now, too.
“Well then, Matthews was a fool not to have noticed it. He signed the certificate.”
This seemed to be her final word.
“I would appreciate any help you could give us.”
“Of course,” whispered Miss Henry, reviving swiftly and graciously. “We do so want to help, don’t we, dearie?”
Mrs Bezuidenhout scowled but looked interested.
“Then just tell me what you know about Miss Le Roux-anything that comes into your heads.”
It was like overcoming the professional reserve of two eminent behaviourists and having them expound freely on their pet subject. There seemed to be nothing they did not know about Miss Le Roux’s eating habits, sleeping habits, washing habits and-as Miss Henry phrased it-habit habits. Between them they must have spent months on close observation, apparently using their kitchen as a hide with its view across the lawn to the flat.
In the end though, when the last trivial point had been made, there was not much. The trouble was it had been so largely a matter of noses pressed against glass. As with animal behaviourism, a lack of actual communication had led to somewhat superficial findings.
For Miss Le Roux had kept herself very much to herself during her two years as an ideal tenant. Which was odd in a young girl perhaps, but then truly artistic people-as opposed to the rubbish at the university-were so often the retiring sort. It was something for others to respect. The trouble was there was not enough respect left in the world.
The only time any conversation occurred was when Miss Le Roux appeared promptly on the first of every month to pay her rent. She would hand over the cash in a pretty pink envelope, refuse to be coaxed in off the verandah, and make exceedingly small talk while her receipt was prepared. Now and then she would ask anxiously if her pupils were not making too much noise; a recent boom in electronic organs imported from Japan had encouraged her to take on some adults for evening classes in sight-reading. No, of course not, dear, we’re a little bit deaf as it is. And that was all.
So they had no idea where she came from and no idea of where she went on the rare occasions she ventured out, but they did have an idea there was some terrible tragedy hidden deep in her past.
This was getting him nowhere.
“Just a minute, ladies,” Kramer interrupted, “let’s just stick to the facts, shall we? You say that Miss Le Roux answered an advert in the Gazette for this place. She had no references but you took her on because she seemed a polite girl.”
“Right,” growled Mrs Bezuidenhout, peeved at being cut short.
“Okay, so she got up at eight. She did all her own housework. Her first pupils came after school, so if she went out at all it was in the morning. She took lessons until six-thirty and occasionally after supper which was at seven. Lights out at eleven. You say she never had friends in, but how can you be sure that those who came at night were always pupils?”
“Because for a start they weren’t her type. All fortyish, smooth Johnnies, the sort who would buy themselves silly toys they wouldn’t know how to work. Besides, they always had music cases with them-see?”
Miss Henry made a permission-to-speak sound. Kramer nodded encouragement.
“We could hear, too, of course,” she said, “we could hear them doing their scales and making such a mess of it. Same mistakes again and again.”
“She fancies she has an ear for music,” Mrs Bezuidenhout sniffed. “Deafer than I am, too.”
“Did you recognise any of them?”
“We’ve already told you that Miss Le Roux had her own entrance from the lane. Never got more than a glimpse as she opened her door, and that was from the back.”
No matter, Miss Le Roux would have kept records for tax purposes. He would get around to them later. Then a thought struck him.
“Did she have any around the night before she-?”
“Not been one for weeks, actually,” Miss Henry said.
“Ah.” Obviously electronic organs went the way of all gimmicks which threaten to delight your friends in ten easy lessons.
“She was in, though?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me what did happen that day?”
“Ring for Rebecca,” Mrs Bezuidenhout ordered, somewhat rhetorically for she herself raised her stick and beat on a brass spittoon.
Along the passage came a shuffle of slippers two sizes too large and an elderly Zulu woman in a maid’s uniform entered the room. She drew back instinctively as she saw Kramer.
“Yes, he’s a policeman, you old rascal,” said Mrs Bezuiden-hout. “He wants to ask you about the little missus.”
The servant’s fright doubled. “Rebecca take nothing in that place, baas,” she said anxiously. “True’s God, me not doing anything bad by that side.”
Kramer greeted her courteously in Zulu: “Just tell me and the missus what happened.”
Rebecca gabbled through it, using both official languages, her own, kitchen kaffir, and a pair of big rolling brown eyes.
Every Monday morning she went up very early to the cottage and, using her employer’s master key, removed the dustbin for the rubbish collectors. On the previous Monday, she had gone in to find the washing-up still in the sink, and one plate of the stove red hot. The little missus had always been very clean and most particular about switching things off, so she suspected something was amiss immediately. She called out once or twice and tiptoed through to the bedroom to see if in fact the little missus was at home. She was. Dead.
“Came wailing down here as if the devil himself was after her,” Mrs Bezuidenhout cut in. “Of course I didn’t believe the old bag. Got Henry to take me up there. There she lay, peaceful as you could wish, but stone cold.”
“And how was the room?”
“Oh, very nice and tidy,” said Miss Henry. “Sheets tucked up under her chin, too, the poor thing.”
So much for convulsions.
“Poison,” Mrs Bezuidenhout pronounced.
Kramer saw no need to contradict her. Instead he asked how, if Miss Le Roux was so secretive, they knew which doctor to call. The question seemed to embarrass Mrs Bezuidenhout, which was surprising in one way but not in another.
“Well, you see,” Miss Henry explained, arching her voice with tact, “once upon a time Dr Matthews used to see to Mrs Bezuidenhout. It was when Miss Le Roux first came here. She asked the name of a -er, good family doctor, nothing flashy, and we told her Dr Matthews.”
“She should have changed when I got rid of him,” Mrs Bezuidenhout said defensively. “He didn’t know his job.”
Which had been proved partly true, although for ninety-two Mrs Bezuidenhout had the sort of rude health best maintained on self-administered doses of totally ineffectual patent medicine.
“Were either of you in the flat when he arrived?”
“Oh, yes!”
They would not have missed it for worlds.
“Shocking, it was,” Miss Henry sighed. “He hardly looked at the poor thing. Said she was a heart case and these things were to be just expected. He signed the certificate right there on her bedside table.”
“And then?”
“He asked us if we knew who to contact, you see,” Miss Henry continued, reliving a glorious hour. “I said-remember, dearie?-I said the name of her lawyer was on the lease thing. I went and got it and Dr Matthews rang him from the flat. The lawyer took a bit of time and then he told the doctor that Trixie had some sort of insurance for funerals and gave him the undertaker’s name.”
“Vultures were here in two-two’s,” Mrs Bezuidenhout muttered. “But they had to wait.”
“Oh?”
“The death certificate has to be witnessed by another doctor for a cremation,” Miss Henry explained kindly. “I think that’s very wise, don’t you?”
“Huh! Not when it’s Dr Matthews’s partner, two of a kind, if you ask me,” Mrs Bezuidenhout sneered.
“Who’s that then?”
“Dr Campbell. Terrible old soak.”
“Really, dearie!”