The Killing of Katie Steelstock Read Online Free PDF Page B

hedge. The night was so dark that it was impossible to be certain. Dogs? Too big for dogs and the wrong shape. No. They were human, going fast and keeping low. Boys, he guessed. Or girls. Youngsters certainly. Mr. Cavey removed his pipe and bellowed out in his Army voice, “Oo’s that?”
    The figures checked for a moment, then accelerated. They seemed to throw themselves at the fence which bordered the towpath. No doubt about it, they were boys. Mr. Cavey heard the sound of ripping cloth.
    “Young monkeys,” said Mr. Cavey. “One of them’ll need a patch in his breeks.”
    He stood for a few minutes more. The incident had disturbed him. The boys, whoever they might be, were clearly up to no good. Either they had been doing something they should not have been doing, or were intending to do something. Their flight had betrayed their guilt
    Mr. Cavey’s mind did not move quickly. But having thought the matter through, he came to a conclusion. The only place which concerned him where they could do any mischief was the boathouse. A window had been broken there a month or more ago. The culprit had not been discovered. Nor, now that he came to think of it had the window been mended. Something must be done about that
    Mr. Cavey knocked out his pipe, leaving it on the window ledge to cool. Then he walked slowly back to his front gate, paused to enjoy the mixed smell of the honeysuckle and night-scented stock, emerged onto the towpath and set out for the boathouse, the bulk of which he could see dimly in the distance against the blackness of the western sky.

 
THREE
    “You three can squeeze into the back,” said Mrs. Havelock. “You come in front with me, Roseabel.”
    “It’s very kind of you,” said Miss Tress.
    “Why have we got to go home?” said Rosina. She was fourteen and it was the first grown-up dance she had been allowed to go to.
    “Don’t argue with your mother,” said Michael. “It’s time all little girls were in bed.”
    “I was only just getting going.”
    “You were getting going all right,” said Lavinia. “Who was that character you were dancing with? It was meant to be an old-fashioned waltz. It looked like all-in wrestling.”
    “It was Harvey Maxton. As you know very well.”
    “He’s quite a useful rugger player,” said Michael.
    “He certainly tackled Rosina low.”
    “It’s the new grip,” said Rosina. “It’s called the bear hug.”
    “Two minutes more and you would have been bare. He almost had your dress off your shoulders.”
    “Get in,” said Mrs. Havelock. “Or walk.” The three children climbed aboard mutinously.
    Their mother drove as she progressed through life, ponderously but steadily. The scattered lighting of the street ceased opposite West Hannington Manor. A few hundred yards farther on, at the point where Brickfield Road came in on the left, a narrow lane branched off to the right toward the river. The bungalow at the far end, as you approached the towpath, was a sprawling construction called “Heavealong.” Here the Havelocks, all eight of them, contrived to lead their ramshackle lives. “Shalimar,” the last bungalow, was smaller and neater. In it Roseabel Tress dwelt in lonely state. Both bungalows were built on brick piles and were regularly subject to flooding in the winter.
    “Come in and have a cup of tea before you go to bed,” said Mrs. Havelock. “Rosina can put the kettle on.”
    “I always put the kettle on. Why can’t Lavinia do it for a change?”
    Mrs. Havelock waved a massive arm at her children and they disappeared up the path, still arguing.
    “It’s very kind of you,” said Miss Tress. “I think perhaps I would like a cup of tea.” It was always a little daunting, the prospect of going back, particularly on such a dark night, to her empty home. Vishnu the Preserver might be there, but so too might Siva the Destroyer.
    “I’ve had a lot of ups and downs in my life,” said Mrs. Havelock, “and I’ve never known any