The Steam Pig Read Online Free PDF Page B

Republic’s forefathers, that was for certain. Just strap her in a bit and swap the full-length black dress for a shirt and tailcoat.
    â€œI’m ninety-two, if that’s what you’re staring at.”
    â€œNo, you reminded me of someone, madam.”
    â€œThen don’t think you can get round me with that sentimental muck. I’m not your wretched mother, thank God.”
    â€œNow dear!” Miss Henry pleaded, casting a forgive-us look at Kramer. “This is a very nice young man.”
    â€œHenry! Mind your place.”
    â€œMadam, I would like to ask you just—”
    â€œSit down and don’t smoke.”
    At least she wasn’t going to set the cat on him. Nasty things, skin diseases. He sat.
    â€œIt’s about Trixie you’ve come.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œTrixie, Theresa, call her what you like. I did. Didn’t go to the funeral, don’t believe in them.”
    And Kramer was going to try and break it to her gently.
    â€œWhy should you say that, madam?”
    â€œObvious. Said it from the start. Something fishy about her going like that.”
    â€œRight from the start, you said it, dearie.”
    â€œBut why, madam?”
    â€œBecause I know who was responsible.”
    â€œHey?”
    â€œYes, that old fool Dr Matthews. I wouldn’t let him near a sick ox.”
    Kramer winced. A rookie would not have fallen for that one. And here it came, hell hath no fury like a jilted hypochondriac. He had to act fast—shock tactics.
    â€œMiss Le Roux was murdered.”
    Miss Henry made a passable attempt at having the vapours. It was all coming back to her now, the way a lady should act, but mainly from novels written before her time.
    â€œVegetarian,” Mrs Bezuidenhout sneered. “She is one, you know—part of her religion, God help us. Was that true what you said? Murdered?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œI’m not at liberty to divulge that.” It was all coming back to Kramer now, too.
    â€œWell then, Matthews was a fool not to have noticed it. He signed the certificate.”
    This seemed to be her final word.
    â€œI would appreciate any help you could give us.”
    â€œOf course,” whispered Miss Henry, reviving swiftly and graciously. “We do so want to help, don’t we, dearie?”
    Mrs Bezuidenhout scowled but looked interested.
    â€œThen 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