“Yes?”
“Ah, madam, I take it you must be the householder?”
“Oh, no, sir, that’s Mrs Bezuidenhout. I’m Miss Henry.” And she simpered because it was so nice to know she still had a look of gentility despite what had happened to her hands.
Kramer kept on smiling respectfully.
“Then I’d like a word with her, if you please,” he said.
“Of course, sir.”
Miss Henry’s defences were down and within seconds the guard door, too, swung wide. Kramer stepped inside.
“This way, sir.”
Miss Henry led him into a living-room immediately to the right. She blocked his view of the far side of the room and all he took in was a Persian cat that seemed to be comparing bald patches with the Persian rug on which it lay-both had some form of eczema.
“Here’s the policeman, dearie,” Miss Henry said, stepping to one side.
Facing Kramer was President Paul Kruger without his beard. It took a little longer to realise he had grown flat breasts instead.
“If it’s about my kaffir maid’s poll tax, I don’t want to know,” barked the President.
Steady. But the likeness was incredible, even to the way Mrs Bezuidenhout leant forward on a silver-tipped stick. She would go a bomb in the next pageant of the 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.
“I’m ninety-two, if that’s what you’re staring at.”
“No, you reminded me of someone, madam.”
“Then don’t think you can get round me with that sentimental muck. I’m not your wretched mother, thank God.”
“Now dear!” Miss Henry pleaded, casting a forgive-us look at Kramer. “This is a very nice young man.”
“Henry! Mind your place.”
“Madam, I would like to ask you just-”
“Sit down and don’t smoke.”
At least she wasn’t going to set the cat on him. Nasty things, skin diseases. He sat.
“It’s about Trixie you’ve come.”
“Who?”
“Trixie, 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.
“Why should you say that, madam?”
“Obvious. Said it from the start. Something fishy about her going like that.”
“Right from the start, you said it, dearie.”
“But why, madam?”
“Because I know who was responsible.”
“Hey?”
“Yes, 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.
“Miss 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.
“Vegetarian,” Mrs Bezuidenhout sneered. “She is one, you know-part of her religion, God help us. Was that true what you said? Murdered?”
“Yes.”
“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
