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Authors: Alexander McCall Smith
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me here. I’m Mrs. Stone, too.”
“Ah,” said the policeman. Then, as the car stopped, “By the way, I never even told you my name. It’s Brown, but everybody around here calls me by my Christian name and my surname together, Percy Brown. You can, too, if you like.”
“Everybody calls me La,” said La, although nobody in the village, she realised, called her anything. Mrs. Agg knew her name, but had not used it, as far as she could recall. If anybody else referred to her—and they must have said something among themselves, even if only to note her arrival—then they must have called her something else.
That woman
, perhaps, or
that woman who lives by herself
. That, she thought, was what she was to them anyway.
La showed Percy Brown the door, which she had shut and locked before fetching him. He opened it, and as she did so, more splinters came away.
“You see,” she said. “It looks as if it’s been pushed from the inside.” She was less sure, though, and the doubt showed in her voice.
Percy Brown made a non-committal noise and bent down to examine the door. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and La noticed sweat-stained patches under his arms; it had been a hot afternoon and they were now damp. There was something very masculine about him, she thought; he was beefy; he was like a bull.
He straightened up and ran his finger down the inside of the jamb. “Yes,” he said. “Here, and … and here.”
La peered at the place where his fingers had stopped.
“You see?” he said. “Can you see the marks? That’s where they’ve prised at the door. A screwdriver, maybe. Something of the sort.”
“From the inside?”
Percy Brown sniffed. “Looks like it.”
SHE MADE HIM A CUP OF TEA , and they sat together at the kitchen table. He drummed his fingers lightly on the surface, which irritated her. He noticed the direction of her gaze and checked himself.
“Sorry,” he said. “Mrs. Brown says that’s my worst habit. But it helps me to think.”
“I don’t mind,” said La. She did. “And I don’t want to stop you thinking.” She did not.
He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his stomach. “Let’s go over this again. You went to Bury and may or may not have left one of your doors unlocked. Correct?”
“Yes. I think I locked up, but maybe I didn’t. I don’t know.” She was aware that she was worrying away at the edge of a table napkin that she had left on the table, pulling at the threads. “My neighbour says that nobody locks their doors round here.”
Percy Brown nodded. “No, they don’t. And most of the time that’s fine. But let’s assume that you didn’t lock up. If somebody came in, then he would have had to do so while you was … you were in Bury. Then you came back and noticed that somebody had interfered with things in the kitchen. The business with the tea caddy.”
La, who was sitting facing the window, looked beyond Percy Brown’s shoulder into the garden outside. She had left a long-sleeved blouse on the line, and its arms were flapping in the breeze. One of the wind-filled arms came into view at the edge of the window performing a frantic piece of semaphore that caught her eye and held it for a moment while Percy Brown drew breath. He had more to say.
“So,” he continued. “That means that the intruder was probably in the house when you searched. You must have walked right past him. Not a nice thought, Mrs….”
“Stone. La.”
“Not a nice thought, Mrs. Stone, is it? That worries me, you know.”
La was silent. She had wanted reassurance; she had even hoped that he might come up with some explanation, but instead she was receiving what amounted to a warning. She waited for him to say something. He looked at her, and unfolded his hands.
“Sometimes we get gypsies,” he said. “They camp down by Foster’s Fields, a few miles away. They can be trouble, as you’ll know. Stealing. Even theft of livestock. Sheep aren’t safe when
“Ah,” said the policeman. Then, as the car stopped, “By the way, I never even told you my name. It’s Brown, but everybody around here calls me by my Christian name and my surname together, Percy Brown. You can, too, if you like.”
“Everybody calls me La,” said La, although nobody in the village, she realised, called her anything. Mrs. Agg knew her name, but had not used it, as far as she could recall. If anybody else referred to her—and they must have said something among themselves, even if only to note her arrival—then they must have called her something else.
That woman
, perhaps, or
that woman who lives by herself
. That, she thought, was what she was to them anyway.
La showed Percy Brown the door, which she had shut and locked before fetching him. He opened it, and as she did so, more splinters came away.
“You see,” she said. “It looks as if it’s been pushed from the inside.” She was less sure, though, and the doubt showed in her voice.
Percy Brown made a non-committal noise and bent down to examine the door. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and La noticed sweat-stained patches under his arms; it had been a hot afternoon and they were now damp. There was something very masculine about him, she thought; he was beefy; he was like a bull.
He straightened up and ran his finger down the inside of the jamb. “Yes,” he said. “Here, and … and here.”
La peered at the place where his fingers had stopped.
“You see?” he said. “Can you see the marks? That’s where they’ve prised at the door. A screwdriver, maybe. Something of the sort.”
“From the inside?”
Percy Brown sniffed. “Looks like it.”
SHE MADE HIM A CUP OF TEA , and they sat together at the kitchen table. He drummed his fingers lightly on the surface, which irritated her. He noticed the direction of her gaze and checked himself.
“Sorry,” he said. “Mrs. Brown says that’s my worst habit. But it helps me to think.”
“I don’t mind,” said La. She did. “And I don’t want to stop you thinking.” She did not.
He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his stomach. “Let’s go over this again. You went to Bury and may or may not have left one of your doors unlocked. Correct?”
“Yes. I think I locked up, but maybe I didn’t. I don’t know.” She was aware that she was worrying away at the edge of a table napkin that she had left on the table, pulling at the threads. “My neighbour says that nobody locks their doors round here.”
Percy Brown nodded. “No, they don’t. And most of the time that’s fine. But let’s assume that you didn’t lock up. If somebody came in, then he would have had to do so while you was … you were in Bury. Then you came back and noticed that somebody had interfered with things in the kitchen. The business with the tea caddy.”
La, who was sitting facing the window, looked beyond Percy Brown’s shoulder into the garden outside. She had left a long-sleeved blouse on the line, and its arms were flapping in the breeze. One of the wind-filled arms came into view at the edge of the window performing a frantic piece of semaphore that caught her eye and held it for a moment while Percy Brown drew breath. He had more to say.
“So,” he continued. “That means that the intruder was probably in the house when you searched. You must have walked right past him. Not a nice thought, Mrs….”
“Stone. La.”
“Not a nice thought, Mrs. Stone, is it? That worries me, you know.”
La was silent. She had wanted reassurance; she had even hoped that he might come up with some explanation, but instead she was receiving what amounted to a warning. She waited for him to say something. He looked at her, and unfolded his hands.
“Sometimes we get gypsies,” he said. “They camp down by Foster’s Fields, a few miles away. They can be trouble, as you’ll know. Stealing. Even theft of livestock. Sheep aren’t safe when
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