Home by Nightfall by Charles Finch Page B

course, sir.”
    Mrs. Watson, amidst these pleasantries, had shifted from confusion to incandescence—she was cuffing her son on the ear, dragging him up out of the straw, telling him how little he was good for, and how stupid he was, and that he had wasted the time of four gentlemen that day, and she had missed work for the first time in two years (she had apparently forgotten the first time, even if Hadley hadn’t), and did he think money grew on primrose bushes. Gradually Lenox came to understand that the young man had been scheduled to return to the village school that day for the first time since spring. Unusual, rather, for a boy of fifteen and his class. He made a gentle comment to that effect. Mrs. Watson turned and proudly declaimed to him, Edmund, and Hadley—without any apparent concern for consistency—on the subject of her son’s extreme brilliance, overwhelming cleverness, unsurpassable goodness.
    Meanwhile the boy was quietly eating a piece of bread—having apparently gone without, while his ruse de guerre to avoid school was in action, but having given up now. He did indeed look to be in fine health, now that he was upright. Mrs. Watson rushed him out then, saying that he could at least make the afternoon lessons—and he went, hair flattened, a slate and chalk tied to his belt, and a sprig of mint in his hand to sweeten his breath when he made his excuses to the teacher.
    At last, this comedy of errors concluded, their interview could resume.

 
    CHAPTER NINE
    â€œPlease tell us what you did on Thursday of last week, then, the next day, Mrs. Watson,” said Lenox, “beginning when you arrived at Mr. Hadley’s house in Potbelly Lane. Was it at seven o’clock?”
    Mrs. Watson, who looked as though she had never experienced a more eventful hour in her life, fanned her face, took a deep breath and a long sip of tea, collected her thoughts, and then nodded, trembling slightly. “Yes,” she said. “It was seven o’clock in the morning, as usual, sir.”
    â€œAnd you found Mr. Hadley in a state of some consternation?”
    â€œSir?”
    â€œMr. Hadley was upset?”
    She shook her head. “Not that I noticed at first, sir. I banked the coals, you know, sir, and fixed his tea and breakfast—he sleeps late on a Thursday, after traveling the previous three days—and when he came downstairs at half past, he was very friendly-like, sir, which is just as usual, you see.”
    Hadley, a peaceable soul, smiled at her encouragingly. “Go on, Mrs. Watson,” he said.
    â€œAs I was cleaning the sitting room, where he sits and works at his desk, sir, he mentioned that he thought he had seen someone in the house last night—but I said to him quite honest that I had gone at five as usual. Then, of course, he was called away to his fire at Chichester.”
    â€œYou remained in the house,” Lenox said.
    She nodded stoutly. “I did. Immediate upon him leaving, I locked up every door and window in the place, because I was not quite happy to be left there alone.”
    Lenox shot a meaningful glance at Edmund, upon whom this new fact was not lost. Hadley, too, frowned. “Then how could someone have entered the house while I was gone?” he asked.
    â€œIt certainly would have been much more difficult, and suspicious, than if you had actually left all the doors and windows unlocked while you flew to Chichester, as you thought you had,” said Edmund.
    â€œMrs. Watson, you heard nothing? Nobody entering?” asked Lenox.
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œAnd the first you heard of the missing sherry was that evening, when Mr. Hadley came to see you?”
    â€œYes, sir.” She grew defiant. “And you may search the house up and down—and it may please you to know that I do not even care for sherry! And nor does Mr. Watson, and the boys are too young to drink spirits, except on