The rivals of Sherlock Holmes : early detective stories by Unknown Author Page B

child, “as if it was the most natural thing in the world.”
    While Mr. Flack told the story Munday nodded and watched Mrs. Flack kneeling at the fireplace with a coal hod and crumpled newspapers and bits of wood. Her hands were sooty, her back small and bent; she wore one of her husband’s jackets, a long apron, and high rubber boots, and she knelt in a way that allowed her to sit on her heels.
    Munday offered to help her—it was one way of silencing Flack—but she said, “No, you’ll just get as filthy as me. Look.” She showed her black hands and made a horrible comic face, squashing her lips together until her toothless gums met. She said, “There’s no proper draft. We’re in a perpetual whirlwind.**
    Hosmer, who was drinking by the window, put his glass down and without a word took the center page from the Daily Telegraph on the bar and spread it and held it against the fireplace, blocking the opening. Inside a minute the fire flared at the bottom and soon lighted the back of the newsprint. Munday could see the fire growing through the paper. Then Hosmer took the paper away and folded it and creased it.
    “I was going to do that,” said Mrs. Flack.
    “Was *ee?” said Hosmer. He laughed and took his seat.
    They talked about fires, and Munday found himself adding to the conversation. As soon as he began speaking the others fell silent and became attentive. He said how he had gone into the cold damp house and started his own fires to drive out the chill, and how he had gone outside later to see the smoke curling from the chimneys.
    He believed he had awed them, but Hosmer turned to Mr. Flack and, as if continuing a story Munday’s arrival had interrupted, said, “She were down by the river with her dogs, lying there on the grass, her legs
    open like this. That’s what Sam said. He walked by and looked up her dress and the dogs barked at him.” “Disgusting,” said Mr. Flack.
    The doorbell jangled. A man entered, about Mun-day’s own age, dressed in a heavy jacket and corduroy trousers and thick-soled shoes.
    “The usual?” said Mr. Flack.
    Munday, gathering up his sherry and his change from the bar, said hello.
    “What will you have?” the man said to Munday. Munday was confused. He hesitated, then said, “A half of bitter.”
    “Have a whisky,” said the man. “Give him a whisky, Bill.”
    “A beer’s fine,” said Munday, and when he had it in his hand he said, “Cheers.”
    The man said, “To your very good health,” and drank. Then he said, “You all moved in?”
    “Just about,” said Munday.
    “I had a moving job last month,” said the man. “Over Shaftesbury way.”
    “I take it you’re in the transport business,” said Munday.
    “I drive,” said the man. He mentioned the name of his employer and said, “He’s a good guv’nor.”
    “When he ain’t got a drink in him,” said Hosmer. “A tickle of whisky and he’s drunk as a hand-cart.” Mr. Flack said, “Guess who Sam saw by the river exposing herself.”
    But the man was looking at Munday. He said, “You like it here?”
    “Very much,” said Munday.
    “We’ll have you and your missus over some time,” said the man.
    How dare you, Munday thought. He said, “Oh, will you?”
    He was furious at the presumption in the driver’s vagueness; it was not an invitation, but a pronouncement of a possibility, with the assurance that Munday would come with Emma when the driver bade them.
    The driver would never have said that to his employer. He thought: Supper at the driver’s cottage, a talk at the church hall; but he hid his anger and said, “Actually, we’re pretty busy at the moment seeing old friends.” The bottle was under his arm. “And we’ll be spending quite a bit of time in London.”
    There was worse, but not from the driver. Munday had said good night and was at the door. There was a trampling of feet and a young man threw the door open. Munday faced him; he had long hair, red cheeks, and a bushy