Crooked House

Ten
I returned to consciousness so gradually that I didn't at first realise that I had been asleep. The scent of flowers was in my nose. In front of me a round white blob appeared to float in space. It was some few seconds before I realised that it was a human face I was looking at - a face suspended in the air about a foot or two away from me. As my faculties returned, my vision became more precise. The face still had its goblin suggestion - it was round with a bulging brow, combed back hair and small rather beady, black eyes.
But it was definitely attached to a body - a small skinny body. It was regarding me very earnestly.
"Hullo," it said.
"Hullo," I replied, blinking.
"I'm Josephine."
I had already deduced that. Sophia's sister, Josephine, was, I judged, about eleven or twelve years of age. She was a fantastically ugly child with a very distinct likeness to her grandfather. It seemed to me possible that she also had his brains.
"You're Sophia's young man," said Josephine.
I acknowledged the correctness of this remark.
"But you came down here with Chief
Inspector Taverner. Why did you come with Chief Inspector Taverner?"
"He's a friend of mine." ^ "Is he? I don't like him. I shan't tell him things." "What sort of things?"
"The things that I know. I know a lot of things. I like knowing things."
She sat down on the arm of the chair and continued her searching scrutiny of my face. I began to feel quite uncomfortable.
"Grandfather's been murdered. Did you know?"
"Yes," I said. "I knew." " "He was poisoned. With es-er-ine." She pronounced the word very carefully. "It's interesting, isn't it?"
"I suppose it is."
"Eustace and I are very interested. We like detective stories. I've always wanted to '? It be a detective. I'm being one now. I'm collecting clues."
She was, I felt, rather a ghoulish child.
She returned to the charge.
"The man who came with Chief Inspector Taverner is a detective too, isn't he? In books it says you can always know plain clothes detectives by their boots. But this I detective was wearing suede shoes."
"The old order changeth," I said.
Josephine interpreted this remark according to her own ideas.
"Yes," she said, "there will be a lot of changes here now, I expect. We shall go and live in a house in London on the embankment. Mother has wanted to for a long time. She'll be very pleased. I don't expect father will mind if his books go, too.
He couldn't afford it before. He lost an awful lot of money over Jezebel."
"Jezebel?" I queried.
"Yes, didn't you see it?" ® "Oh, was it a play? No, I didn't. I've been abroad." | "It didn't run very long. Actually, it was the most awful flop. I don't think mother's really the type to play Jezebel, do you?"
LI balanced my impressions of Magda.
Neither in the peach-coloured negligee nor in the tailored suit had she conveyed any suggestion of Jezebel, but I was willing to believe that there were other Magdas that I had not yet seen.
"Perhaps not," I said cautiously.
"Grandfather always said it would be a flop. He said he wouldn't put up any money for one of these historical religious plays.
He said it would never be a box office success. But mother was frightfully keen. I didn't like it much myself. It wasn't really a bit like the story in the Bible. I mean, Jezebel wasn't wicked like she is in the Bible. She was all patriotic and really quite nice. That made it dull. Still, the end was all right. They threw her out of the window.
Only no dogs came and ate her. I think that was a pity, don't you? I like the part about the dogs eating her best. Mother says you can't have dogs on the stage but I don't see why. You could have performing dogs."
She quoted with gusto: " 'And they ate her all but the palms of her hands.' Why didn't they eat the palms of her hands?"
"I've really no idea," I said.
"You wouldn't think, would you, that dogs were so particular. Our dogs aren't.
They eat simply anything."
T^^km^ hrnnded on this Biblical mystery for some seconds.
"I'm sorry the play was a fl(p,
"Yes. Mother was terribly b| notices were simply frightful! read them, she burst into teas all day and she threw her brei'
Gladys, and Gladys gave noif rather fun."
"I perceive that you like phine," I said.
"They did a post morteml father," said Josephine. "To H; he had died of. A P.M., they all11 think that's rather confusing, dd;^ cause P.M. stands for Prime S^ And for afternoon," she addt^p! fully. J "Are you sorry your grandfatia, I I asked. | "Not particularly. I didn't lifcl^l He stopped me learning to It i dancer." '] "Did you want to learn ball(t([ "Yes, and mother was willmi learn, and father didn't mindly father said I'd be no good." | She slipped off the arm c^l kicked off her shoes and en^j get onto what are called ^ in the tailored suit had she conveyed any suggestion of Jezebel, but I was willing to believe that there were other Magdas that I had not yet seen.
"Perhaps not," I said cautiously.
"Grandfather always said it would be a | flop. He said he wouldn't put up any money for one of these historical religious plays.
He said it would never be a box office success. But mother was frightfully keen. I didn't like it much myself. It wasn't really a bit like the story in the Bible. I mean, Jezebel wasn't wicked like she is in the Bible. She was all patriotic and really quite nice. That made it dull. Still, the end was all right. They threw her out of the window.
Only no dogs came and ate her. I think | that was a pity, don't you? I like the part about the dogs eating her best. Mother says you can't have dogs on the stage but I don't see why. You could have performing dogs."
She quoted with gusto: " 'And they ate her all but the palms of her hands.' Why didn't they eat the palms of her hands?"
"I've really no idea," I said.
"You wouldn't think, would you, that dogs were so particular. Our dogs aren't.
They eat simply anything."
T^o^kin^ Krnnrled on this Biblical mys- ^ tery for some seconds.
"I'm sorry the play was a flop," I said.
"Yes. Mother was terribly upset. The notices were simply frightful. When she read them, she burst into tears and cried all day and she threw her breakfast tray at Gladys, and Gladys gave notice. It was rather fun."
"I perceive that you like drama, Josephine,"
I said.
"They did a post mortem on grandfather," said Josephine. "To find out what he had died of. A P.M., they call it, but I think that's rather confusing, don't you? Because P.M. stands for Prime Minister too. And for afternoon," she added, thoughtfully. 
"Are you sorry your grandfather is dead?"
I asked.
"Not particularly. I didn't like him much.
He stopped me learning to be a ballet dancer."
"Did you want to learn ballet dancing?"
"Yes, and mother was willing for me to learn, and father didn't mind, but grandfather said I'd be no good."
She slipped off the arm of the chair, kicked off her shoes and endeavoured to get onto what are called technically, I believe, her points.
"You have to have the proper shoes, of course," she explained, "and even then you get frightful abscesses sometimes on the ends of your toes." She resumed her shoes and inquired casually:.
"Do you like this house?"
"I'm not quite sure," I said.
"I suppose it will be sold now. Unless Brenda goes on living in it. And I suppose Uncle Roger and Aunt Clemency won't be going away now."
"Were they going away?" I asked with a faint stirring of interest.
"Yes. They were going on Tuesday.
Abroad, somewhere. They were going by air. Aunt Clemency bought one of those a new featherweight cases."
"I hadn't heard they were going abroad,"
I said. 
"No," said Josephine. "Nobody knew.
It was a secret. They weren't going to tell anyone until after they'd gone. They were going to leave a note behind for grandfather." | She added:
"Not pinned to the pincushion. That's only in very old-fashioned books and wives m^ do it when they leave their husbands. But!], it would be silly now because nobody has pincushions any more."
"Of course they don't. Josephine, do you know why your Uncle Roger was - going away?"
She shot me a cunning sideways glance. "I think I do. It was something to do with Uncle Roger's office in London. I rather think - but I'm not sure - that he'd embezzled something." ^ "What makes you think that?"
Josephine came nearer and breathed heavily in my face.
"The day that grandfather was poisoned Uncle Roger was shut up in his room with him ever so long. They were talking and talking. And Uncle Roger was saying that he'd never been any good, and that he'd let grandfather down - and that it wasn't the money so much - it was the feeling he'd been unworthy of trust. He was in an awful state."
I looked at Josephine with mixed feelings.
"Josephine," I said, "hasn't anybody ever told you that it's not nice to listen at doors?"
Josephine nodded her head vigorously.
"Of course they have. But if you want to find things out, you have to listen at doors.
I bet Chief Inspector Taverner does, don't you?"
I considered the point. Josephine went on vehemently:
"And anyway if he doesn't, the other one does, the one with the suede shoes. And they look in people's desks and read all their letters, and find out all their secrets.
Only they're stupid! They don't know where to look!"
Josephine spoke with cold superiority. I was stupid enough to let the inference escape me. The unpleasant child went on:
"Eustace and I know lots of things -but I know more than Eustace does. And I shan't tell him. He says women can't ever be great detectives. But I say they can. I'm going to write down everything in a notebook and then, when the police are completely baffled, I shall come forward and say, «I can tell you who did it.' "
"Do you read a lot of detective stories, Josephine?"