Down the Garden Path by Dorothy Cannell Page A

a bad idea, perhaps.” Maude’s shrewd eyes were fixed thoughtfully on Hyacinth’s face. “A homey atmosphere may well bring her round faster than hospital wards. But what of her family? They’ll be jumping off the walls when she doesn’t turn up wherever and whenever she was expected.”
    I held my breath on that one.
    “Terrible,” piped up Primrose. “One feels their distress, but if she cannot tell us who she is, she will not be able to tell the doctors.”
    Excellent. Or was it a little too glib? No—these ladies might be a little odd but they were certainly kind and hospitable.
    “Then what about the police?” Maude sat down with a weighty thud on a spindle-legged chair. “What did our friend Constable Watt say on the subject of this madman in the walk?”
    “We haven’t yet spoken to the police,” said Hyacinth as my heart set up a racket I was afraid could be heard across the room.
    “Not ...” The chair spun under Maude as she turned to stare at her. “Miss Tramwell, you can’t mean to keep mum on this. There may be a next time, and some other poor girl may lose more than her memory. Believe me, I am not trying to frighten anyone, but people do get murdered in lonely spots like Abbots Walk.”
    Primrose had fluttered across the room to the bell rope; now she came back to sit beside her sister on the sofa across from me. “Nurse dear, you must have some tea before you leave us. Butler just promised to fetch some when you arrived. So kind of you to come so quickly; but as for murder, oh, I really don’t think so! In Flaxby Meade! We have never, in recent years, been exposed to anything quite that sordid. And as for dragging Constable Watt out here when our friend is quite unable to tell him anything ... dear me, I do rather feel that would be something of an imposition.” She turned to her sister for corroboration.
    “When it comes right down to it,” said Hyacinth, “what crime did the man actually commit? Please”—she turned earnestly to me, the earrings penduluming back and forth—“I am not minimizing the moral aspect of your suffering, but I can’t see the police being more than mildly interested.”
    “Some very degenerate language and ungentlemanly manoeuvring for a kiss and a cuddle,” supplied Primrose. “I was never more shocked, but I think you are right, Hyacinth, the police would want bruises and her clothes torn and in disarray. Hard physical evidence I think is the term.”
    Maude looked thoroughly unconvinced, but Hyacinth nodded briskly, the Egyptian mummies lurching forward. “Good. Because really I do not think Butler would at all appreciate having the house cluttered with bobbies. And I have no idea when or how we could replace him if he decided to give notice. Nurse”—a flash of the black eyes in that lady’s direction—”I know we can rely on your absolute discretion in this matter. So regrettable that our families have not always dealt well together—your father and our father—but we have always had the highest personal regard for you. Your patients so devoted, and your taking in that homeless boy. By the way, how is he doing?”
    The room was beginning to fall into shadow. One slid across Maude Krumpet’s homely face. I saw her hands squeeze the white of her apron into a taut ridge, her eyes fixed almost blankly on my face.
    “Bertie is adjusting splendidly, considering he was a much abused child before finally being abandoned. But I do worry about his being on his own so much. This week school is out, due to some problem with the plumbing.” She shifted in her skimpy chair. “For his sake, his being a witness, I could certainly do without a police hue and cry.”
    Her words came out slowly but her eyes were focussing now. “I won’t talk about any of this, and I don’t think Bertie will gab. I’ll warn him, but it probably won’t be necessary. Tell him a secret and he sees himself as the Count of Monte Cristo.” Maude gave her thick body a