Some Die Eloquent by Catherine Aird Page B

the gas.
    â€˜They’ve found a way round the electricity meter for sure,’ she said.
    Crosby said he could well believe it.
    â€˜And if you’re the Water Board,’ she grimaced, completing a trinity of public supply undertaking, ‘you needn’t worry. They don’t use it.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘The whole place stinks.’
    By now Crosby had been able to appreciate this fact for himself. Château Commune certainly had a bouquet all its own.
    â€˜I can tell you one thing for sure,’ she cackled. ‘They can’t read bills in there.’
    â€˜Some people have all the luck,’ said Crosby.
    The neighbour’s head, which seemed as disembodied behind its owner’s front door as the Cheshire Cat’s on its wall, looked him up and down.
    â€˜Come to serve a summons,’ ave you?’ she asked shrewdly.
    In a way it was a tribute to his manner, if not his suit.
    â€˜I’m making enquiries,’ responded Crosby.
    â€˜You’ll be lucky,’ she sniffed. She jerked her head towards the other house. ‘Not many of them get up in the mornings, I can tell you.’
    He looked up at the blind windows.
    â€˜Work’s a dirty word with that lot,’ she said.
    â€˜Some of them must do some,’ protested the young policeman in spite of himself. They’d been very firm in his primary school about tying the male image to the work ethic. The boys hadn’t learned knitting. They’d been taught instead that men must work. The corollary that women must weep (“Georgie Porgy, kissed the girls and made them cry”) they’d been left to find out for themselves in the playground afterwards. ‘You can’t live without working,’ he said, though you couldn’t be a policeman long without meeting a group who tried to do just that.
    â€˜Two or three of the fellers do go out to work,’ she conceded. ‘None of the girls.’ She raised her eyebrows heavenwards. ‘What they do all day long don’t bear thinking about.’
    It was quite apparent, though, from her keen expression that she thought about it a lot.
    Crosby kept silent.
    She jerked her head towards the next-door building. ‘Beats me,’ she said, sucking her teeth, ‘how the police let them get away with squatting.’
    Crosby drew breath. ‘Civil law …’
    â€˜Take Fred Smith’s boy down the road.’
    â€˜Well?’
    â€˜They had him for breaking and entering last week.’
    â€˜Did they?’
    â€˜Camera shop in Calleford High Street.’
    â€˜Ah.’
    â€˜Don’t you go and say that that’s different’
    â€˜I shan’t.’
    â€˜This lot next door,’ she said richly, ‘did their breaking and entering and they stayed.’
    â€˜I can see that.’
    â€˜And nobody’s touched them for anything.’
    â€˜No.’ It was funny how the word ‘touched’ hung about the law.
    â€˜It’s not right.’
    â€˜No, madam.’ If anything, squatting offended the police even more than it did the public. ‘But the law is that –’
    â€˜You looking for anyone in particular?’ she interrupted him off-handedly.
    â€˜Tall, youngish lad,’ said Crosby, also cutting the cackle and getting to the horses. ‘Auburn hair. Still a bit freckled.’
    â€˜There’s one or two of ’em in there,’ she said slyly, ‘that shouldn’t be.’
    â€˜I dare say. This chap …’
    She jerked her head. ‘And not what you’d expect, either.’
    â€˜Oh?’
    â€˜A couple of clever dicks and some girls who should know better.’
    â€˜From good homes, you mean?’ he said naïvely.
    Her face assumed a curious expression. ‘If that’s what you’d call Calle Castle …’
    â€˜The Duke’s daughter?’ Crosby took another look up at the dilapidated