Let's Kill Uncle Read Free Page A

like a lost puppy.
    Sergeant Coulter, smiled as he remembered the admiration in the boy’s eyes. They all wanted to be Mounties.
    But the smile faded. There was something the matter with that boy. He was more than frightened. He looked almost insane, and that expression on his face when he asked about the uncle …
    What was it? Where had he seen that expression before? The policeman’s mind couldn’t let it go. Then things clicked into place and he remembered. The prisoner reprieved from the gallows.
    Oh, no. He was imagining things.
    Sergeant Coulter put his fountain pen away and brushed a speck of dust from his hat. The old people of the Island weren’t used to boys. Especially bad boys. He’d be breaking windows and cheeking the old birds.
    That boy needed a firm hand. Yes, he’d watch that boy.

C HRISTIE LOOKED AROUND the goat-lady’s kitchen. A Big Ben alarm clock ticked noisily on the window sill, while under the window on an old black leather sofa, a cat and dog napped. The cat, a large tom, was curled in a tight circle at one end of the sofa, his tryst-scarred head half tucked under his paws. At the other end a tiny brown-and-white dog woke up and opened its mouth as if it were barking. Nothing came out but hoarse gasps.
    The child turned a puzzled face to the goat-lady.
    ‘It doesn’t make any noise.’
    ‘She never has,’ said the goat-lady. ‘Even when she was a puppy. Nobody knows why. Her name is Trixie.’
    Christie put out her hand and then drew it back.
    ‘Does she bite?’
    The goat-lady smiled. ‘No. Would you like some dinner?’
    The child fondled Trixie’s silken ears as she shook her head. ‘No, thank you.’
    ‘Then I’ll make some cocoa for you.’
    She changed her sensible black oxfords for a comfortable, sloppy pair of carpet slippers.
    There were chickens on her little farm, she said, as she made the cocoa, and ducks and a few geese. There was an old dog called Shep who had once helped her tend her goats. She didn’t keep goats any more because not enough people bought the milk. Instead she made bread now and sold it to the Islanders. Then there were Trixie and Tom who stayed in the house, and of course, Gudrun the cow, who lived in the barn.
    Suspecting the child was homesick, she chatted on, but if Christie heard her, she gave no indication. Her little old-maid’s face was preoccupied as she gazed around the kitchen, so different from the small, clinically neat apartment she and her mother shared.
    The kitchen, though clean, was cheerfully untidy, and fragrant with the scent of cedar. On the window sill a clutter of soap coupons, knitting needles, wool and stray buttons was flanked by a handful of wild roses crammed in an empty jam jar. The wood in the huge, black iron stove crackled merrily and the soothing sound of the kettle in the background made Christie’s eye droop with sudden weariness.
    She blinked her eyes again to wake herself and stared at the embroidered cloth on the kitchen table. In the center were a blue-and-white-striped milk jug and sugar bowl. Behind them, looking out of place in the simple surroundings, stood a cut-glass cruèt set in a silver stand, the diamondlike surfaces glittering in the lamplight.
    The floor was plain, unvarnished scrubbed boards, and in front of the stove, the sofa and an old rocking chair, were hand-hooked rag rugs in gay colours.
    Inside the fluted glass of the lamp chimney a delicate flame burned, narrow, orange and tall. Almost hypnotised, Christie watched it flicker.
    The goat-lady, receiving neither interest nor answers to her conversation, gave up. She put the steaming cup of cocoa on the table, pointed to it and nodded to Christie.
    The child rose without enthusiasm, and sitting at the table, obediently sipped the drink. Her eyes were resting on the two little windows framed by frivolous sprigged curtains.
    In the distance a giant jagged fir tree, one of the last of the old forest monarchs, stood proudly among the