“Mrs. Hemming?”
“I am Mrs. Hemming. Gently, Sunbeam, gently doodleums.”
It was then that the inspector perceived that the orange fur was really a cat. It was not the only cat. Three other cats appeared along the hall, two of them miaowing. They took up their place, gazing at the visitors, twirling gently round their mistress’s skirts. At the same time a pervading smell of cat afflicted the nostrils of both men.
“I am Detective Inspector Hardcastle.”
“I hope you’ve come about that dreadful man who came to see me from the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals,” said Mrs. Hemming. “Disgraceful! I wrote and reported him. Saying my cats were kept in a condition prejudicial to their health and happiness! Quite disgraceful! I live for my cats, Inspector. They are my only joy and pleasure in life. Everything is done for them. Shah-Shah-Mimi. Not there, sweetie.”
Shah-Shah-Mimi paid no attention to a restraining hand and jumped on the hall table. He sat down and washed his face, staring at the strangers.
“Come in,” said Mrs. Hemming. “Oh no, not that room. I’d forgotten.”
She pushed open a door on the left. The atmosphere here was even more pungent.
“Come on, my pretties, come on.”
In the room various brushes and combs with cat hairs in them lay about on chairs and tables. There were faded and soiled cushions, and there were at least six more cats.
“I live for my darlings,” said Mrs. Hemming. “They understand every word I say to them.”
Inspector Hardcastle walked in manfully. Unfortunately for him he was one of those men who have cat allergy. As usually happens on these occasions all the cats immediately made for him. One jumped on his knee, another rubbed affectionately against his trousers. Detective Inspector Hardcastle, who was a brave man, set his lips and endured.
“I wonder if I could ask you a few questions, Mrs. Hemming, about—”
“Anything you please,” said Mrs. Hemming, interrupting him. “I have nothing to hide. I can show you the cats’ food, their beds where they sleep, five in my room, the other seven down here. They have only the very best fish cooked by myself.”
“This is nothing to do with cats,” said Hardcastle, raising his voice. “I came to talk to you about the unfortunate affair which happened next door. You have probably heard about it.”
“Next door? You mean Mr. Joshua’s dog?”
“No,” said Hardcastle, “I do not. I mean at Number 19 where a man was found murdered yesterday.”
“Indeed?” said Mrs. Hemming, with polite interest but no more. Her eyes were still straying over her pets.
“Were you at home yesterday afternoon, may I ask? That is to say between half past one and half past three?”
“Oh yes, indeed. I usually do my shopping quite early in the day and then get back so that I can do the darlings’ lunch, and then comb and groom them.”
“And you didn’t notice any activity next door? Police cars—ambulance—anything like that?”
“Well, I’m afraid I didn’t look out of the front windows. I went out of the back of the house into the garden because dear Arabella was missing. She is quite a young cat and she had climbed up one of the trees and I was afraid she might not be able to get down. I tried to tempt her with a saucer of fish but she was frightened, poor little thing. I had to give up in the end and come back into the house. And would you believe it, just as I went through the door, down she came and followed me in.” She looked from one man to the other as though testing their powers of belief.
“Matter of fact, I would believe it,” said Colin, unable to keep silence any more.
“I beg your pardon?” Mrs. Hemming looked at him slightly startled.
“I am much attached to cats,” said Colin, “and I have therefore made a study of cat nature. What you have told me illustrates perfectly the pattern of cat behaviour and the rules they have made for themselves. In the same way your cats are all congregating round my friend who frankly does not care for cats, they will pay no attention to me in spite of all my blandishments.”
If it occurred to Mrs. Hemming that Colin was hardly speaking in the proper role of sergeant of police, no trace of it appeared in her face. She merely murmured vaguely:
“They always know, the dear things, don’t they?”
A handsome grey Persian put two paws on Inspector Hardcastle’s knees, looked at him in an ecstasy of pleasure and dug his claws in hard with a kneading action as though the inspector was a pincushion. Goaded beyond endurance, Inspector Hardcastle rose to his feet.
“I wonder, madam,” he said, “if I could see this back garden of yours.”
Colin grinned slightly.
“Oh, of course, of course. Anything you please.” Mrs. Hemming rose.
The orange cat unwound itself from her neck. She replaced it in an absentminded way with the grey Persian. She led the way out of the room. Hardcastle and Colin followed.
“We’ve met before,” said Colin to the orange cat and added, “And you’re a beauty, aren’t you,” addressing another grey Persian who was sitting on a table by a Chinese lamp, swishing his tail slightly. Colin stroked him, tickled him behind the ears and the grey cat condescended to purr.
“Shut the door, please, as you come out, Mr.—er—er,” said Mrs. Hemming from the hall. “There’s a sharp wind today and I don’t want my dears to get cold. Besides, there are those terrible boys—it’s really not safe to let the dear things wander about in the garden by themselves.”
She walked towards the back of the hall and opened a side door.
“What terrible boys?” asked Hardcastle.
“Mrs. Ramsay’s two boys. They live in the south part of the crescent. Our gardens more or less back on each other. Absolute young hooligans, that’s what they are. They have a catapult, you know, or they had. I insisted on its being confiscated but I have my suspicions. They make ambushes and hide. In the summer they throw apples.”
“Disgraceful,” said Colin.
The back garden was like the front only more so. It had some unkempt grass, some unpruned and crowded shrubs and a great many more laurels of the speckled variety, and some rather gloomy macrocarpas. In Colin’s opinion, both he and Hardcastle were wasting their time. There was a solid barrage of laurels, trees and shrubs through which nothing of Miss Pebmarsh’s garden could possibly be seen. Diana Lodge could be described as a fully detached house. From the point of view of its inhabitants, it might have had no neighbours.
“Number 19, did you say?” said Mrs. Hemming, pausing irresolutely in the middle of her back garden. “But I thought there was only one person living in the house, a blind woman.”
“The murdered man was not an occupant of the house,” said the inspector.
“Oh, I see,” said Mrs. Hemming, still vaguely, “he came here to be murdered. How odd.”
“Now that,” said Colin thoughtfully to himself, “is a damned good description.”
Nine
They drove along Wilbraham Crescent, turned to the right up Albany Road and then to the right again along the second instalment of Wilbraham Crescent.
“Simple really,” said Hardcastle.
“Once you know,” said Colin.
“61 really backs on Mrs. Hemming’s house—but a corner of it touches on 19, so that’s good enough. It will give you a chance to look at your Mr. Bland. No foreign help, by the way.”
“So there goes a beautiful theory.” The car drew up and the two men got out.
“Well, well,” said Colin. “Some front garden!”
It was indeed a model of surburban perfection in a small way. There were beds of geraniums with lobelia edging. There were large fleshy-looking begonias, and there was a fine display of garden ornaments—frogs, toadstools, comic gnomes and pixies.
“I’m sure Mr. Bland must be a nice worthy man,” said Colin, with a shudder. “He couldn’t have these terrible ideas if he wasn’t.” He added as Hardcastle pushed the bell, “Do you ex
pect him to be in at this time of the morning?”
“I rang up,” explained Hardcastle. “Asked him if it would be convenient.”
At that moment a smart little Traveller van drew up and turned into the garage, which had obviously been a late addition to the house. Mr. Josaiah Bland got out, slammed the door and advanced towards them. He was a man of medium height with a bald head and rather small blue eyes. He had a hearty manner.
“Inspector Hardcastle? Come right in.”
He led the way into the sitting room. It evinced several proofs of prosperity. There were expensive and rather ornate lamps, an Empire writing desk, a coruscated ormolu set of mantelpiece ornaments, a marquetry cabinet, and a jardinère full of flowers in the window. The chairs were modern and richly upholstered.
“Sit down,” said Mr. Bland heartily. “Smoke? Or can’t you when you’re on the job?”
“No, thanks,” said Hardcastle.
“Don’t drink either, I suppose?” said Mr. Bland. “Ah well, better for both of us, I dare say. Now what’s it all about? This business at Number 19 I suppose? The corners of our gardens adjoin, but we’ve not much real view of it except from the upper floor windows. Extraordinary business altogether it seems to be—at least from what I read in our local paper this morning. I was delighted when I got your message. A chance of getting some of the real dope. You’ve no idea the rumours that are flying about! It’s made my wife quite nervous—feeling there’s a killer on the loose, you know. The trouble is they let all these barmy people out of lunatic asylums nowadays. Send them home on parole or whatever they call it. Then they do in someone else and they clap them back again. And as I say, the rumours! I mean, what with our daily woman and the milk and paper boy, you’d be surprised. One says he was strangled with picture wire, and the other says he was stabbed. Someone else that he was coshed. At any rate it was a he, wasn’t it? I mean, it wasn’t the old girl who was done in? An unknown man, the papers said.”
Mr. Bland came to a full stop at last.
Hardcastle smiled and said in a deprecating voice:
“Well, as to unknown, he had a card and an address in his pocket.”
“So much for that story then,” said Bland. “But you know what people are. I don’t know who thinks up all these things.”
“While we’re on the subject of the victim,” said Hardcastle, “perhaps you’ll have a look at this.”
Once more he brought out the police photograph.
“So that’s him, is it?” said Bland. “He looks a perfectly ordinary chap, doesn’t he? Ordinary as you and me. I suppose I mustn’t ask if he had any particular reason to be murdered?”
“It’s early days to talk about that,” said Hardcastle. “What I want to know, Mr. Bland, is if you’ve ever seen this man before.”
Bland shook his head.
“I’m sure I haven’t. I’m quite good at remembering faces.”
“He hasn’t called upon you for any particular purpose—selling insurance or—vacuum cleaners or washing machines, or anything of that kind?”
“No, no. Certainly not.”
“We ought perhaps to ask your wife,” said Hardcastle. “After all, if he called at the house, it’s your wife he would see.”
“Yes, that’s perfectly true. I don’t know, though … Valerie’s not got very good health, you know. I wouldn’t like to upset her. What I mean is, well, I suppose that’s a picture of him when he’s dead, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Hardcastle, “that is quite true. But it is not a painful photograph in any way.”
“No, no. Very well done. The chap might be asleep, really.”
“Are you talking about me, Josaiah?”
An adjoining door from the other room was pushed open and a middle-aged woman entered the room. She had, Hardcastle decided, been listening with close attention on the other side of the door.
“Ah, there you are, my dear,” said Bland, “I thought you were having your morning nap. This is my wife, Detective Inspector Hardcastle.”
“That terrible murder,” murmured Mrs. Bland. “It really makes me shiver to think of it.”
She sat down on the sofa with a little gasping sigh.
“Put your feet up, dear,” said Bland.
Mrs. Bland obeyed. She was a sandy-haired woman, with a faint whining voice. She looked anaemic, and had all the airs of an invalid who accepts her invalidism with a certain amount of enjoyment. For a moment or two, she reminded Inspector Hardcastle of somebody. He tried to think who it was, but failed. The faint, rather plaintive voice continued.
“My health isn’t very good, Inspector Hardcastle, so my husband naturally tries to spare me any shocks or worry. I’m very sensitive. You were speaking about a photograph, I think, of the—of the murdered man. Oh dear, how terrible that sounds. I don’t know that I can bear to look!”
“Dying to see it, really,” thought Hardcastle to himself.
With faint malice in his voice, he said:
“Perhaps I’d better not ask you to look at it, then, Mrs. Bland. I just thought you might be able to help us, in case the man has called at this house at any time.”
“I must do my duty, mustn’t I,” said Mrs. Bland, with a sweet brave smile. She held out her hand.
“Do you think you’d better upset yourself, Val?”
“Don’t be foolish, Josaiah. Of course I must see.”
She looked at the photograph with much interest and, or so the inspector thought, a certain amount of disappointment.
“He looks—really, he doesn’t look dead at all,” she said. “Not at all as though he’d been murdered. Was he—he can’t have been strangled?”
“He was stabbed,” said the inspector.
Mrs. Bland closed her eyes and shivered.
“Oh dear,” she said, “how terrible.”
“You don’t feel you’ve ever seen him, Mrs. Bland?”
“No,” said Mrs. Bland with obvious reluctance, “no, no, I’m afraid not. Was he the sort of man who—who calls at houses selling things?”
“He seems to have been an insurance agent,” said the inspector carefully.
“Oh, I see. No, there’s been nobody of that kind, I’m sure. You never remember my mentioning anything of that kind, do you, Josaiah?”
“Can’t say I do,” said Mr. Bland.
“Was he any relation to Miss Pebmarsh?” asked Mrs. Bland.
“No,” said the inspector, “he was quite unknown to her.”
“Very peculiar,” said Mrs. Bland.
“You know Mrs. Pebmarsh?”
“Oh yes, I mean, we know her as neighbours, of course. She asks my husband for advice sometimes about the garden.”
“You’re a very keen gardener, I gather?” said the inspector.
“Not really, not really,” said Bland deprecatingly. “Haven’t the time, you know. Of course, I know what’s what. But I’ve got an excellent fellow—comes twice a week. He sees the garden’s kept well stocked, and well tidied up. I’d say you couldn’t beat our garden round here, but I’m not one of those real gardeners like my neighbour.”
“Mrs. Ramsay?” said Hardcastle in some surprise.
“No, no, farther along. 63. Mr. McNaughton. He just lives for his garden. In it all day long, and mad on compost. Really, he’s quite a bore on the subject of compost—but I don’t suppose that’s what you want to talk about.”
“Not exactly,” said the inspector. “I only wondered if anyone—you or your wife, for instance—were out in your garden yesterday. After all, as you say, it does touch on the border of 19 and there’s just a chance that you might have seen something interesting yesterday—or heard something, perhaps?”
“Midday, wasn’t it? When the murder happened I mean?”
“The relevant times are between one o’clock and three o’clock.”
Bland shook his head. “I wouldn’t have seen much then. I was here. So was Valerie, but we’d be having lunch, you know, and our dining room looks out o
n the roadside. We shouldn’t see anything that was going on in the garden.”
“What time do you have your meal?”
“One o’clock or thereabouts. Sometimes it’s one thirty.”
“And you didn’t go out in the garden at all afterwards?”
Bland shook his head.
“Matter of fact,” he said, “my wife always goes up to rest after lunch and, if things aren’t too busy, I take a bit of shuteye myself in that chair there. I must have left the house about—oh, I suppose a quarter to three, but unfortunately I didn’t go out in the garden at all.”
“Oh, well,” said Hardcastle with a sigh, “we have to ask everyone.”
“Of course, of course. Wish I could be more helpful.”
“Nice place you have here,” said the inspector. “No money spared, if I may say so.”
Bland laughed jovially.
“Ah well, we like things that are nice. My wife’s got a lot of taste. We had a bit of a windfall a year ago. My wife came into some money from an uncle of hers. She hadn’t seen him for twenty-five years. Quite a surprise it was! It made a bit of difference to us, I can tell you. We’ve been able to do ourselves well and we’re thinking of going on one of these cruises later in the year. Very educational they are, I believe. Greece and all that. A lot of professors on them lecturing. Well, of course, I’m a self-made man and I haven’t had much time for that sort of thing but I’d be interested. That chap who went and dug up Troy, he was a grocer, I believe. Very romantic. I must say I like going to foreign parts—not that I’ve done much of that—an occasional weekend in gay Paree, that’s all. I’ve toyed with the idea of selling up here and going to live in Spain or Portugal or even the West Indies. A lot of people are doing it. Saves income tax and all that. But my wife doesn’t fancy the idea.”
“I’m fond of travel, but I wouldn’t care to live out of England,” said Mrs. Bland. “We’ve got all our friends here—and my sister lives here, and everybody knows us. If we went abroad we’d be strangers. And then we’ve got a very good doctor here. He really understands my health. I shouldn’t care at all for a foreign doctor. I wouldn’t have any confidence in him.”
The Listerdale Mystery / the Clocks (Agatha Christie Collected Works) Page 7