“Go on.”
“So I think that perhaps my father was some kind of criminal—perhaps even, a murderer. Or perhaps it was my mother. People don’t say your parents are dead and can’t or won’t tell you anything about those parents, unless the real reason is something—something that they think would be too awful for you to know.”
“So you got yourself all worked up. It’s probably quite simple. You may just have been an illegitimate child.”
“I thought of that, too. People do sometimes try and hide that kind of thing from children. It’s very stupid. They’d much better just tell them the real truth. It doesn’t matter as much nowadays. But the whole point is, you see, that I don’t know. I don’t know what’s behind all this. Why was I called Rosemary? It’s not a family name. It means remembrance, doesn’t it?”
“Which could be a nice meaning,” I pointed out.
“Yes, it could … But I don’t feel it was. Anyway, after the inspector had asked me questions that day, I began to think. Why had someone wanted to get me there? To get me there with a strange man who was dead? Or was it the dead man who had wanted me to meet him there? Was he, perhaps—my father, and he wanted me to do something for him? And then someone had come along and killed him instead. Or did someone want to make out from the beginning that it was I who had killed him? Oh, I was all mixed up, frightened. It seemed somehow as if everything was being made to point at me. Getting me there, and a dead man and my name—Rosemary—on my own clock that didn’t belong there. So I got in a panic and did something that was stupid, as you say.”
I shook my head at her.
“You’ve been reading or typing too many thrillers and mystery stories,” I said accusingly. “What about Edna? Haven’t you any idea at all what she’d got into her head about you? Why did she come all the way to your house to talk to you when she saw you every day at the office?”
“I’ve no idea. She couldn’t have thought I had anything to do with the murder. She couldn’t.”
“Could it have been something she overheard and made a mistake about?”
“There was nothing, I tell you. Nothing!”
I wondered. I couldn’t help wondering … Even now, I didn’t trust Sheila to tell the truth.
“Have you got any personal enemies? Disgruntled young men, jealous girls, someone or other a bit unbalanced who might have it in for you?”
It sounded most unconvincing as I said it.
“Of course not.”
So there it was. Even now I wasn’t sure about that clock. It was a fantastic story. 413. What did those figures mean? Why write them on a postcard with the word: REMEMBER unless they would mean something to the person to whom the postcard was sent?
I sighed, paid the bill and got up.
“Don’t worry,” I said. (Surely the most fatuous words in the English or any other language.) “The Colin Lamb Personal Service is on the job. You’re going to be all right, and we’re going to be married and live happily ever after on practically nothing a year. By the way,” I said, unable to stop myself, though I knew it would have been better to end on the romantic note, but the Colin Lamb Personal Curiosity drove me on. “What have you actually done with that clock? Hidden it in your stocking drawer?”
She waited just a moment before she said:
“I put it in the dustbin of the house next door.”
I was quite impressed. It was simple and probably effective. To think of that had been clever of her. Perhaps I had underestimated Sheila.
Twenty-four
COLIN LAMB’S NARRATIVE
I
When Sheila had gone, I went across to the Clarendon, packed my bag and left it ready with the porter. It was the kind of hotel where they are particular about your checking out before noon.
Then I set out. My route took me past the police station, and after hesitating a moment, I went in. I asked for Hardcastle and he was there. I found him frowning down at a letter in his hand.
“I’m off again this evening, Dick,” I said. “Back to London.”
He looked up at me with a thoughtful expression.
“Will you take a piece of advice from me?”
“No,” I said immediately.
He paid no attention. People never do when they want to give you advice.
“I should get away—and stay away—if you know what’s best for you.”
“Nobody can judge what’s best for anyone else.”
“I doubt that.”
“I’ll tell you something, Dick. When I’ve tidied up my present assignment, I’m quitting. At least—I think I am.”
“Why?”
“I’m like an old-fashioned Victorian clergyman. I have Doubts.”
“Give yourself time.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant by that. I asked him what he himself was looking so worried about.
“Read that.” He passed me the letter he had been studying.
Dear Sir,
I’ve just thought of something. You asked me if my husband had any identifying marks and I said he hadn’t. But I was wrong. Actually he has a kind of scar behind his left ear. He cut himself with a razor when a dog we had jumped up at him, and he had to have it stitched up. It was so small and unimportant I never thought of it the other day.
Yours truly,
Merlina Rival
“She writes a nice dashing hand,” I said, “though I’ve never really fancied purple ink. Did the deceased have a scar?”
“He had a scar all right. Just where she says.”
“Didn’t she see it when she was shown the body?”
Hardcastle shook his head.
“The ear covers it. You have to bend the ear forward before you can see it.”
“Then that’s all right. Nice piece of corroboration. What’s eating you?”
Hardcastle said gloomily that this case was the devil! He asked if I would be seeing my French or Belgian friend in London.
“Probably. Why?”
“I mentioned him to the chief constable who says he remembers him quite well—that Girl Guide murder case. I was to extend a very cordial welcome to him if he is thinking of coming down here.”
“Not he,” I said. “The man is practically a limpet.”
II
It was a quarter past twelve when I rang the bell at 62, Wilbraham Crescent. Mrs. Ramsay opened the door. She hardly raised her eyes to look at me.
“What is it?” she said.
“Can I speak to you for a moment? I was here about ten days ago. You may not remember.”
She lifted her eyes to study me further. A faint frown appeared between her eyebrows.
“You came—you were with the police inspector, weren’t you?”
“That’s right, Mrs. Ramsay. Can I come in?”
“If you want to, I suppose. One doesn’t refuse to let the police in. They’d take a very poor view of it if you did.”
She led the way into the sitting room, made a brusque gesture towards a chair and sat down opposite me. There had been a faint acerbity in her voice, but her manner now resumed a listlessness which I had not noted in it previously.
I said:
“It seems quiet here today … I suppose your boys have gone back to school?”
“Yes. It does make a difference.” She went on, “I suppose you want to ask some more questions, do you, about this last murder? The girl who was killed in the telephone box.”
“No, not exactly that. I’m not really connected with the police, you know.”
She looked faintly surprised.
“I thought you were Sergeant—Lamb, wasn’t it?”
“My name is Lamb, yes, but I work in an entirely different department.”
The listlessness vanished from Mrs. Ramsay’s manner. She gave me a quick, hard, direct stare.
“Oh,” she said, “well, what is it?”
“Your husband is still abroad?”
“Yes.”
“He’s been gone rather a long time
, hasn’t he, Mrs. Ramsay? And gone rather a long way?”
“What do you know about it?”
“Well, he’s gone beyond the Iron Curtain, hasn’t he?”
She was silent for a moment or two, and then she said in a quiet, toneless voice:
“Yes. Yes, that’s quite right.”
“Did you know he was going?”
“More or less.” She paused a minute and then said, “He wanted me to join him there.”
“Had he been thinking of it for some time?”
“I suppose so. He didn’t tell me until lately.”
“You are not in sympathy with his views?”
“I was once, I suppose. But you must know that already … You check up pretty thoroughly on things like that, don’t you? Go back into the past, find out who was a fellow traveller, who was a party member, all that sort of thing.”
“You might be able to give us information that would be very useful to us,” I said.
She shook her head.
“No. I can’t do that. I don’t mean that I won’t. You see, he never told me anything definite. I didn’t want to know. I was sick and tired of the whole thing! When Michael told me that he was leaving this country, clearing out, and going to Moscow, it didn’t really startle me. I had to decide then, what I wanted to do.”
“And you decided you were not sufficiently in sympathy with your husband’s aims?”
“No, I wouldn’t put it like that at all! My view is entirely personal. I believe it always is with women in the end, unless of course one is a fanatic. And then women can be very fanatical, but I wasn’t. I’ve never been anything more than mildly left-wing.”
“Was your husband mixed up in the Larkin business?”
“I don’t know. I suppose he might have been. He never told me anything or spoke to me about it.”
She looked at me suddenly with more animation.
“We’d better get it quite clear, Mr. Lamb. Or Mr. Wolf in Lamb’s clothing, or whatever you are. I loved my husband, I might have been fond enough of him to go with him to Moscow, whether I agreed with what his politics were or not. He wanted me to bring the boys. I didn’t want to bring the boys! It was as simple as that. And so I decided I’d have to stay with them. Whether I shall ever see Michael again or not I don’t know. He’s got to choose his way of life and I’ve got to choose mine, but I did know one thing quite definitely. After he talked about it to me. I wanted the boys brought up here in their own country. They’re English. I want them to be brought up as ordinary English boys.”
“I see.”
“And that I think is all,” said Mrs. Ramsay, as she got up.
There was now a sudden decision in her manner.
“It must have been a hard choice,” I said gently. “I’m very sorry for you.”
I was, too. Perhaps the real sympathy in my voice got through to her. She smiled very slightly.
“Perhaps you really are … I suppose in your job you have to try and get more or less under people’s skins, know what they’re feeling and thinking. It’s been rather a knockout blow for me, but I’m over the worst of it … I’ve got to make plans now, what to do, where to go, whether to stay here or go somewhere else. I shall have to get a job. I used to do secretarial work once. Probably I’ll take a refresher course in shorthand and typing.”
“Well, don’t go and work for the Cavendish Bureau,” I said.
“Why not?”
“Girls who are employed there seem to have rather unfortunate things happen to them.”
“If you think I know anything at all about that, you’re wrong. I don’t.”
I wished her luck and went. I hadn’t learnt anything from her. I hadn’t really thought I should. But one has to tidy up the loose ends.
III
Going out of the gate I almost cannoned into Mrs. McNaughton. She was carrying a shopping bag and seemed very wobbly on her feet.
“Let me,” I said and took it from her. She was inclined to clutch it from me at first, then she leaned her head forward, peering at me, and relaxed her grip.
“You’re the young man from the police,” she said. “I didn’t recognize you at first.”
I carried the shopping bag to her front door and she teetered beside me. The shopping bag was unexpectedly heavy. I wondered what was in it. Pounds of potatoes?
“Don’t ring,” she said. “The door isn’t locked.”
Nobody’s door seemed ever to be locked in Wilbraham Crescent.
“And how are you getting on with things?” she asked chattily. “He seems to have married very much below him.”
I didn’t know what she was talking about.
“Who did—I’ve been away,” I explained.
“Oh, I see. Shadowing someone, I suppose. I meant that Mrs. Rival. I went to the inquest. Such a common-looking woman. I must say she didn’t seem much upset by her husband’s death.”
“She hadn’t see him for fifteen years,” I explained.
“Angus and I have been married for twenty years.” She sighed. “It’s a long time. And so much gardening now that he isn’t at the university … It makes it difficult to know what to do with oneself.”
At that moment, Mr. McNaughton, spade in hand, came round the corner of the house.
“Oh, you’re back, my dear. Let me take the things—”
“Just put it in the kitchen,” said Mrs. McNaughton to me swiftly—her elbow nudged me. “Just the Cornflakes and the eggs and a melon,” she said to her husband, smiling brightly.
I deposited the bag on the kitchen table. It clinked.
Cornflakes, my foot! I let my spy’s instincts take over. Under a camouflage of sheet gelatine were three bottles of whisky.
I understood why Mrs. McNaughton was sometimes so bright and garrulous and why she was occasionally a little unsteady on her feet. And possibly why McNaughton had resigned his Chair.
It was a morning for neighbours. I met Mr. Bland as I was going along the crescent towards Albany Road. Mr. Bland seemed in very good form. He recognized me at once.
“How are you? How’s crime? Got your dead body identified, I see. Seems to have treated that wife of his rather badly. By the way, excuse me, you’re not one of the locals, are you?”
I said evasively I had come down from London.
“So the Yard was interested, was it?”
“Well—” I drew the word out in a noncommittal way.
“I understand. Mustn’t tell tales out of school. You weren’t at the inquest, though.”
I said I had been abroad.
“So have I, my boy. So have I!” He winked at me.
“Gay Paree?” I asked, winking back.
“Wish it had been. No, only a day trip to Boulogne.”
He dug me in the side with his elbow (quite like Mrs. McNaughton!).
“Didn’t take the wife. Teamed up with a very nice little bit. Blonde. Quite a hot number.”
“Business trip?” I said. We both laughed like men of the world.
He went on towards No. 61 and I walked on towards Albany Road.
I was dissatisfied with myself. As Poirot had said, there should have been more to be got out of the neighbours. It was positively unnatural that nobody should have seen anything! Perhaps Hardcastle had asked the wrong questions. But could I think of any better ones? As I turned into Albany Road I made a mental list of questions. It went something like this:
Mr. Curry (Castleton) had been doped—When? ditto had been killed—Where?
Mr. Curry (Castleton) had been taken to No. 19—How?
Somebody must have seen something!—Who? ditto—What?
I turned to the left again. Now I was walking along Wilbraham Crescent just as I had walked on September 9th. Should I call on Miss Pebmarsh? Ring the bell and say—well, what should I say?
Call on Miss Waterhouse? But what on earth could I say to her?
Mrs. Hemming perhaps? It wouldn’t much matter what one said to Mrs. Hemming. She wouldn’t be
listening, and what she said, however haphazard and irrelevant, might lead to something.
I walked along, mentally noting the numbers as I had before. Had the late Mr. Curry come along here, also noting numbers, until he came to the number he meant to visit?
Wilbraham Crescent had never looked primmer. I almost found myself exclaiming in Victorian fashion, “Oh! if these stones could speak!” It was a favourite quotation in those days, so it seemed. But stones don’t speak, no more do bricks and mortar, nor even plaster nor stucco. Wilbraham Crescent remained silently itself. Old-fashioned, aloof, rather shabby, and not given to conversation. Disapproving, I was sure, of itinerant prowlers who didn’t even know what they were looking for.
There were few people about, a couple of boys on bicycles passed me, two women with shopping bags. The houses themselves might have been embalmed like mummies for all the signs of life there were in them. I knew why that was. It was already, or close upon, the sacred hour of one, an hour sanctified by English traditions to the consuming of a midday meal. In one or two houses I could see through the uncurtained windows a group of one or two people round a dining table, but even that was exceedingly rare. Either the windows were discreetly screened with nylon netting, as opposed to the once popular Nottingham lace, or—which was far more probable—anyone who was at home was eating in the “modern” kitchen, according to the custom of the 1960’s.
It was, I reflected, a perfect hour of day for a murder. Had the murderer thought of that, I wondered? Was it part of the murderer’s plan? I came at last to No. 19.
Like so many other moronic members of the populace I stood and stared. There was, by now, no other human being in sight. “No neighbours,” I said sadly, “no intelligent onlookers.”
I felt a sharp pain in my shoulder. I had been wrong. There was a neighbour here, all right, a very useful neighbour if the neighbour had only been able to speak. I had been leaning against the post of No. 20, and the same large orange cat I had seen before was sitting on the gatepost. I stopped and exchanged a few words with him, first detaching his playful claw from my shoulder.
The Listerdale Mystery / the Clocks (Agatha Christie Collected Works) Page 19