The Clocks Page 6

“Some people are saying,” said Miss Waterhouse, “that this man was the treasurer or a trustee of the Aaronberg Institute and that there is something wrong in the accounts, and that he came to Miss Pebmarsh to inquire about it.”

  “And that Miss Pebmarsh murdered him?” Mr. Waterhouse looked mildly amused. “A blind woman? Surely—”

  “Slipped a piece of wire round his neck and strangled him,” said Miss Waterhouse. “He wouldn’t be on his guard, you see. Who would be with anyone blind? Not that I believe it myself,” she added. “I’m sure Miss Pebmarsh is a person of excellent character. If I do not see eye to eye with her on various subjects, that is not because I impute anything of a criminal nature to her. I merely think that her views are bigoted and extravagant. After all, there are other things besides education. All these new peculiar looking grammar schools, practically built of glass. You might think they were meant to grow cucumbers in, or tomatoes. I’m sure very prejudicial to children in the summer months. Mrs. Head herself told me that her Susan didn’t like their new classrooms. Said it was impossible to attend to your lessons because with all those windows you couldn’t help looking out of them all the time.”

  “Dear, dear,” said Mr. Waterhouse, looking at his watch again. “Well, well, I’m going to be very late, I’m afraid. Good-bye, my dear. Look after yourself. Better keep the door on the chain perhaps?”

  Miss Waterhouse snorted again. Having shut the door behind her brother she was about to retire upstairs when she paused thoughtfully, went to her golf bag, removed a niblick, and placed it in a strategic position near the front door. “There,” said Miss Waterhouse, with some satisfaction. Of course James talked nonsense. Still it was always as well to be prepared. The way they let mental cases out of nursing homes nowadays, urging them to lead a normal life, was in her view fraught with danger to all sorts of innocent people.

  Miss Waterhouse was in her bedroom when Mrs. Head came bustling up the stairs. Mrs. Head was small and round and very like a rubber ball—she enjoyed practically everything that happened.

  “A couple of gentlemen want to see you,” said Mrs. Head with avidity. “Leastways,” she added, “they aren’t really gentlemen—it’s the police.”

  She shoved forward a card. Miss Waterhouse took it.

  “Detective Inspector Hardcastle,” she read. “Did you show them into the drawing room?”

  “No. I put ’em in the dinin’ room. I’d cleared away breakfast and I thought that that would be more proper a place. I mean, they’re only the police after all.”

  Miss Waterhouse did not quite follow this reasoning. However she said, “I’ll come down.”

  “I expect they’ll want to ask you about Miss Pebmarsh,” said Mrs. Head. “Want to know whether you’ve noticed anything funny in her manner. They say these manias come on very sudden sometimes and there’s very little to show beforehand. But there’s usually something, some way of speaking, you know. You can tell by their eyes, they say. But then that wouldn’t hold with a blind woman, would it? Ah—” she shook her head.

  Miss Waterhouse marched downstairs and entered the dining room with a certain amount of pleasurable curiosity masked by her usual air of belligerence.

  “Detective Inspector Hardcastle?”

  “Good morning, Miss Waterhouse.” Hardcastle had risen. He had with him a tall, dark young man whom Miss Waterhouse did not bother to greet. She paid no attention to a faint murmur of “Sergeant Lamb.”

  “I hope I have not called at too early an hour,” said Hardcastle, “but I imagine you know what it is about. You’ve heard what happened next door yesterday.”

  “Murder in one’s next door neighbour’s house does not usually go unnoticed,” said Miss Waterhouse. “I even had to turn away one or two reporters who came here asking if I had observed anything.”

  “You turned them away?”

  “Naturally.”

  “You were quite right,” said Hardcastle. “Of course they like to worm their way in anywhere but I’m sure you are quite capable of dealing with anything of that kind.”

  Miss Waterhouse allowed herself to show a faintly pleasurable reaction to this compliment.

  “I hope you won’t mind us asking you the same kind of questions,” said Hardcastle, “but if you did see anything at all that could be of interest to us, I can assure you we should be only too grateful. You were here in the house at the time, I gather?”

  “I don’t know when the murder was committed,” said Miss Waterhouse.

  “We think between half past one and half past two.”

  “I was here then, yes, certainly.”

  “And your brother?”

  “He does not come home to lunch. Who exactly was murdered? It doesn’t seem to say in the short account there was in the local morning paper.”

  “We don’t yet know who he was,” said Hardcastle.

  “A stranger?”

  “So it seems.”

  “You don’t mean he was a stranger to Miss Pebmarsh also?”

  “Miss Pebmarsh assures us that she was not expecting this particular guest and that she has no idea who he was.”

  “She can’t be sure of that,” said Miss Waterhouse. “She can’t see.”

  “We gave her a very careful description.”

  “What kind of man was he?”

  Hardcastle took a rough print from an envelope and handed it to her.

  “This is the man,” he said. “Have you any idea who he can be?”

  Miss Waterhouse looked at the print. “No. No … I’m certain I’ve never seen him before. Dear me. He looks quite a respectable man.”

  “He was a most respectable-looking man,” said the inspector. “He looks like a lawyer or a business man of some kind.”

  “Indeed. This photograph is not at all distressing. He just looks as though he might be asleep.”

  Hardcastle did not tell her that of the various police photographs of the corpse this one had been selected as the least disturbing to the eye.

  “Death can be a peaceful business,” he said. “I don’t think this particular man had any idea that it was coming to him when it did.”

  “What does Miss Pebmarsh say about it all?” demanded Miss Waterhouse.

  “She is quite at a loss.”

  “Extraordinary,” commented Miss Waterhouse.

  “Now, can you help us in any way, Miss Waterhouse? If you cast your mind back to yesterday, were you looking out of the window at all, or did you happen to be in your garden, say any time between half past twelve and three o’clock?”

  Miss Waterhouse reflected.

  “Yes, I was in the garden … Now let me see. It must have been before one o’clock. I came in about ten to one from the garden, washed my hands and sat down to lunch.”

  “Did you see Miss Pebmarsh enter or leave the house?”

  “I think she came in—I heard the gate squeak—yes, some time after half past twelve.”

  “You didn’t speak to her?”

  “Oh no. It was just the squeak of the gate made me look up. It is her usual time for returning. She finishes her classes then, I believe. She teaches at the Disabled Children as probably you know.”

  “According to her own statement, Miss Pebmarsh went out again about half past one. Would you agree to that?”

  “Well, I couldn’t tell you the exact time but—yes, I do remember her passing the gate.”

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Waterhouse, you said ‘passing the gate.’”

  “Certainly. I was in my sitting room. That gives on the street, whereas the dining room, where we are sitting now, gives as you can see, on the back garden. But I took my coffee into the sitting room after lunch and I was sitting with it in a chair near the window. I was reading The Times, and I think it was when I was turning the sheet that I noticed Miss Pebmarsh passing the front gate. Is there anything extraordinary about that, Inspector?”

  “Not extraordinary, no,” said the inspector, smiling. “Only I understood that Miss Pe
bmarsh was going out to do a little shopping and to the post office, and I had an idea that the nearest way to the shops and the post office would be to go the other way along the crescent.”

  “Depends on which shops you are going to,” said Miss Waterhouse. “Of course the shops are nearer that way, and there’s a post office in Albany Road—”

  “But perhaps Miss Pebmarsh usually passed your gate about that time?”

  “Well, really, I don’t know what time Miss Pebmarsh usually went out, or in which direction. I’m not really given to watching my neighbours in any way, Inspector. I’m a busy woman and have far too much to do with my own affairs. Some people I know spend their entire time looking out of the window and noticing who passes and who calls on whom. That is more a habit of invalids or of people who’ve got nothing better to do than to speculate and gossip about their neighbours’ affairs.”

  Miss Waterhouse spoke with such acerbity that the inspector felt sure that she had some one particular person in mind. He said hastily, “Quite so. Quite so.” He added, “Since Miss Pebmarsh passed your front gate, she might have been going to telephone, might she not? That is where the public telephone box is situated?”

  “Yes. It’s opposite Number 15.”

  “The important question I have to ask you, Miss Waterhouse, is if you saw the arrival of this man—the mystery man as I’m afraid the morning papers have called him.”

  Miss Waterhouse shook her head. “No, I didn’t see him or any other caller.”

  “What were you doing between half past one and three o’clock?”

  “I spent about half an hour doing the crossword in The Times, or as much of it as I could, then I went out to the kitchen and washed up the lunch. Let me see. I wrote a couple of letters, made some cheques out for bills, then I went upstairs and sorted out some things I wanted to take to the cleaners. I think it was from my bedroom that I noticed a certain amount of commotion next door. I distinctly heard someone screaming, so naturally I went to the window. There was a young man and a girl at the gate. He seemed to be embracing her.”

  Sergeant Lamb shifted his feet but Miss Waterhouse was not looking at him and clearly had no idea that he had been that particular young man in question.

  “I could only see the back of the young man’s head. He seemed to be arguing with the girl. Finally he sat her down against the gatepost. An extraordinary thing to do. And he strode off and went into the house.”

  “You had not seen Miss Pebmarsh return to the house a short time before?”

  Miss Waterhouse shook her head. “No. I don’t really think I had looked out the window at all until I heard this extraordinary screaming. However, I didn’t pay much attention to all this. Young girls and men are always doing such extraordinary things—screaming, pushing each other, giggling or making some kind of noise—that I had no idea it was anything serious. Not until some cars drove up with policemen did I realize anything out of the ordinary had occurred.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “Well, naturally I went out of the house, stood on the steps and then I walked round to the back garden. I wondered what had happened but there didn’t seem to be anything much to see from that side. When I got back again there was quite a little crowd gathering. Somebody told me there’d been a murder in the house. It seemed to me most extraordinary. Most extraordinary!” said Miss Waterhouse with a great deal of disapproval.

  “There is nothing else you can think of? That you can tell us?”

  “Really, I’m afraid not.”

  “Has anybody recently written to you suggesting insurance, or has anybody called upon you or proposed calling upon you?”

  “No. Nothing of the kind. Both James and I have taken out insurance policies with the Mutual Help Assurance Society. Of course one is always getting letters which are really circulars or advertisements of some kind but I don’t recall anything of that kind recently.”

  “No letters signed by anybody called Curry?”

  “Curry? No, certainly not.”

  “And the name of Curry means nothing to you in any way?”

  “No. Should it?”

  Hardcastle smiled. “No. I really don’t think it should,” he said. “It just happens to be the name that the man who was murdered was calling himself by.”

  “It wasn’t his real name?”

  “We have some reason to think that it was not his real name.”

  “A swindler of some kind, eh?” said Miss Waterhouse.

  “We can’t say that till we have evidence to prove it.”

  “Of course not, of course not. You’ve got to be careful. I know that,” said Miss Waterhouse. “Not like some of the people around here. They’d say anything. I wonder some aren’t had up for libel all the time.”

  “Slander,” corrected Sergeant Lamb, speaking for the first time.

  Miss Waterhouse looked at him in some surprise, as though not aware before that he had an entity of his own and was anything other than a necessary appendage to Inspector Hardcastle.

  “I’m sorry I can’t help you, I really am,” said Miss Waterhouse.

  “I’m sorry too,” said Hardcastle. “A person of your intelligence and judgement with a faculty of observation would have been a very useful witness to have.”

  “I wish I had seen something,” said Miss Waterhouse.

  For a moment her tone was as wistful as a young girl’s.

  “Your brother, Mr. James Waterhouse?”

  “James wouldn’t know anything,” said Miss Waterhouse scornfully. “He never does. And anyway he was at Gainsford and Swettenhams in the High Street. Oh no, James wouldn’t be able to help you. As I say, he doesn’t come back to lunch.”

  “Where does he lunch usually?”

  “He usually has sandwiches and coffee at the Three Feathers. A very nice respectable house. They specialize in quick lunches for professional people.”

  “Thank you, Miss Waterhouse. Well, we mustn’t keep you any longer.”

  He rose and went out into the hall. Miss Waterhouse accompanied them. Colin Lamb picked up the golf club by the door.

  “Nice club, this,” he said. “Plenty of weight in the head.” He weighed it up and down in his hand. “I see you are prepared, Miss Waterhouse, for any eventualities.”

  Miss Waterhouse was slightly taken aback.

  “Really,” she said, “I can’t imagine how that club came to be there.”

  She snatched it from him and replaced it in the golf bag.

  “A very wise precaution to take,” said Hardcastle.

  Miss Waterhouse opened the door and let them out.

  “Well,” said Colin Lamb, with a sigh, “we didn’t get much out of her, in spite of you buttering her up so nicely all the time. Is that your invariable method?”

  “It gets good results sometimes with a person of her type. The tough kind always respond to flattery.”

  “She was purring like a cat that has been offered a saucer of cream in the end,” said Colin. “Unfortunately, it didn’t disclose anything of interest.”

  “No?” said Hardcastle.

  Colin looked at him quickly. “What’s on your mind?”

  “A very slight and possibly unimportant point. Miss Pebmarsh went out to the post office and the shops but she turned left instead of right, and that telephone call, according to Miss Martindale, was put through about ten minutes to two.”

  Colin looked at him curiously.

  “You still think that in spite of her denial she might have made it? She was very positive.”

  “Yes,” said Hardcastle. “She was very positive.”

  His tone was noncommittal.

  “But if she did make it, why?”

  “Oh, it’s all why,” said Hardcastle impatiently. “Why, why? Why all this rigmarole? If Miss Pebmarsh made that call, why did she want to get the girl there? If it was someone else, why did they want to involve Miss Pebmarsh? We don’t know anything yet. If that Martindale woman had known Miss Pebm
arsh personally, she’d have known whether it was her voice or not, or at any rate whether it was reasonably like Miss Pebmarsh’s. Oh well, we haven’t got much from Number 18. Let’s see whether Number 20 will do us any better.”

  Eight

  In addition to its number, 20, Wilbraham Crescent had a name. It was called Diana Lodge. The gates had obstacles against intruders by being heavily wired on the inside. Rather melancholy speckled laurels, imperfectly trimmed, also interfered with the efforts of anyone to enter through the gate.

  “If ever a house could have been called The Laurels, this one could,” remarked Colin Lamb. “Why call it Diana Lodge, I wonder?”

  He looked round him appraisingly. Diana Lodge did not run to neatness or to flower beds. Tangled and overgrown shrubbery was its most salient point together with a strong catty smell of ammonia. The house seemed in a rather tumbledown condition with gutters that could do with repairing. The only sign of any recent kind of attention being paid to it was a freshly painted front door whose colour of bright azure blue made the general unkempt appearance of the rest of the house and garden even more noticeable. There was no electric bell but a kind of handle that was clearly meant to be pulled. The inspector pulled it and a faint sound of remote jangling was heard inside.

  “It sounds,” said Colin, “like the Moated Grange.”

  They waited for a moment or two, then sounds were heard from inside. Rather curious sounds. A kind of high crooning, half singing, half speaking.

  “What the devil—” began Hardcastle.

  The singer or crooner appeared to be approaching the front door and words began to be discernible.

  “No, sweet-sweetie. In there, my love. Mindems tailems Shah-Shah-Mimi. Cleo—Cleopatra. Ah de doodlums. Ah lou-lou.”

  Doors were heard to shut. Finally the front door opened. Facing them was a lady in a pale moss-green, rather rubbed, velvet tea gown. Her hair, in flaxen grey wisps, was twirled elaborately in a kind of coiffure of some thirty years back. Round her neck she was wearing a necklet of orange fur. Inspector Hardcastle said dubiously:

  “Mrs. Hemming?”

  “I am Mrs. Hemming. Gently, Sunbeam, gently doodleums.”