The Clocks

by Agatha Christie

  He had arrived now at No. 14. The door stood ajar and there were four bells with names underneath. Mrs. Lawton, he saw, had a flat on the ground floor. He went in and pressed the bell on the door on the left of the hall. It was a few moments before it was answered. Finally he heard steps inside and the door was opened by a tall, thin woman with straggling dark hair who had on an overall and seemed a little short of breath. The smell of onions wafted along from the direction of what was obviously the kitchen.

  “Mrs. Lawton?”

  “Yes?” She looked at him doubtfully, with slight annoyance.

  She was, he thought, about forty-five. Something faintly gypsyish about her appearance.

  “What is it?”

  “I should be glad if you could spare me a moment or two.”

  “Well, what about? I’m really rather busy just now.” She added sharply, “You’re not a reporter, are you?”

  “Of course,” said Hardcastle, adopting a sympathetic tone, “I expect you’ve been a good deal worried by reporters.”

  “Indeed we have. Knocking at the door and ringing the bell and asking all sorts of foolish questions.”

  “Very annoying I know,” said the inspector. “I wish we could spare you all that, Mrs. Lawton. I am Detective Inspector Hardcastle, by the way, in charge of the case about which the reporters have been annoying you. We’d put a stop to a good deal of that if we could, but we’re powerless in the matter, you know. The Press has its rights.”

  “It’s a shame to worry private people as they do,” said Mrs. Lawton, “saying they have to have news for the public. The only thing I’ve ever noticed about the news that they print is that it’s a tissue of lies from beginning to end. They’ll cook up anything so far as I can see. But come in.”

  She stepped back and the inspector passed over the doorstep and she shut the door. There were a couple of letters which had fallen on the mat. Mrs. Lawton bent forward to pick them up, but the inspector politely forestalled her. His eyes swept over them for half a second as he handed them to her, addresses uppermost.

  “Thank you.”

  She laid them down on the hall table.

  “Come into the sitting room, won’t you? At least—if you go in this door and give me just a moment. I think something’s boiling over.”

  She beat a speedy retreat to the kitchen. Inspector Hardcastle took a last deliberate look at the letters on the hall table. One was addressed to Mrs. Lawton and the two others to Miss R. S. Webb. He went into the room indicated. It was a small room, rather untidy, shabbily furnished but here and there it displayed some bright spot of colour or some unusual object. An attractive, probably expensive piece of Venetian glass of moulded colours and an abstract shape, two brightly coloured velvet cushions and an earthenware platter of foreign shells. Either the aunt or the niece, he thought, had an original streak in her makeup.

  Mrs. Lawton returned, slightly more breathless than before.

  “I think that’ll be all right now,” she said, rather uncertainly.

  The inspector apologized again.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve called at an inconvenient time,” he said, “but I happened to be in this neighbourhood and I wanted to check over a few further points about this affair in which your niece was so unfortunately concerned. I hope she’s none the worse for her experience? It must have been a great shock to any girl.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Lawton. “Sheila came back in a terrible state. But she was all right by this morning and she’s gone back to work again.”

  “Oh, yes, I know that,” said the inspector. “But I was told she was out doing work for a client somewhere and I didn’t want to interrupt anything of that kind so I thought it would be better if I came round here and talked to her in her own home. But she’s not back yet, is that it?”

  “She’ll probably be rather late this evening,” said Mrs. Lawton. “She’s working for a Professor Purdy and from what Sheila says, he’s a man with no idea of time at all. Always says ‘this won’t take more than another ten minutes so I think we might as well get it finished,’ and then of course it takes nearer to three-quarters of an hour. He’s a very nice man and most apologetic. Once or twice he’s urged her to stay and have dinner and seemed quite concerned because he’s kept her so much longer than he realized. Still, it is rather annoying sometimes. Is there something I can tell you, Inspector? In case Sheila is delayed a long time.”

  “Well, not really,” said the inspector smiling. “Of course, we only took down the bare details the other day and I’m not sure really whether I’ve even got those right.” He made a show of consulting his notebook once more. “Let me see. Miss Sheila Webb—is that her full name or has she another Christian name? We have to have these things very exact, you know, for the records at the inquest.”

  “The inquest is the day after tomorrow, isn’t it? She got a notice to attend.”

  “Yes, but she needn’t let that worry her,” said Hardcastle. “She’ll just have to tell her story of how she found the body.”

  “You don’t know who the man was yet?”

  “No. I’m afraid it’s early days for that. There was a card in his pocket and we thought at first he was some kind of insurance agent. But it seems more likely now that it was a card he’d been given by someone. Perhaps he was contemplating insurance himself.”

  “Oh, I see,” Mrs. Lawton looked vaguely interested.

  “Now I’ll just get these names right,” said the inspector. “I think I’ve got it down as Miss Sheila Webb or Miss Sheila R. Webb. I just couldn’t remember what the other name was. Was it Rosalie?”

  “Rosemary,” said Mrs. Lawton, “she was christened Rosemary Sheila but Sheila always thought Rosemary was rather fanciful so she’s never called anything but Sheila.”

  “I see.” There was nothing in Hardcastle’s tone to show that he was pleased that one of his hunches had come out right. He noted another point. The name Rosemary occasioned no distress in Mrs. Lawton. To her Rosemary was simply a Christian name that her niece did not use.

  “I’ve got it straight now all right,” said the inspector smiling. “I gather that your niece came from London and has been working for the Cavendish Bureau for the last ten months or so. You don’t know the exact date, I suppose?”

  “Well, really, I couldn’t say now. It was last November some time. I think more towards the end of November.”

  “Quite so. It doesn’t really matter. She was not living with you here previously to taking the job at the Cavendish Bureau?”

  “No. She was living in London before that.”

  “Have you got her address in London?”

  “Well, I’ve got it somewhere,” Mrs. Lawton looked round her with the vague expression of the habitually untidy. “I’ve got such a short memory,” she said. “Something like Allington Grove, I think it was—out Fulham way. She shared a flat with two other girls. Terribly expensive rooms are in London for girls.”

  “Do you remember the name of the firm she worked at there?”

  “Oh, yes. Hopgood and Trent. They were estate agents in the Fulham Road.”

  “Thank you. Well all that seems very clear. Miss Webb is an orphan, I understand?”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Lawton. She moved uneasily. Her eyes strayed to the door. “Do you mind if I just go into the kitchen again?”

  “Of course.”

  He opened the door for her. She went out. He wondered if he had been right or wrong in thinking that his last question had in some way perturbed Mrs. Lawton. Her replies had come quite readily and easily up to then. He thought about it until Mrs. Lawton returned.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, apologetically, “but you know what it is—cooking things. Everything’s quite all right now. Was there anything else you want to ask me? I’ve remembered, by the way, it wasn’t Allington Grove. It was Carrington Grove and the number was 17.”

  “Thank you,” said the inspector. “I think I was asking you whether Miss Webb was
an orphan.”

  “Yes, she’s an orphan. Her parents are dead.”

  “Long ago?”

  “They died when she was a child.”

  There was something like defiance just perceptible in her tone.

  “Was she your sister’s child or your brother’s?”

  “My sister’s.”

  “Ah, yes. And what was Mr. Webb’s profession?”

  Mrs. Lawton paused a moment before answering. She was biting her lips. Then she said, “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I mean I don’t remember, it’s so long ago.”

  Hardcastle waited, knowing that she would speak again. She did.

  “May I ask what all this has got to do with it—I mean what does it matter who her father and mother were and what her father did and where he came from or anything like that?”

  “I suppose it doesn’t matter really, Mrs. Lawton, not from your point of view, that is. But you see, the circumstances are rather unusual.”

  “What do you mean—the circumstances are unusual?”

  “Well, we have reason to believe that Miss Webb went to that house yesterday because she had been specially asked for at the Cavendish Bureau by name. It looks therefore as though someone had deliberately arranged for her to be there. Someone perhaps—” he hesitated “—with a grudge against her.”

  “I can’t imagine that anyone could have a grudge against Sheila. She’s a very sweet girl. A nice friendly girl.”

  “Yes,” said Hardcastle mildly. “That’s what I should have thought myself.”

  “And I don’t like to hear anybody suggesting the contrary,” said Mrs. Lawton belligerently.

  “Exactly.” Hardcastle continued to smile appeasingly. “But you must realize, Mrs. Lawton, that it looks as though your niece has been deliberately made a victim. She was being, as they say on the films, put on the spot. Somebody was arranging for her to go into a house where there was a dead man, and that dead man had died very recently. It seems on the face of it a malicious thing to do.”

  “You mean—you mean someone was trying to make it appear that Sheila killed him? Oh, no, I can’t believe it.”

  “It is rather difficult to believe,” agreed the inspector, “but we’ve got to make quite sure and clear up the matter. Could there be, for instance, some young man, someone perhaps who had fallen in love with your niece, and whom she, perhaps, did not care for? Young men sometimes do some very bitter and revengeful things, especially if they’re rather ill-balanced.”

  “I don’t think it could be anything of that kind,” said Mrs. Lawton, puckering her eyes in thought and frowning. “Sheila has had one or two boys she’s been friendly with, but there’s been nothing serious. Nobody steady of any kind.”

  “It might have been while she was living in London?” the inspector suggested. “After all, I don’t suppose you know very much about what friends she had there.”

  “No, no, perhaps not … Well, you’ll have to ask her about that yourself, Inspector Hardcastle. But I never heard of any trouble of any kind.”

  “Or it might have been another girl,” suggested Hardcastle. “Perhaps one of the girls she shared rooms with there was jealous of her?”

  “I suppose,” said Mrs. Lawton doubtfully, “that there might be a girl who’d want to do her a bad turn. But not involving murder, surely.”

  It was a shrewd appreciation and Hardcastle noted that Mrs. Lawton was by no means a fool. He said quickly:

  “I know it all sounds most unlikely, but then this whole business is unlikely.”

  “It must have been someone mad,” said Mrs. Lawton.

  “Even in madness,” said Hardcastle, “there’s a definite idea behind the madness, you know. Something that’s given rise to it. And that really,” he went on, “is why I was asking you about Sheila Webb’s father and mother. You’d be surprised how often motives arise that have their roots in the past. Since Miss Webb’s father and mother died when she was a young child, naturally she can’t tell me anything about them. That’s why I’m applying to you.”

  “Yes, I see, but—well….”

  He noted that the trouble and uncertainty were back in her voice.

  “Were they killed at the same time, in an accident, anything like that?”

  “No, there was no accident.”

  “They both died from natural causes?”

  “I—well, yes, I mean—I don’t really know.”

  “I think you must know a little more than you are telling me, Mrs. Lawton.” He hazarded a guess. “Were they, perhaps, divorced—something of that kind?”

  “No, they weren’t divorced.”

  “Come now, Mrs. Lawton. You know—you must know of what your sister died?”

  “I don’t see what—I mean, I can’t say—it’s all very difficult. Raking up things. It’s much better not raking them up.” There was a kind of desperate perplexity in her glance.

  Hardcastle looked at her keenly. Then he said gently, “Was Sheila Webb perhaps—an illegitimate child?”

  He saw immediately a mixture of consternation and relief in her face.

  “She’s not my child,” she said.

  “She is your sister’s illegitimate child?”

  “Yes. But she doesn’t know it herself. I’ve never told her. I told her her parents died young. So that’s why—well, you see….”

  “Oh, yes, I see,” said the inspector, “and I assure you that unless something comes of this particular line of inquiry there is no need for me to question Miss Webb on this subject.”

  “You mean you needn’t tell her?”

  “Not unless there is some relevance to the case, which, I may say, seems unlikely. But I do want all the facts that you know, Mrs. Lawton, and I assure you that I’ll do my best to keep what you tell me entirely between ourselves.”

  “It’s not a nice thing to happen,” said Mrs. Lawton, “and I was very distressed about it, I can tell you. My sister, you see, had always been the clever one of the family. She was a schoolteacher and doing very well. Highly respected and everything else. The last person you’d ever think would—”

  “Well,” said the inspector, tactfully, “it often happens that way. She got to know this man—this Webb—”

  “I never even knew what his name was,” said Mrs. Lawton. “I never met him. But she came to me and told me what had happened. That she was expecting a child and that the man couldn’t, or wouldn’t—I never knew which—marry her. She was ambitious and it would have meant giving up her job if the whole thing came out. So naturally I—I said I’d help.”

  “Where is your sister now, Mrs. Lawton?”

  “I’ve no idea. Absolutely no idea at all.” She was emphatic.

  “She’s alive, though.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “But you haven’t kept in touch with her?”

  “That’s the way she wanted it. She thought it was best for the child and best for her that there should be a clean break. So it was fixed that way. We both had a little income of our own that our mother left us. Ann turned her half-share over to me to be used for the child’s bringing up and keep. She was going to continue with her profession, she said, but she would change schools. There was some idea, I believe, of a year’s exchange with a teacher abroad. Australia or somewhere. That’s all I know, Inspector Hardcastle, and that’s all I can tell you.”

  He looked at her thoughtfully. Was that really all she knew? It was a difficult question to answer with any certainty. It was certainly all that she meant to tell him. It might very well be all she knew. Slight as the reference to the sister had been, Hardcastle got an impression of a forceful, bitter, angry personality. The sort of woman who was determined not to have her life blasted by one mistake. In a cold hardheaded way she had provided for the upkeep and presumable happiness of her child. From that moment on she had cut herself adrift to start life again on her own.

  It was conceivable, he thought, that she
might feel like that about the child. But what about her sister? He said mildly:

  “It seems odd that she did not at least keep in touch with you by letter, did not want to know how the child was progressing?”

  Mrs. Lawton shook her head.

  “Not if you knew Ann,” she said. “She was always very clear-cut in her decisions. And then she and I weren’t very close. I was younger than she was by a good deal—twelve years. As I say, we were never very close.”

  “And what did your husband feel about this adoption?”

  “I was a widow then,” said Mrs. Lawton. “I married young and my husband was killed in the war. I kept a small sweet shop at the time.”

  “Where was all this? Not here in Crowdean.”

  “No. We were living in Lincolnshire at the time. I came here in the holidays once, and I liked it so much that I sold the shop and came here to live. Later, when Sheila was old enough to go to school, I took a job in Roscoe and West, the big drapers here, you know. I still work there. They’re very pleasant people.”

  “Well,” said Hardcastle, rising to his feet, “thank you very much, Mrs. Lawton, for your frankness in what you have told me.”

  “And you won’t say a word of it to Sheila?”

  “Not unless it should become necessary, and that would only happen if some circumstances out of the past proved to have been connected with this murder at 19, Wilbraham Crescent. And that, I think, is unlikely.” He took the photograph from his pocket which he had been showing to so many people, and showed it to Mrs. Lawton. “You’ve no idea who this man could be?”

  “They’ve shown it me already,” said Mrs. Lawton.

  She took it and scrutinized it earnestly.

  “No. I’m sure, quite sure, I’ve never seen this man before. I don’t think he belonged round here or I might have remembered seeing him about. Of course—” she looked closely. She paused a moment before adding, rather unexpectedly, “He looks a nice man I think. A gentleman, I’d say, wouldn’t you?”