The Clocks

by Agatha Christie

  But today, the inspector felt slightly more hopeful. He looked again at the letter on his desk. Merlina Rival. He didn’t like the Christian name very much. Nobody in their senses, he thought, could christen a child Merlina. No doubt it was a fancy name adopted by the lady herself. But he liked the feel of the letter. It was not extravagant or overconfident. It merely said that the writer thought it possible that the man in question was her husband from whom she had parted several years ago. She was due this morning. He pressed his buzzer and Sergeant Cray came in.

  “That Mrs. Rival not arrived yet?”

  “Just come this minute,” said Cray. “I was coming to tell you.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “Bit theatrical-looking,” said Cray, after reflecting a moment. “Lots of makeup—not very good makeup. Fairly reliable sort of woman on the whole, I should say.”

  “Did she seem upset?”

  “No. Not noticeably.”

  “All right,” said Hardcastle, “let’s have her in.”

  Cray departed and presently returned saying as he did so, “Mrs. Rival, sir.”

  The inspector got up and shook hands with her. About fifty, he would judge, but from a long way away—quite a long way—she might have looked thirty. Close at hand, the result of makeup carelessly applied made her look rather older than fifty but on the whole he put it at fifty. Dark hair heavily hennaed. No hat, medium height and build, wearing a dark coat and skirt and a white blouse. Carrying a large tartan bag. A jingly bracelet or two, several rings. On the whole, he thought, making moral judgements on the basis of his experience, rather a good sort. Not overscrupulous, probably, but easy to live with, reasonably generous, possibly kind. Reliable? That was the question. He wouldn’t bank on it, but then he couldn’t afford to bank on that kind of thing anyway.

  “I’m very glad to see you, Mrs. Rival,” he said, “and I hope very much you’ll be able to help us.”

  “Of course, I’m not at all sure,” said Mrs. Rival. She spoke apologetically. “But it did look like Harry. Very much like Harry. Of course I’m quite prepared to find that it isn’t, and I hope I shan’t have taken up your time for nothing.”

  She seemed quite apologetic about it.

  “You mustn’t feel that in any case,” said the inspector. “We want help very badly over this case.”

  “Yes, I see. I hope I’ll be able to be sure. You see, it’s a long time since I saw him.”

  “Shall we get down a few facts to help us? When did you last see your husband?”

  “I’ve been trying to get it accurate,” said Mrs. Rival, “all the way down in the train. It’s terrible how one’s memory goes when it comes to time. I believe I said in my letter to you it was about ten years ago, but it’s more than that. D’you know, I think it’s nearer fifteen. Time does go so fast. I suppose,” she added shrewdly, “that one tends to think it’s less than it is because it makes you yourself feel younger. Don’t you think so?”

  “I should think it could do,” said the inspector. “Anyway you think it’s roughly fifteen years since you saw him? When were you married?”

  “It must have been about three years before that,” said Mrs. Rival.

  “And you were living then?”

  “At a place called Shipton Bois in Suffolk. Nice town. Market town. Rather one-horse, if you know what I mean.”

  “And what did your husband do?”

  “He was an insurance agent. At least—” she stopped herself “—that’s what he said he was.”

  The inspector looked up sharply.

  “You found out that that wasn’t true?”

  “Well, no, not exactly … Not at the time. It’s only since then that I’ve thought that perhaps it wasn’t true. It’d be an easy thing for a man to say, wouldn’t it?”

  “I suppose it would in certain circumstances.”

  “I mean, it gives a man an excuse for being away from home a good deal.”

  “Your husband was away from home a good deal, Mrs. Rival?”

  “Yes. I never thought about it much to begin with—”

  “But later?”

  She did not answer at once then she said:

  “Can’t we get on with it? After all, if it isn’t Harry….”

  He wondered what exactly she was thinking. There was strain in her voice, possibly emotion? He was not sure.

  “I can understand,” he said, “that you’d like to get it over. We’ll go now.”

  He rose and escorted her out of the room to the waiting car. Her nervousness when they got to where they were going, was no more than the nervousness of other people he had taken to this same place. He said the usual reassuring things.

  “It’ll be quite all right. Nothing distressing. It will only take a minute or two.”

  The tray was rolled out, the attendant lifted the sheet. She stood staring down for a few moments, her breath came a little faster, she made a faint gasping sound, then she turned away abruptly. She said:

  “It’s Harry. Yes. He’s a lot older, he looks different … But it’s Harry.”

  The inspector nodded to the attendant, then he laid his hand on her arm and took her out again to the car and they drove back to the station. He didn’t say anything. He left her to pull herself together. When they got back to his room a constable came in almost at once with a tray of tea.

  “There you are, Mrs. Rival. Have a cup, it’ll pull you together. Then we’ll talk.”

  “Thank you.”

  She put sugar in the tea, a good deal of it, and gulped it down quickly.

  “That’s better,” she said. “It’s not that I mind really. Only—only, well it does turn you up a bit, doesn’t it?”

  “You think this man is definitely your husband?”

  “I’m sure he is. Of course, he’s much older, but he hasn’t changed really so much. He always looked—well, very neat. Nice, you know, good class.”

  Yes, thought Hardcastle, it was quite a good description. Good class. Presumably, Harry had looked much better class than he was. Some men did, and it was helpful to them for their particular purposes.

  Mrs. Rival said, “He was very particular always about his clothes and everything. That’s why, I think—they fell for him so easily. They never suspected anything.”

  “Who fell for him, Mrs. Rival?” Hardcastle’s voice was gentle, sympathetic.

  “Women,” said Mrs. Rival. “Women. That’s where he was most of the time.”

  “I see. And you got to know about it.”

  “Well, I—I suspected. I mean, he was away such a lot. Of course I knew what men are like. I thought probably there was a girl from time to time. But it’s no good asking men about these things. They’ll lie to you and that’s all. But I didn’t think—I really didn’t think that he made a business of it.”

  “And did he?”

  She nodded. “I think he must have done.”

  “How did you find out?”

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  “He came back one day from a trip he’d taken. To Newcastle, he said. Anyway, he came back and said he’d have to clear out quickly. He said that the game was up. There was some woman he’d got into trouble. A schoolteacher, he said, and there might be a bit of a stink about it. I asked him questions then. He didn’t mind telling me. Probably he thought I knew more than I did. They used to fall for him, you know, easily enough, just as I did. He’d give her a ring and they’d get engaged—and then he’d say he’d invest money for them. They usually gave it him quite easily.”

  “Had he tried the same thing with you?”

  “He had, as a matter of fact, only I didn’t give him any.”

  “Why not? Didn’t you trust him even then?”

  “Well, I wasn’t the kind that trusts anybody. I’d had what you’d call a bit of experience, you know, of men and their ways and the seamier side of things. Anyway, I didn’t want him investing my money for me. What money I had I could invest for myself. Always keep your m
oney in your hands and then you’ll be sure you’ve got it! I’ve seen too many girls and women make fools of themselves.”

  “When did he want you to invest money? Before you were married or after?”

  “I think he suggested something of the kind beforehand, but I didn’t respond and he sheered off the subject at once. Then, after we were married, he told me about some wonderful opportunity he’d got. I said, ‘Nothing doing.’ It wasn’t only because I didn’t trust him, but I’d often heard men say they’re on to something wonderful and then it turned out that they’d been had for a mug themselves.”

  “Had your husband ever been in trouble with the police?”

  “No fear,” said Mrs. Rival. “Women don’t like the world to know they’ve been duped. But this time, apparently, things might be different. This girl or woman, she was an educated woman. She wouldn’t be as easy to deceive as the others may have been.”

  “She was going to have a child?”

  “Yes.”

  “Had that happened on other occasions?”

  “I rather think so.” She added, “I don’t honestly know what it was used to start him off in the first place. Whether it was only the money—a way of getting a living, as you might say—or whether he was the kind of man who just had to have women and he saw no reason why they shouldn’t pay the expenses of his fun.” There was no bitterness now in her voice.

  Hardcastle said gently:

  “You were fond of him, Mrs. Rival?”

  “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. I suppose I was in a way, or I wouldn’t have married him….”

  “You were—excuse me—married to him?”

  “I don’t even know that for sure,” said Mrs. Rival frankly. “We were married all right. In a church, too, but I don’t know if he had married other women as well, using a different name, I suppose. His name was Castleton when I married him. I don’t think it was his own name.”

  “Harry Castleton. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you lived in this place, Shipton Bois, as man and wife—for how long?”

  “We’d been there about two years. Before that we lived near Doncaster. I don’t say I was really surprised when he came back that day and told me. I think I’d known he was a wrong ’un for some time. One just couldn’t believe it because, you see, he always seemed so respectable. So absolutely the gentleman!”

  “And what happened then?”

  “He said he’d got to get out of there quick and I said he could go and good riddance, that I wasn’t standing for all this!” She added thoughtfully, “I gave him ten pounds. It was all I had in the house. He said he was short of money … I’ve never seen or heard of him since. Until today. Or rather, until I saw his picture in the paper.”

  “He didn’t have any special distinguishing marks? Scars? An operation—or a fracture—anything like that?”

  She shook her head.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Did he ever use the name Curry?”

  “Curry? No, I don’t think so. Not that I know of, anyway.” Hardcastle slipped the card across the table to her.

  “This was in his pocket,” he said.

  “Still saying he’s an insurance agent, I see,” she remarked. “I expect he uses—used, I mean—all sorts of different names.”

  “You say you’ve never heard of him for the last fifteen years?”

  “He hasn’t sent me a Christmas card, if that’s what you mean,” said Mrs. Rival, with a sudden glint of humour. “I don’t suppose he’d know where I was, anyway. I went back to the stage for a bit after we parted. On tour mostly. It wasn’t much of a life and I dropped the name of Castleton too. Went back to Merlina Rival.”

  “Merlina’s—er—not your real name, I suppose?”

  She shook her head and a faint, cheerful smile appeared on her face.

  “I thought it up. Unusual. My real name’s Flossie Gapp. Florence, I suppose I must have been christened, but everyone always calls me Flossie or Flo. Flossie Gapp. Not very romantic, is it?”

  “What are you doing now? Are you still acting, Mrs. Rival?”

  “Occasionally,” said Mrs. Rival with a touch of reticence. “On and off, as you might say.”

  Hardcastle was tactful.

  “I see,” he said.

  “I do odd jobs here and there,” she said. “Help out at parties, a bit of hostess work, that sort of thing. It’s not a bad life. At any rate you meet people. Things get near the bone now and again.”

  “You’ve never heard anything of Henry Castleton since you parted—or about him?”

  “Not a word. I thought perhaps he’d gone abroad—or was dead.”

  “The only other thing I can ask you, Mrs. Rival, is if you have any idea why Harry Castleton should have come to this neighbourhood?”

  “No. Of course I’ve no idea. I don’t even know what he’s been doing all these years.”

  “Would it be likely that he would be selling fraudulent insurance—something of that kind?”

  “I simply don’t know. It doesn’t seem to me terribly likely. I mean, Harry was very careful of himself always. He wouldn’t stick his neck out doing something that he might be brought to book for. I should have thought it more likely it was some racket with women.”

  “Might it have been, do you think, Mrs. Rival, some form of blackmail?”

  “Well, I don’t know … I suppose, yes, in a way. Some woman, perhaps, that wouldn’t want something in her past raked up. He’d feel pretty safe over that, I think. Mind you, I don’t say it is so, but it might be. I don’t think he’d want very much money, you know. I don’t think he’d drive anyone desperate, but he might just collect in a small way.” She nodded in affirmation. “Yes.”

  “Women liked him, did they?”

  “Yes. They always fell for him rather easily. Mainly, I think, because he always seemed so good class and respectable. They were proud of having made a conquest of a man like that. They looked forward to a nice safe future with him. That’s the nearest way I can put it. I felt the same way myself,” added Mrs. Rival with some frankness.

  “There’s just one more small point,” Hardcastle spoke to his subordinate. “Just bring those clocks in, will you?”

  They were brought in on a tray with a cloth over them. Hardcastle whipped off the cloth and exposed them to Mrs. Rival’s gaze. She inspected them with frank interest and approbation.

  “Pretty, aren’t they? I like that one.” She touched the ormolu clock.

  “You haven’t seen any of them before? They don’t mean anything to you?”

  “Can’t say they do. Ought they to?”

  “Can you think of any connection between your husband and the name Rosemary?”

  “Rosemary? Let me think. There was a red-head—No, her name was Rosalie. I’m afraid I can’t think of anyone. But then I probably wouldn’t know, would I? Harry kept his affairs very dark.”

  “If you saw a clock with the hands pointing to four-thirteen—” Hardcastle paused.

  Mrs. Rival gave a cheerful chuckle.

  “I’d think it was getting on for teatime.”

  Hardcastle sighed.

  “Well, Mrs. Rival,” he said, “we are very grateful to you. The adjourned inquest, as I told you, will be the day after tomorrow. You won’t mind giving evidence of identification, will you?”

  “No. No, that will be all right. I’ll just have to say who he was, is that it? I shan’t have to go into things? I won’t have to go into the manner of his life—anything of that kind?”

  “That will not be necessary at present. All you will have to swear to is he is the man, Harry Castleton, to whom you were married. The exact date will be on record at Somerset House. Where were you married? Can you remember that?”

  “Place called Donbrook—St. Michael’s, I think was the name of the church. I hope it isn’t more than twenty years ago. That would make me feel I had one foot in the grave,” said Mrs. Rival.
/>   She got up and held out her hand. Hardcastle said good-bye. He went back to his desk and sat there tapping it with a pencil. Presently Sergeant Cray came in.

  “Satisfactory?” he asked.

  “Seems so,” said the inspector. “Name of Harry Castleton—possibly an alias. We’ll have to see what we can find out about the fellow. It seems likely that more than one woman might have reason to want revenge on him.”

  “Looks so respectable, too,” said Cray.

  “That,” said Hardcastle, “seems to have been his principal stock-in-trade.”

  He thought again about the clock with Rosemary written on it. Remembrance?

  Twenty-two

  COLIN LAMB’S NARRATIVE

  I

  “So you have returned,” said Hercule Poirot.

  He placed a bookmarker carefully to mark his place in the book he was reading. This time a cup of hot chocolate stood on the table by his elbow. Poirot certainly has the most terrible taste in drinks! For once he did not urge me to join him.

  “How are you?” I asked.

  “I am disturbed. I am much disturbed. They make the renovations, the redecorations, even the structural alteration in these flats.”

  “Won’t that improve them?”

  “It will improve them, yes—but it will be most vexatious to me. I shall have to disarrange myself. There will be a smell of paint!” He looked at me with an air of outrage.

  Then, dismissing his difficulties with a wave of his hand, he asked:

  “You have had the success, yes?”

  I said slowly: “I don’t know.”