by Mark Place
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 school teacher, 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 money 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 tea-time.’
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 goodbye. 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?
Chapter 22
Colin Lamb’s Narrative
I
‘So you have returned,’ said Hercules 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 tome . 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.’
‘Ah—it is like that.’
‘I found out what I was sent to find out. I did not find the man himself. I myself do not know what was wanted. Information? Or a body?’
‘Speaking of bodies, I read the account of the adjourned inquest at Crowdean. Wilful murder by a person or persons unknown. And your body has been given a name at last.’ I nodded.
‘Harry Castleton, whoever he may be.’
‘Identified by his wife. You have been to Crowdean?’
‘Not yet. I thought of going down tomorrow.’
‘Oh, you have some leisure time?’
‘Not yet. I’m still on the job. My job takes me there—’ I paused a moment and then said: ‘I don’t know much about what’s been happening while I’ve been abroad—just the mere fact of identification—what do you think of it?’
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
‘It was to be expected.’
‘Yes—the police are very good—’
‘And wives are very obliging.’
‘Mrs Merlina Rival! What a name!’
‘It reminds me of something,’ said Poirot. ‘Now of what does it remind me?’ He looked at me thoughtfully but I couldn’t help him. Knowing Poirot, it might have reminded him of anything.
‘A visit to a friend—in a country house,’ mused Poirot, then shook his head. ‘No—it is so long ago.’
‘When I come back to London, I’ll come and tell you all I can find out from Hardcastle about Mrs Merlina Rival,’ I promised.
Poirot waved a hand and said: ‘It is not necessary.’
‘You mean you know all about her already without being told?’
‘No. I mean that I am not interested in her—’
‘You’re not interested—but why not? I don’t get it.’ I shook my head.
‘One must concentrate on the essentials. Tell me instead of the girl called Edna—who died in the telephone box in Wilbraham Crescent.’
‘I can’t tell you more than I’ve told you already—I know nothing about the girl.’
‘So all you know,’ said Poirot accusingly, ‘or all you can tell me is that the girl was a poor little rabbit, whom you saw in a typewriting office, where she had torn the heel off her shoe in a grating—’ he broke off. ‘Where was that grating, by the way?’
‘Really, Poirot, how should I know?’
‘You could have known if you had asked. How do you expect to know anything if you do not ask the proper questions?’
‘But how can it matter where the heel came off?’
‘It may not matter. On the other hand, we should know a definite spot where this girl had been, and that might connect up with a person she had seen there—or with an event of some kind which took place there.’
‘You are being rather far-fetched. Anyway I do know it was quite near the office because she said so and that she bought a bun and hobbled back on her stocking feet to eat the bun in the office and she ended up by saying how on earth was she to get home like that?’
‘Ah, and how did she get home?’ Poirot asked with interest.
I stared at him. ‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Ah—but it is impossible, the way you never ask the right questions! As a result you know nothing of what is important.’
‘You’d
better come down to Crowdean and ask questions yourself,’ I said, nettled.
‘That is impossible at the moment. There is a most interesting sale of authors’ manuscripts next week—’
‘Still on your hobby?’
‘But, yes, indeed.’ His eyes brightened. ‘Take the works of John Dickson Carr or Carter Dickson, as he calls himself sometimes’ I escaped before he could get under way, pleading an urgent appointment. I was in no mood to listen to lectures on past masters of the art of crime fiction.
II
I was sitting on the front step of Hardcastle’s house, and rose out of the gloom to greet him when he got home on the following evening.
‘Hallo, Colin? Is that you? So you’ve appeared out of the blue again, have you?’
‘If you called it out of the red, it would be much more appropriate.’
‘How long have you been here, sitting on my front doorstep?’
‘Oh, half an hour or so.’
‘Sorry you couldn’t get into the house.’
‘I could have got into the house with perfect ease,’ I said indignantly. ‘You don’t know our training!’
‘Then why didn’t you get in?’
‘I wouldn’t like to lower your prestige in any way,’ I explained. ‘A detective inspector of police would be bound to lose face if his house were entered burglariously with complete ease.’
Hardcastle took his keys from his pocket and opened the front door. ‘Come on in,’ he said, ‘and don’t talk nonsense.’
He led the way into the sitting-room, and proceeded to supply liquid refreshment. ‘Say when.’
I said it, not too soon, and we settled ourselves with our drinks.
‘Things are moving at last,’ said Hardcastle. ‘We’ve identified our corpse.’
‘I know. I looked up the newspaper files—who was Harry Castleton?’ ‘A man of apparently the utmost respectability and who made his living by going through a form of marriage or merely getting engaged to well-to-do credulous women. They entrusted their savings to him, impressed by his superior knowledge of finance and shortly afterwards he quietly faded into the blue.’
‘He didn’t look that kind of man,’ I said, casting my mind back. ‘That was his chief asset.’
