The Clocks - Agatha Christie [35]
“I’m afraid I can’t lay claim to be a practical gardener,” said Hardcastle.
McNaughton looked at him much as an artist looks at someone who says they know nothing of art but they know what they like.
“I’m afraid I’ve called about a much less pleasant subject,” Hardcastle said.
“Of course. This business yesterday. I was out in the garden, you know, when it happened.”
“Indeed?”
“Well, I mean I was here when the girl screamed.”
“What did you do?”
“Well,” said Mr. McNaughton rather sheepishly, “I didn’t do anything. As a matter of fact I thought it was those blasted Ramsay boys. Always yelling and screaming and making a noise.”
“But surely this scream didn’t come from quite the same direction?”
“Not if those blasted boys ever stayed in their own garden. But they don’t, you know. They get through people’s fences and hedges. They chase those wretched cats of Mrs. Hemming’s all over the place. There’s nobody to keep a firm hand on them, that’s the trouble. Their mother’s weak as water. Of course, when there’s no man in the house, boys do get out of hand.”
“Mr. Ramsay is abroad a good deal I understand.”
“Construction engineer, I believe,” said Mr. McNaughton vaguely. “Always going off somewhere. Dams, you know. I’m not swearing, my dear,” he assured his wife. “I mean jobs to do with the building of dams, or else it’s oil or pipelines or something like that. I don’t really know. He had to go off to Sweden a month ago at a moment’s notice. That left the boys’ mother with a lot to do—cooking and housework and that—and, well—of course they were bound to run wild. They’re not bad boys, mind you, but they need discipline.”
“You yourself didn’t see anything—apart I mean from hearing the scream? When was that, by the way?”
“No idea,” said Mr. McNaughton. “I take my watch off always before I come out here. Ran the hose over it the other day and had quite a job getting it repaired afterwards. What time was it, my dear? You heard it, didn’t you?”
“It must have been half past two perhaps—it was at least half an hour after we finished lunch.”
“I see. What time do you lunch?”
“Half past one,” said Mr. McNaughton, “if we’re lucky. Our Danish girl has got no sense of time.”
“And afterwards—do you have a nap?”
“Sometimes. I didn’t today. I wanted to get on with what I was doing. I was clearing away a lot of stuff, adding to the compost heap, and all that.”
“Wonderful thing, a compost heap,” said Hardcastle, solemnly.
Mr. McNaughton brightened immediately.
“Absolutely. Nothing like it. Ah! The number of people I’ve converted. Using all these chemical manures! Suicide! Let me show you.”
He drew Hardcastle eagerly by the arm and trundling his barrow, went along the path to the edge of the fence that divided his garden from that of No. 19. Screened by lilac bushes, the compost heap was displayed in its glory. Mr. McNaughton wheeled the wheelbarrow to a small shed beside it. Inside the shed were several nicely arranged tools.
“Very tidy you keep everything,” remarked Hardcastle.
“Got to take care of your tools,” said McNaughton.
Hardcastle was looking thoughtfully towards No. 19. On the other side of the fence was a rose pergola which led up to the side of the house.
“You didn’t see anyone in the garden at Number 19 or looking out of the window in the house, or anything like that while you were at your compost heap?”
McNaughton shook his head.
“Didn’t see anything at all,” he said. “Sorry I can’t help you, Inspector.”
“You know, Angus,” said his wife, “I believe I did see a figure skulking in the garden of 19.”
“I don’t think you did, my dear,” said her husband firmly. “I didn’t, either.”
“That woman would say she’d seen anything,” Hardcastle growled when they were back in the car.
“You don’t think she recognized the photograph?”
Hardcastle shook his head. “I doubt it. She just wants to think she’s seen him. I know that type of witness only too well. When I pinned her down to it, she couldn’t give chapter or verse, could she?”
“No.”
“Of course she may have sat opposite him in a bus or something. I’ll allow you that.