The Clocks - Agatha Christie [38]
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,