The Clocks - Agatha Christie [6]
Hardcastle closed the door. Before he could speak, Millicent Pebmarsh said abruptly:
“Who’s that young man?”
“His name is Colin Lamb.”
“So he informed me. But who is he? Why did he come here?”
Hardcastle looked at her in faint surprise.
“He happened to be walking down the street when Miss Webb rushed out of this house screaming murder. After coming in and satisfying himself as to what had occurred he rang us up, and was asked to come back here and wait.”
“You spoke to him as Colin.”
“You are very observant, Miss Pebmarsh—(observant? hardly the word. And yet none other fitted)—Colin Lamb is a friend of mine, though it is some time since I have seen him.” He added: “He’s a marine biologist.”
“Oh! I see.”
“Now, Miss Pebmarsh, I shall be glad if you can tell me anything about this rather surprising affair.”
“Willingly. But there is very little to tell.”
“You have resided here for some time, I believe?”
“Since 1950. I am—was—a schoolmistress by profession. When I was told nothing could be done about my failing eyesight and that I should shortly go blind, I applied myself to become a specialist in Braille and various techniques for helping the blind. I have a job here at the Aaronberg Institute for Blind and Handicapped children.”
“Thank you. Now as to the events of this afternoon. Were you expecting a visitor?”
“No.”
“I will read you a description of the dead man to see if it suggests to you anyone in particular. Height five feet nine to ten, age approximately sixty, dark hair going grey, brown eyes, clean shaven, thin face, firm jaw. Well nourished but not fat. Dark grey suit, well-kept hands. Might be a bank clerk, an accountant, a lawyer, or a professional man of some kind. Does that suggest to you anyone that you know?”
Millicent Pebmarsh considered carefully before replying.
“I can’t say that it does. Of course it’s a very generalized description. It would fit quite a number of people. It might be someone I have seen or met on some occasion, but certainly not anyone I know well.”
“You have not received any letter lately from anyone proposing to call upon you?”
“Definitely not.”
“Very good. Now, you rang up the Cavendish Secretarial Bureau and asked for the services of a stenographer and—”
She interrupted him.
“Excuse me. I did nothing of the kind.”
“You did not ring up the Cavendish Secretarial Bureau and ask—” Hardcastle stared.
“I don’t have a telephone in the house.”
“There is a call box at the end of the street,” Inspector Hardcastle pointed out.
“Yes, of course. But I can only assure you, Inspector Hardcastle, that I had no need for a stenographer and did not—repeat not—ring up this Cavendish place with any such request.”
“You did not ask for Miss Sheila Webb particularly?”
“I have never heard that name before.”
Hardcastle stared at her, astonished.
“You left the front door unlocked,” he pointed out.
“I frequently do so in the daytime.”
“Anybody might walk in.”
“Anybody seems to have done so in this case,” said Miss Pebmarsh drily.
“Miss Pebmarsh, this man according to the medical evidence died roughly between 1:30 and 2:45. Where were you yourself then?”
Miss Pebmarsh reflected.
“At 1:30 I must either have left or been preparing to leave the house. I had some shopping to do.”
“Can you tell me exactly where you went?”
“Let me see. I went to the post office, the one in Albany Road, posted a parcel, got some stamps, then I did some household shopping, yes and I got some patent fasteners and safety pins at the drapers, Field and Wren. Then I returned here. I can tell you exactly what the time was. My cuckoo clock cuckooed three times as I came to the gate. I can hear it from the road.”
“And what about your other clocks?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your other clocks seem all to be just over an hour fast.”
“Fast? You mean the grandfather clock in the corner?”
“Not that only—all the other clocks in the sitting room are the same.”
“I don’t understand what you mean by the ‘other clocks.’ There are no other clocks in the sitting