The Clocks - Agatha Christie [64]
“Dear, dear,” said the professor. “Strangled in a telephone box. That seems very extraordinary to me. Very extraordinary. Not the sort of place I would choose myself. I mean, if I were to do such a thing. No, indeed. Well, well. Poor girl. Most unfortunate for her.”
“Edna—killed! But why?”
“Did you know, Miss Webb, that Edna Brent was very anxious to see you the day before yesterday, that she came to your aunt’s house, and waited for some time for you to come back?”
“My fault again,” said the professor guiltily. “I kept Miss Webb very late that evening, I remember. Very late indeed. I really still feel very apologetic about it. You must always remind me of the time, my dear. You really must.”
“My aunt told me about that,” said Sheila, “but I didn’t know it was anything special. Was it? Was Edna in trouble of any kind?”
“We don’t know,” said the inspector. “We probably never shall know. Unless you can tell us?”
“I tell you? How should I know?”
“You might have had some idea, perhaps, of what Edna Brent wanted to see you about?”
She shook her head. “I’ve no idea, no idea at all.”
“Hasn’t she hinted anything to you, spoken to you in the office at all about whatever the trouble was?”
“No. No, indeed she hasn’t—hadn’t—I wasn’t at the office at all yesterday. I had to go over to Landis Bay to one of our authors for the whole day.”
“You didn’t think that she’d been worried lately?”
“Well, Edna always looked worried or puzzled. She had a very—what shall I say—diffident, uncertain kind of mind. I mean, she was never quite sure that what she thought of doing was the right thing or not. She missed out two whole pages in typing Armand Levine’s book once and she was terribly worried about what to do then, because she’d sent it off to him before she realized what had happened.”
“I see. And she asked you all your advice as to what she should do about it?”
“Yes. I told her she’d better write a note to him quickly because people don’t always start reading their typescript at once for correction. She could write and say what had happened and ask him not to complain to Miss Martindale. But she said she didn’t quite like to do that.”
“She usually came and asked for advice when one of these problems arose?”
“Oh, yes, always. But the trouble was, of course, that we didn’t always all agree as to what she should do. Then she got puzzled again.”
“So it would be quite natural that she should come to one of you if she had a problem? It happened quite frequently?”
“Yes. Yes, it did.”
“You don’t think it might have been something more serious this time?”
“I don’t suppose so. What sort of serious thing could it be?”
Was Sheila Webb, the inspector wondered, quite as much at ease as she tried to appear?”
“I don’t know what she wanted to talk to me about,” she went on, speaking faster and rather breathlessly. “I’ve no idea. And I certainly can’t imagine why she wanted to come out to my aunt’s house and speak to me there.”
“It would seem, wouldn’t it, that it was something she did not want to speak to you about at the Cavendish Bureau? Before the other girls, shall we say? Something, perhaps, that she felt ought to be kept private between you and her. Could that have been the case?”
“I think it’s very unlikely. I’m sure it couldn’t have been at all like that.” Her breath came quickly.
“So you can’t help me, Miss Webb?”
“No. I’m sorry. I’m very sorry about Edna, but I don’t know anything that could help you.”
“Nothing that might have a connection or a tie-up with what happened on the 9th of September?”
“You mean—that man—that man in Wilbraham Crescent?”
“That’s what I mean.”
“How could it have been? What could Edna have known about that?”
“Nothing very important, perhaps,” said the inspector, “but something. And anything would help. Anything, however small.” He paused. “The telephone box where she was killed was in Wilbraham Crescent. Does that convey anything to you, Miss Webb?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Were you