The Clocks - Agatha Christie [67]
“That Mrs. Rival not arrived yet?”
“Just come this minute,” said Cray. “I was coming to tell you.”
“What’s she like?”
“Bit theatrical-looking,” said Cray, after reflecting a moment. “Lots of makeup—not very good makeup. Fairly reliable sort of woman on the whole, I should say.”
“Did she seem upset?”
“No. Not noticeably.”
“All right,” said Hardcastle, “let’s have her in.”
Cray departed and presently returned saying as he did so, “Mrs. Rival, sir.”
The inspector got up and shook hands with her. About fifty, he would judge, but from a long way away—quite a long way—she might have looked thirty. Close at hand, the result of makeup carelessly applied made her look rather older than fifty but on the whole he put it at fifty. Dark hair heavily hennaed. No hat, medium height and build, wearing a dark coat and skirt and a white blouse. Carrying a large tartan bag. A jingly bracelet or two, several rings. On the whole, he thought, making moral judgements on the basis of his experience, rather a good sort. Not overscrupulous, probably, but easy to live with, reasonably generous, possibly kind. Reliable? That was the question. He wouldn’t bank on it, but then he couldn’t afford to bank on that kind of thing anyway.
“I’m very glad to see you, Mrs. Rival,” he said, “and I hope very much you’ll be able to help us.”
“Of course, I’m not at all sure,” said Mrs. Rival. She spoke apologetically. “But it did look like Harry. Very much like Harry. Of course I’m quite prepared to find that it isn’t, and I hope I shan’t have taken up your time for nothing.”
She seemed quite apologetic about it.
“You mustn’t feel that in any case,” said the inspector. “We want help very badly over this case.”
“Yes, I see. I hope I’ll be able to be sure. You see, it’s a long time since I saw him.”
“Shall we get down a few facts to help us? When did you last see your husband?”
“I’ve been trying to get it accurate,” said Mrs. Rival, “all the way down in the train. It’s terrible how one’s memory goes when it comes to time. I believe I said in my letter to you it was about ten years ago, but it’s more than that. D’you know, I think it’s nearer fifteen. Time does go so fast. I suppose,” she added shrewdly, “that one tends to think it’s less than it is because it makes you yourself feel younger. Don’t you think so?”
“I should think it could do,” said the inspector. “Anyway you think it’s roughly fifteen years since you saw him? When were you married?”
“It must have been about three years before that,” said Mrs. Rival.
“And you were living then?”
“At a place called Shipton Bois in Suffolk. Nice town. Market town. Rather one-horse, if you know what I mean.”
“And what did your husband do?”
“He was an insurance agent. At least—” she stopped herself “—that’s what he said he was.”
The inspector looked up sharply.
“You found out that that wasn’t true?”
“Well, no, not exactly … Not at the time. It’s only since then that I’ve thought that perhaps it wasn’t true. It’d be an easy thing for a man to say, wouldn’t it?”
“I suppose it would in certain circumstances.”
“I mean, it gives a man an excuse for being away from home a good deal.”
“Your husband was away from home a good deal, Mrs. Rival?”
“Yes. I never thought about it much to begin with—”
“But later?”
She did not answer at once then she said:
“Can’t we get on with it? After all, if it isn’t Harry….”
He wondered what exactly she was thinking. There was strain in her voice, possibly emotion? He was not sure.
“I can understand,” he said, “that you’d like to get it over. We’ll go now.”
He rose and escorted her out of the room to the waiting car. Her nervousness when they got to where they were going, was no more than the nervousness of other people he had taken to this same place. He said the usual reassuring things.
“It’ll be quite