The Clocks - Agatha Christie [69]
Hardcastle said gently:
“You were fond of him, Mrs. Rival?”
“I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. I suppose I was in a way, or I wouldn’t have married him….”
“You were—excuse me—married to him?”
“I don’t even know that for sure,” said Mrs. Rival frankly. “We were married all right. In a church, too, but I don’t know if he had married other women as well, using a different name, I suppose. His name was Castleton when I married him. I don’t think it was his own name.”
“Harry Castleton. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“And you lived in this place, Shipton Bois, as man and wife—for how long?”
“We’d been there about two years. Before that we lived near Doncaster. I don’t say I was really surprised when he came back that day and told me. I think I’d known he was a wrong ’un for some time. One just couldn’t believe it because, you see, he always seemed so respectable. So absolutely the gentleman!”
“And what happened then?”
“He said he’d got to get out of there quick and I said he could go and good riddance, that I wasn’t standing for all this!” She added thoughtfully, “I gave him ten pounds. It was all I had in the house. He said he was short of money … I’ve never seen or heard of him since. Until today. Or rather, until I saw his picture in the paper.”
“He didn’t have any special distinguishing marks? Scars? An operation—or a fracture—anything like that?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t think so.”
“Did he ever use the name Curry?”
“Curry? No, I don’t think so. Not that I know of, anyway.” Hardcastle slipped the card across the table to her.
“This was in his pocket,” he said.
“Still saying he’s an insurance agent, I see,” she remarked. “I expect he uses—used, I mean—all sorts of different names.”
“You say you’ve never heard of him for the last fifteen years?”
“He hasn’t sent me a Christmas card, if that’s what you mean,” said Mrs. Rival, with a sudden glint of humour. “I don’t suppose he’d know where I was, anyway. I went back to the stage for a bit after we parted. On tour mostly. It wasn’t much of a life and I dropped the name of Castleton too. Went back to Merlina Rival.”
“Merlina’s—er—not your real name, I suppose?”
She shook her head and a faint, cheerful smile appeared on her face.
“I thought it up. Unusual. My real name’s Flossie Gapp. Florence, I suppose I must have been christened, but everyone always calls me Flossie or Flo. Flossie Gapp. Not very romantic, is it?”
“What are you doing now? Are you still acting, Mrs. Rival?”
“Occasionally,” said Mrs. Rival with a touch of reticence. “On and off, as you might say.”
Hardcastle was tactful.
“I see,” he said.
“I do odd jobs here and there,” she said. “Help out at parties, a bit of hostess work, that sort of thing. It’s not a bad life. At any rate you meet people. Things get near the bone now and again.”
“You’ve never heard anything of Henry Castleton since you parted—or about him?”
“Not a word. I thought perhaps he’d gone abroad—or was dead.”
“The only other thing I can ask you, Mrs. Rival, is if you have any idea why Harry Castleton should have come to this neighbourhood?”
“No. Of course I’ve no idea. I don’t even know what he’s been doing all these years.”
“Would it be likely that he would be selling fraudulent insurance—something of that kind?”
“I simply don’t know. It doesn’t seem to me terribly likely. I mean, Harry was very careful of himself always. He wouldn’t stick his neck out doing something that he might be brought to book for. I should have thought it more likely it was some racket with women.”
“Might it have been, do you think, Mrs. Rival, some form of blackmail?”
“Well, I don’t know … I suppose, yes, in a way. Some woman, perhaps, that wouldn’t want something in her past raked up. He’d feel pretty safe over that, I think.