The Clocks - Agatha Christie [70]
“Women liked him, did they?”
“Yes. They always fell for him rather easily. Mainly, I think, because he always seemed so good class and respectable. They were proud of having made a conquest of a man like that. They looked forward to a nice safe future with him. That’s the nearest way I can put it. I felt the same way myself,” added Mrs. Rival with some frankness.
“There’s just one more small point,” Hardcastle spoke to his subordinate. “Just bring those clocks in, will you?”
They were brought in on a tray with a cloth over them. Hardcastle whipped off the cloth and exposed them to Mrs. Rival’s gaze. She inspected them with frank interest and approbation.
“Pretty, aren’t they? I like that one.” She touched the ormolu clock.
“You haven’t seen any of them before? They don’t mean anything to you?”
“Can’t say they do. Ought they to?”
“Can you think of any connection between your husband and the name Rosemary?”
“Rosemary? Let me think. There was a red-head—No, her name was Rosalie. I’m afraid I can’t think of anyone. But then I probably wouldn’t know, would I? Harry kept his affairs very dark.”
“If you saw a clock with the hands pointing to four-thirteen—” Hardcastle paused.
Mrs. Rival gave a cheerful chuckle.
“I’d think it was getting on for teatime.”
Hardcastle sighed.
“Well, Mrs. Rival,” he said, “we are very grateful to you. The adjourned inquest, as I told you, will be the day after tomorrow. You won’t mind giving evidence of identification, will you?”
“No. No, that will be all right. I’ll just have to say who he was, is that it? I shan’t have to go into things? I won’t have to go into the manner of his life—anything of that kind?”
“That will not be necessary at present. All you will have to swear to is he is the man, Harry Castleton, to whom you were married. The exact date will be on record at Somerset House. Where were you married? Can you remember that?”
“Place called Donbrook—St. Michael’s, I think was the name of the church. I hope it isn’t more than twenty years ago. That would make me feel I had one foot in the grave,” said Mrs. Rival.
She got up and held out her hand. Hardcastle said good-bye. He went back to his desk and sat there tapping it with a pencil. Presently Sergeant Cray came in.
“Satisfactory?” he asked.
“Seems so,” said the inspector. “Name of Harry Castleton—possibly an alias. We’ll have to see what we can find out about the fellow. It seems likely that more than one woman might have reason to want revenge on him.”
“Looks so respectable, too,” said Cray.
“That,” said Hardcastle, “seems to have been his principal stock-in-trade.”
He thought again about the clock with Rosemary written on it. Remembrance?
Twenty-two
COLIN LAMB’S NARRATIVE
I
“So you have returned,” said Hercule Poirot.
He placed a bookmarker carefully to mark his place in the book he was reading. This time a cup of hot chocolate stood on the table by his elbow. Poirot certainly has the most terrible taste in drinks! For once he did not urge me to join him.
“How are you?” I asked.
“I am disturbed. I am much disturbed. They make the renovations, the redecorations, even the structural alteration in these flats.”
“Won’t that improve them?”
“It will improve them, yes—but it will be most vexatious to me. I shall have to disarrange myself. There will be a smell of paint!” He looked at me with an air of outrage.
Then, dismissing his difficulties with a wave of his hand, he asked:
“You have had the success, yes?”
I said slowly: “I don’t know.”
“Ah—it is like that.”
“I found out what I was sent to find out. I did not find the man himself. I myself do not know what was wanted. Information? Or a body?”
“Speaking of bodies, I read the account of the adjourned inquest at Crowdean. Wilful murder by a person or persons unknown. And your body has been given a name at last.”
I nodded.
“Harry Castleton,