The Clocks - Agatha Christie [75]
“So you got yourself all worked up. It’s probably quite simple. You may just have been an illegitimate child.”
“I thought of that, too. People do sometimes try and hide that kind of thing from children. It’s very stupid. They’d much better just tell them the real truth. It doesn’t matter as much nowadays. But the whole point is, you see, that I don’t know. I don’t know what’s behind all this. Why was I called Rosemary? It’s not a family name. It means remembrance, doesn’t it?”
“Which could be a nice meaning,” I pointed out.
“Yes, it could … But I don’t feel it was. Anyway, after the inspector had asked me questions that day, I began to think. Why had someone wanted to get me there? To get me there with a strange man who was dead? Or was it the dead man who had wanted me to meet him there? Was he, perhaps—my father, and he wanted me to do something for him? And then someone had come along and killed him instead. Or did someone want to make out from the beginning that it was I who had killed him? Oh, I was all mixed up, frightened. It seemed somehow as if everything was being made to point at me. Getting me there, and a dead man and my name—Rosemary—on my own clock that didn’t belong there. So I got in a panic and did something that was stupid, as you say.”
I shook my head at her.
“You’ve been reading or typing too many thrillers and mystery stories,” I said accusingly. “What about Edna? Haven’t you any idea at all what she’d got into her head about you? Why did she come all the way to your house to talk to you when she saw you every day at the office?”
“I’ve no idea. She couldn’t have thought I had anything to do with the murder. She couldn’t.”
“Could it have been something she overheard and made a mistake about?”
“There was nothing, I tell you. Nothing!”
I wondered. I couldn’t help wondering … Even now, I didn’t trust Sheila to tell the truth.
“Have you got any personal enemies? Disgruntled young men, jealous girls, someone or other a bit unbalanced who might have it in for you?”
It sounded most unconvincing as I said it.
“Of course not.”
So there it was. Even now I wasn’t sure about that clock. It was a fantastic story. 413. What did those figures mean? Why write them on a postcard with the word: REMEMBER unless they would mean something to the person to whom the postcard was sent?
I sighed, paid the bill and got up.
“Don’t worry,” I said. (Surely the most fatuous words in the English or any other language.) “The Colin Lamb Personal Service is on the job. You’re going to be all right, and we’re going to be married and live happily ever after on practically nothing a year. By the way,” I said, unable to stop myself, though I knew it would have been better to end on the romantic note, but the Colin Lamb Personal Curiosity drove me on. “What have you actually done with that clock? Hidden it in your stocking drawer?”
She waited just a moment before she said:
“I put it in the dustbin of the house next door.”
I was quite impressed. It was simple and probably effective. To think of that had been clever of her. Perhaps I had underestimated Sheila.
Twenty-four
COLIN LAMB’S NARRATIVE
I
When Sheila had gone, I went across to the Clarendon, packed my bag and left it ready with the porter. It was the kind of hotel where they are particular about your checking out before noon.
Then I set out. My route took me past the police station, and after hesitating a moment, I went in. I asked for Hardcastle and he was there. I found him frowning down at a letter in his hand.
“I’m off again this evening, Dick,” I said. “Back to London.”
He looked up at me with a thoughtful expression.
“Will you take a piece of advice from me?”
“No,” I said immediately.
He paid no attention. People never do when they want to give you advice.
“I should get away—and stay away—if you know what’s best for you.”
“Nobody can judge what’s best for anyone