The Clocks - Agatha Christie [87]
“I’m glad you’re pleased,” said Mrs. Rival.
“And this accident with the razor happened—when?”
Mrs. Rival considered a moment.
“It must have been about—oh, about six months after we were married. Yes, that was it. We got the dog that summer, I remember.”
“So it took place about October or November, 1948. Is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“And after your husband left you in 1951….”
“He didn’t so much leave me as I turned him out,” said Mrs. Rival with dignity.
“Quite so. Whichever way you like to put it. Anyway, after you turned your husband out in 1951 you never saw him again until you saw his picture in the paper?”
“Yes. That’s what I told you.”
“And you’re quite sure about that, Mrs. Rival?”
“Of course I’m sure. I never set eyes on Harry Castleton since that day until I saw him dead.”
“That’s odd, you know,” said Inspector Hardcastle, “that’s very odd.”
“Why—what do you mean?”
“Well, it’s a very curious thing, scar tissue. Of course, it wouldn’t mean much to you or me. A scar’s a scar. But doctors can tell a lot from it. They can tell roughly, you know, how long a man has had a scar.”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“Well, simply this, Mrs. Rival. According to our police surgeon and to another doctor whom we consulted, that scar tissue behind your husband’s ear shows very clearly that the wound in question could not be older than about five to six years ago.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Rival. “I don’t believe it. I—nobody can tell. Anyway that wasn’t when….”
“So you see,” proceeded Hardcastle in a smooth voice, “if that wound made a scar only five or six years ago, it means that if the man was your husband he had no scar at the time when he left you in 1951.”
“Perhaps he didn’t. But anyway it was Harry.”
“But you’ve never seen him since, Mrs. Rival. So if you’ve never seen him since, how would you know that he had acquired a scar five or six years ago?”
“You mix me up,” said Mrs. Rival, “you mix me up badly. Perhaps it wasn’t as long ago as 1948—You can’t remember all these things. Anyway, Harry had that scar and I know it.”
“I see,” said Inspector Hardcastle and he rose to his feet. “I think you’d better think over that statement of yours very carefully, Mrs. Rival. You don’t want to get into trouble, you know.”
“How do you mean, get into trouble?”
“Well,” Inspector Hardcastle spoke almost apologetically, “perjury.”
“Perjury. Me!”
“Yes. It’s quite a serious offence in law, you know. You could get into trouble, even go to prison. Of course, you’ve not been on oath in a coroner’s court, but you may have to swear to this evidence of yours in a proper court sometime. Then—well, I’d like you to think it over very carefully, Mrs. Rival. It may be that somebody—suggested to you that you should tell us this story about the scar?”
Mrs. Rival got up. She drew herself to her full height, her eyes flashed. She was at that moment almost magnificent.
“I never heard such nonsense in my life,” she said. “Absolute nonsense. I try and do my duty. I come and help you, I tell you all I can remember. If I’ve made a mistake I’m sure it’s natural enough. After all I meet a good many—well, gentlemen friends, and one may get things a little wrong sometimes. But I don’t think I did make a mistake. That man was Harry and Harry had a scar behind his left ear, I’m quite sure of it. And now, perhaps, Inspector Hardcastle, you’ll go away instead of coming here and insinuating that I’ve been telling lies.”
Inspector Hardcastle got up promptly.
“Good night, Mrs. Rival,” he said. “Just think it over. That’s all.”
Mrs. Rival tossed her head. Hardcastle went out of the door. With his departure, Mrs. Rival’s attitude altered immediately. The fine defiance of her attitude collapsed. She looked frightened and worried.
“Getting me into this,” she murmured, “getting