The Clocks - Agatha Christie [96]
“And then comes the inquest. And the girls all go to it. Miss Martindale repeats her story of the telephone call and Edna knows definitely now that the evidence Miss Martindale gives so clearly, with such precision as to the exact time, is untrue. It was then that she asked the constable if she could speak to the inspector. I think probably that Miss Martindale, leaving the Cornmarket in a crowd of people, overheard her asking that. Perhaps by then she had heard the girls chaffing Edna about her shoe accident without realizing what it involved. Anyway, she followed the girl to Wilbraham Crescent. Why did Edna go there, I wonder?”
“Just to stare at the place where it happened, I expect,” said Hardcastle with a sigh. “People do.”
“Yes, that is true enough. Perhaps Miss Martindale speaks to her there, walks with her down the road and Edna plumps out her question. Miss Martindale acts quickly. They are just by the telephone box. She says, ‘This is very important. You must ring up the police at once. The number of the police station is so and so. Ring up and tell them we are both coming there now.’ It is second nature for Edna to do what she is told. She goes in, picks up the receiver and Miss Martindale comes in behind her, pulls the scarf round her neck and strangles her.”
“And nobody saw this?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“They might have done, but they didn’t! It was just on one o’clock. Lunchtime. And what people there were in the Crescent were busy staring at 19. It was a chance boldly taken by a bold and unscrupulous woman.”
Hardcastle was shaking his head doubtfully.
“Miss Martindale? I don’t see how she can possibly come into it.”
“No. One does not see at first. But since Miss Martindale undoubtedly killed Edna—oh, yes—only she could have killed Edna, then she must come into it. And I begin to suspect that in Miss Martindale we have the Lady Macbeth of this crime, a woman who is ruthless and unimaginative.”
“Unimaginative?” queried Hardcastle.
“Oh, yes, quite unimaginative. But very efficient. A good planner.”
“But why? Where’s the motive?”
Hercule Poirot looked at me. He wagged a finger.
“So the neighbours’ conversation was no use to you, eh? I found one most illuminating sentence. Do you remember that after talking of living abroad, Mrs. Bland remarked that she liked living in Crowdean because she had a sister here. But Mrs. Bland was not supposed to have a sister. She had inherited a large fortune a year ago from a Canadian great-uncle because she was the only surviving member of his family.”
Hardcastle sat up alertly.
“So you think—”
Poirot leaned back in his chair and put his fingertips together. He half closed his eyes and spoke dreamily.
“Say you are a man, a very ordinary and not too scrupulous man, in bad financial difficulties. A letter comes one day from a firm of lawyers to say that your wife has inherited a big fortune from a great-uncle in Canada. The letter is addressed to Mrs. Bland and the only difficulty is that the Mrs. Bland who receives it is the wrong Mrs. Bland—she is the second wife—not the first one—Imagine the chagrin! The fury! And then an idea comes. Who is to know that it is the wrong Mrs. Bland? Nobody in Crowdean knows that Bland was married before. His first marriage, years ago, took place