Below the Clock. David Brawn

never heard of the stuff until this morning. Perhaps you’re satisfied now?’

      ‘Don’t speak before you think,’ said Petrie curtly. ‘If you gave the strophantin to Reardon it isn’t very likely that you’d have kept some of the stuff in your flat. And since you were so certain that there was no poison here why did you ask whether any had been found?’ Before Watson could speak Petrie picked up the bundle of papers and commenced to run through them. Eric watched him closely. The search was conducted at lightning speed, paper after paper being dropped on the table as soon as they had been glanced at. Then Amos stopped abruptly. In his hand he held a photograph.

      Watson could not see it. He did not need to. He knew it was a woman’s. Petrie raised his eyes and Eric reddened under the inspection.

      ‘When you were talking to me you said nothing about the lady. Did you think the matter so unimportant?’

      ‘There’s nothing to tell. Otherwise I would have spoken.’

      ‘I see. Well, we’ll take a look and see whether the photograph itself can give us any information. I’m sure you don’t mind.’

      Amos did not wait to discover whether Watson objected or not. He opened the back of the frame and extracted the photo. Watson looked on with dull resentment. His anger rose when the little man turned the photograph over and inspected the face for a full minute. Finally he tapped the frame on the table and examined what fell out, making sure that it was neither makers’ shavings nor packer’s dust.

      ‘There’s no mystery about it,’ snapped Watson. ‘It’s an old photo.’

      ‘I see it is,’ said Amos calmly. ‘Judging from the last time I saw Mrs Reardon it must have been taken about ten or twelve years ago. You had it in a different frame not long ago. I think the lady was foolishly impetuous when she scribbled on this. Was she a classical student? “Omnia vincit amor. Lola.” Very pretty. I suppose that means, “Love conquers all things”? I wonder whether it conquers death—particularly sudden death? Do you think Mrs Reardon imagines that love is quite so potent? Maybe she has changed her mind by now.’

      Watson squirmed, wanted to throttle the man. He started to speak and stopped when he saw Petrie take another photograph in his hand.

      ‘Well, well, well, Mr Watson! Now this one does tell a story. I see it’s quite new. It’s never been framed and there’s no dust on it. H’m, rather looks as though the ancient affection has continued to quite recent times. This was taken about a year ago, I imagine. I wonder whether Mrs Reardon ever contemplated inscribing this one as she did the other? I see she hasn’t even signed it. I believe I might have suggested something suitable for her to use—although I was never a classical scholar.’

      ‘Oh, yes? And what would you have suggested?’ Watson sat forward tensely, wondering whether Petrie would give away a clue to his thoughts. The solicitor scratched his forehead before replying:

      ‘My French is very elementary. Still, I seem to remember someone writing: Mais on revient toujours a ses premières amour. Perhaps you’ll agree that it would have appeared pleasing on the bottom of this second photograph?’

      ‘I can see no possible reason why Mrs Reardon should write about one always returning to one’s first love. If you think it at all remarkable that I should have been presented with a photograph quite recently may I remind you that I was Parliamentary Private Secretary to the lady’s husband? Apart from that your acuteness dazzles me. I don’t know how you work these things out.’ Watson was too heavily sarcastic and it displeased him to see that Petrie was smiling as though appreciating the rebuff.

      ‘I had recalled, of course,’ said Petrie, ‘that you were Reardon’s P.P.S. But I am incredibly dense. It had not occurred to me that that was why you kept his wife’s photograph in your bedroom. I didn’t appreciate that it was part of your duties. I will never be able to understand the complexities of politics.’ He shook his head almost mournfully and Watson cursed silently. This little man was not quite as harmless as one assumed.

      ‘From the colour of my necktie,’ he sneered again, ‘I suppose you deduce that I am in love with the lady?’

      ‘Not exactly,’ replied Amos casually, ‘I imagined that from your former silence and your present anger.’

      The calmness of the judgment made it more devastating. It seemed to Watson that those few words encompassed all he dreaded. They stripped him of his anger and his sarcasm. He was unmanned. Now he stared at the curious person whose suspicions he had aroused and whose suspicions had travelled so far.

      ‘Had you forgotten those photographs, Mr Watson, when you asked me to search your flat?’

      ‘Not at all. It never occurred to me that they, or she, had anything to do with the matter. Nor does it now. Even assuming that all your deductions are right I don’t see how the photos affect the issue.’

      ‘No? Then you don’t recognise that even ladies are at times associated with such crimes as murder?’

      ‘Perhaps, in some cases, they are. But this time you are hopelessly and hideously wrong.’

      ‘I’ve found myself entirely wrong before today—particularly when fishing. Ripple, you haven’t much to say. Are there any questions you’d like to ask Mr Watson before we leave?’

      ‘One or two. You must expect some bluntness from me,’ said the Yard man. ‘I don’t play about with words.’

      ‘My friend does not practise the art of finesse,’ remarked Amos.

      ‘I have already been informed about that,’ said Eric surlily.

      ‘Did Reardon know that there had been an affectionate association between yourself and his wife before her marriage?’ asked Ripple.

      ‘I couldn’t tell you. He was not the sort of man to worry about that. In any case, he had every right to trust me and he did trust me.’

      ‘Do you consider that Mrs Reardon is in no way concerned with her husband’s death?’

      ‘Good God, man! I am certain upon that point. Don’t be ridiculous.’

      ‘Then why have you swerved away from questions, become annoyed over trifles, and acted like a person with a lot to hide?’

      ‘I have acted quite straightforwardly all the way through.’

      ‘Was that bottle of claret unopened when you took the drink out of it for Reardon?’

      ‘Quite untouched. I had to extract the cork myself.’

      ‘You would have noticed if the bottle had been tampered with?’

      ‘Naturally. I can swear that it had not been touched.’

      Petrie frowned and rapped on the table.

      ‘Are you trying to make things as awkward as possible for yourself.’

      ‘Certainly not. I am telling you the truth. Don’t you believe me?’

      ‘Did Reardon instruct you personally to bring him a claret and soda? I know that he would take a drink, but did he specify what sort of drink he wanted?’

      ‘Certainly. Men don’t drink an unusual mixture like that by pure accident. Surely you know that without asking me?’

      ‘Being nothing except a beer drinker I couldn’t answer you. I don’t think we’ll detain you any longer. When you see Mrs Reardon again you might tell her that within the next few hours I’ll call upon her. It might save her from a shock when I arrive.’

      ‘Is it necessary, Mr Petrie?’ asked Watson anxiously.

      ‘Entirely so—and you haven’t helped her position.’

      ‘I haven’t?’ Watson seemed staggered, quite amazed. ‘But I’d never do a thing to make difficulties for her.’

      ‘Perhaps that accounts for most