Below the Clock. David Brawn

he been to see a doctor recently?’ asked Curtis.

      ‘No, not since I’ve known him. Edgar was always terribly fit.’

      ‘Would you mind if I telephoned to his doctor, Mrs Reardon?’

      ‘Of course I wouldn’t. I’m only too grateful to you for helping me. It’s Dr Cyril Clyde, of Welbeck Street.’

      The widow and Watson sat miserably silent while Curtis was out of the room. Fleeting glances passed between them. The woman’s fingers were jerking nervously. Again and again a shudder caused her body to move with the agitation of a marionette. They were both relieved when Curtis returned.

      ‘Only makes things worse,’ he announced. ‘I told him what had happened, and he says that your husband, Mrs Reardon, was a singularly healthy man, that his heart was perfectly sound, that he was not known to suffer from any ailments, and that he was the last man in the world who would die with such suddenness from natural causes.’

      ‘What does he suggest doing, Mr Curtis?’

      ‘He talked about going to the House to take a look at the body. I told him that he could, of course, make an attempt, but I doubted whether he would gain admission. The matter is now in the hands of the Coroner of the Household, and he is not in the position of an ordinary coroner. But he can try.’

      The woman was again silent for a time. Suddenly she sat stiffly erect and stared at Curtis.

      ‘Do you mean,’ she asked, ‘that there is going to be an inquest?’

      She was bordering on another lapse into hysteria. The two men glanced at each other. Watson left Curtis to soothe her.

      ‘Just a pure formality,’ he said casually. ‘Nothing at all for you to trouble about.’ From that point Curtis disregarded the curiously embarrassing glances of both Mrs Reardon and Watson as he maintained a thin stream of talk, striving to dim the tragedy in the widow’s mind. His idle chatter covered a vast range, skimming here, dipping there, but the light, discursive style had its effect. Ten minutes afterwards neither could have remembered a thing he said. Yet he had fed the woman’s mind with a flow of comforting suggestions, sliding away dexterously from any subject which might call for a reply. In that way he broke the silence gently rather than by expressing any views or feelings.

      Curtis had just drawn to a conclusion when a knock sounded on the door. A manservant entered.

      ‘Mr Paling would like to see you, madam,’ he announced.

      The widow closed her top teeth over her lip and tapped her foot irritably. Watson half rose, opened his mouth as though to speak and suddenly sat down again. Curtis looked from one to the other with a puzzled frown on his forehead.

      ‘I do not wish to see the gentleman tonight,’ said Mrs Reardon.

      The manservant bowed and retired. But he soon returned. This time the widow glared at him angrily.

      ‘Mr Paling says his call is reasonably important, madam, and he thinks it advisable that you should speak to him.’

      ‘Show him in,’ she snapped. She moved from her seat and stood at Watson’s side. The two men rose. Paling strolled into the room with an easy style and a confident manner. He scarcely looked the part of a man who had been curtly rebuffed.

      ‘What is it?’ asked the widow. She might have been speaking to a recalcitrant dog. Paling continued to smile. Small veins were pulsing in Watson’s forehead.

      ‘I thought I would call to tell you, Mrs Reardon,’ said Paling, ‘that a detective—I think his name was Inspector Ripple—has just called on me to ask what I know about the … eh … the tragedy.’

      The widow threw a look at Watson that was at once both startled and apprehensive. The creases on Curtis’ brow deepened.

      ‘A detective?’ repeated the woman. ‘What on earth does that mean?’

      ‘They haven’t lost much time in getting to work,’ said Curtis.

      ‘Getting to work?’ queried Watson. ‘What on earth have detectives got to do with Reardon’s death?’

      ‘I suppose they’re making inquiries instead of the coroner’s officer,’ said Curtis soothingly. ‘You’ve got to remember that this is not a routine matter. When things happen in the House of Commons the aftermath runs along lines outside the ordinary track.’

      ‘One would have imagined that this man Ripple would have seen me before anyone,’ said Watson.

      ‘You’ve got your turn to come,’ remarked Curtis.

      ‘I thought it only right that I should call and give you that information, Mrs Reardon,’ said Paling, ‘and since I realise the extent of my unpopularity I’ll leave. Good-evening.’

      The widow did not glance at him as he walked out of the room. She appeared stunned. Watson was in no condition to quieten her nerves. He drummed on the top of a chair with his fingers and licked his dry lips. It seemed that a fresh emotional disturbance had arisen.

      ‘I think,’ said Mrs Reardon deliberately, ‘that I hate that man Paling more than any person I have ever met. I loathe him.’

      ‘Come now!’ pleaded Curtis, ‘I don’t know him at all but his news wasn’t in any way bad, and it was pretty decent of Paling to drift along and tell you. Perhaps he was only trying to be considerate.’

      The woman pursed her lips. The men watched her. When she spoke the words poured in a flood, sounded so ladened with venom that hysteria might have explained them:

      ‘That’s the trouble. He’s always considerate about things that don’t matter. For nearly a year I’ve tried to stop him coming to this house, almost gone on my knees to Edgar to bar the man from here. I couldn’t do it, couldn’t do it. And I’m supposed to be the mistress of the place! I hate, loathe, and detest the man.’

      ‘He seems a gentleman,’ protested Curtis.

      ‘Gentleman? Pshaw! I hate him.’

      ‘Now I should have thought—’ The sentence was not completed. A knock sounded and the manservant entered again.

      ‘Chief Inspector Ripple wishes to speak to Mr Watson.’

      Mrs Reardon slumped into a chair. Curtis wiped his hand across his forehead. Watson stalked out of the room as though marching to meet a firing squad. The door closed. The widow commenced to sob.

      ‘I think you ought to take a sedative and retire, Mrs Reardon,’ said Curtis. ‘You are too overwrought, and each minute is making you worse. If you don’t get to bed you’ll be mentally and physically exhausted.’

      ‘I couldn’t sleep, positively couldn’t. I just want to be quiet, to be still while I realise that I’ll never see Edgar again.’

      She pushed a box of cigarettes towards the man. The hint was obvious. He lit a smoke and sat on the arm of a chair, swinging his legs, and trying unsuccessfully to blow rings. Seven or eight minutes dragged by before the door opened again. Watson entered, a little less jaunty, a trifle more pale. She stared at him with wide eyes.

      ‘Has he given you a real third degree interview?’ asked Curtis.

      ‘Asked me about two million questions. All of them uselessly mad.’

      ‘Did he happen to worry you at all about the claret and seltzer?’

      Watson started. The widow looked at Curtis with the sudden head twist of a frightened bird.

      ‘He seemed to be more interested in that infernal drink than he was in anything. I told him what bit I knew about it.’

      ‘Did he seem satisfied when you’d finished your statement?’

      ‘Those men are never satisfied, Curtis. Why, he even started talking about murder. Either that man is mad or I am.’

      Whichever