The Clocks. Agatha Christie

      ‘What’s the trouble?’ she asked.

      ‘A man was found dead in the sitting-room at 19, Wilbraham Crescent this afternoon.’

      Mrs Curtin stared. Ernie Curtin wriggled in ecstasy, opened his mouth to say ‘Coo’, thought it unwise to draw attention to his presence, and shut it again.

      ‘Dead?’ said Mrs Curtin unbelievingly. And with even more unbelief, ‘In the sitting-room?’

      ‘Yes. He’d been stabbed.’

      ‘You mean it’s murder?’

      ‘Yes, murder.’

      ‘Oo murdered ’im?’ demanded Mrs Curtin.

      ‘I’m afraid we haven’t got quite so far as that yet,’ said Inspector Hardcastle. ‘We thought perhaps you may be able to help us.’

      ‘I don’t know anything about murder,’ said Mrs Curtin positively.

      ‘No, but there are one or two points that have arisen. This morning, for instance, did any man call at the house?’

      ‘Not that I can remember. Not today. What sort of man was he?’

      ‘An elderly man about sixty, respectably dressed in a dark suit. He may have represented himself as an insurance agent.’

      ‘I wouldn’t have let him in,’ said Mrs Curtin. ‘No insurance agents and nobody selling vacuum cleaners or editions of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. Nothing of that sort. Miss Pebmarsh doesn’t hold with selling at the door and neither do I.’

      ‘The man’s name, according to a card that was on him, was Mr Curry. Have you ever heard that name?’

      ‘Curry? Curry?’ Mrs Curtin shook her head. ‘Sounds Indian to me,’ she said, suspiciously.

      ‘Oh, no,’ said Inspector Hardcastle, ‘he wasn’t an Indian.’

      ‘Who found him—Miss Pebmarsh?’

      ‘A young lady, a shorthand typist, had arrived because, owing to a misunderstanding, she thought she’d been sent for to do some work for Miss Pebmarsh. It was she who discovered the body. Miss Pebmarsh returned almost at the same moment.’

      Mrs Curtin uttered a deep sigh.

      ‘What a to-do,’ she said, ‘what a to-do!’

      ‘We may ask you at some time,’ said Inspector Hardcastle, ‘to look at this man’s body and tell us if he is a man you have ever seen in Wilbraham Crescent or calling at the house before. Miss Pebmarsh is quite positive he has never been there. Now there are various small points I would like to know. Can you recall off-hand how many clocks there are in the sitting-room?’

      Mrs Curtin did not even pause.

      ‘There’s that big clock in the corner, grandfather they call it, and there’s the cuckoo clock on the wall. It springs out and says “cuckoo”. Doesn’t half make you jump sometimes.’ She added hastily, ‘I didn’t touch neither of them. I never do. Miss Pebmarsh likes to wind them herself.’

      ‘There’s nothing wrong with them,’ the inspector assured her. ‘You’re sure these were the only two clocks in the room this morning?’

      ‘Of course. What others should there be?’

      ‘There was not, for instance, a small square silver clock, what they call a carriage clock, or a little gilt clock—on the mantelpiece that was, or a china clock with flowers on it—or a leather clock with the name Rosemary written across the corner?’

      ‘Of course there wasn’t. No such thing.’

      ‘You would have noticed them if they had been there?’

      ‘Of course I should.’

      ‘Each of these four clocks represented a time about an hour later than the cuckoo clock and the grandfather clock.’

      ‘Must have been foreign,’ said Mrs Curtin. ‘Me and my old man went on a coach trip to Switzerland and Italy once and it was a whole hour further on there. Must be something to do with this Common Market. I don’t hold with the Common Market and nor does Mr Curtin. England’s good enough for me.’

      Inspector Hardcastle declined to be drawn into politics.

      ‘Can you tell me exactly when you left Miss Pebmarsh’s house this morning?’

      ‘Quarter past twelve, near as nothing,’ said Mrs Curtin.

      ‘Was Miss Pebmarsh in the house then?’

      ‘No, she hadn’t come back. She usually comes back some time between twelve and half past, but it varies.’

      ‘And she had left the house—when?’

      ‘Before I got there. Ten o’clock’s my time.’

      ‘Well, thank you, Mrs Curtin.’

      ‘Seems queer about these clocks,’ said Mrs Curtin. ‘Perhaps Miss Pebmarsh had been to a sale. Antiques, were they? They sound like it by what you say.’

      ‘Does Miss Pebmarsh often go to sales?’

      ‘Got a roll of hair carpet about four months ago at a sale. Quite good condition. Very cheap, she told me. Got some velour curtains too. They needed cutting down, but they were really as good as new.’

      ‘But she doesn’t usually buy bric-à-brac or things like pictures or china or that kind of thing at sales?’

      Mrs Curtin shook her head.

      ‘Not that I’ve ever known her, but of course, there’s no saying in sales, is there? I mean, you get carried away. When you get home you say to yourself “whatever did I want with that?” Bought six pots of jam once. When I thought about it I could have made it cheaper myself. Cups and saucers, too. Them I could have got better in the market on a Wednesday.’

      She shook her head darkly. Feeling that he had no more to learn for the moment, Inspector Hardcastle departed. Ernie then made his contribution to the subject that had been under discussion.

      ‘Murder! Coo!’ said Ernie.

      Momentarily the conquest of outer space was displaced in his mind by a present-day subject of really thrilling appeal.

      ‘Miss Pebmarsh couldn’t have done ’im in, could she?’ he suggested yearningly.

      ‘Don’t talk so silly,’ said his mother. A thought crossed her mind. ‘I wonder if I ought to have told him—’

      ‘Told him what, Mom?’

      ‘Never you mind,’ said Mrs Curtin. ‘It was nothing, really.’

       CHAPTER 6

       Colin Lamb’s Narrative

      When we had put ourselves outside two good underdone steaks, washed down with draught beer, Dick Hardcastle gave a sigh of comfortable repletion, announced that he felt better and said:

      ‘To hell with dead insurance agents, fancy clocks and screaming girls! Let’s hear about you, Colin. I thought you’d finished with this part of the world. And here you are wandering about the back streets of Crowdean. No scope for a marine biologist at Crowdean, I can assure you.’

      ‘Don’t you sneer at marine biology, Dick. It’s a very useful subject. The mere mention of it so bores people and they’re so afraid you’re going to talk about it, that you never have to explain yourself further.’

      ‘No chance of giving yourself away, eh?’

      ‘You forget,’ I said coldly, ‘that I am a marine biologist. I took a degree