‘The only other thing I can ask you, Mrs Rival, is if you have any idea why Harry Castleton should have come to this neighbourhood?’

‘No. Of course I’ve no idea. I don’t even know what he’s been doing all these years.’

‘Would it be likely that he would be selling fraudulent insurance-something of that kind?’

‘I simply don’t know. It doesn’t seem to me terribly likely. I mean, Harry was very careful of himself always. He wouldn’t stick his neck out doing something that he might be brought to book for. I should have thought it more likely it was some racket with women.’

‘Might it have been, do you think, Mrs Rival, some form of blackmail?’

‘Well, I don’t know…I suppose, yes, in a way. Some woman, perhaps, that wouldn’t want something in her past raked up. He’d feel pretty safe over that, I think. Mind you, I don’t say it isso, but it might be. I don’t think he’d want very much money, you know. I don’t think he’d drive anyone desperate, but he might just collect in a small way.’ She nodded in affirmation. ‘Yes.’

‘Women liked him, did they?’

‘Yes. They always fell for him rather easily. Mainly, I think, because he always seemed so good class and respectable. They were proud of having made a conquest of a man like that. They looked forward to a nice safe future with him. That’s the nearest way I can put it. I felt the same way myself,’ added Mrs Rival with some frankness.

‘There’s just one more small point,’ Hardcastle spoke to his subordinate. ‘Just bring those clocks in, will you?’

They were brought in on a tray with a cloth over them. Hardcastle whipped off the cloth and exposed them to Mrs Rival’s gaze. She inspected them with frank interest and approbation. 

‘Pretty, aren’t they? I like that one.’ She touched the ormolu clock.

‘You haven’t seen any of them before? They don’t mean anything to you?’

‘Can’t say they do. Ought they to?’

‘Can you think of any connection between your husband and the name Rosemary?’

‘Rosemary? Let me think. There was a red-head-No, her name was Rosalie. I’m afraid I can’t think of anyone. But then I probably wouldn’t know, would I? Harry kept his affairs very dark.’

‘If you saw a clock with the hands pointing to four-thirteen-’ Hardcastle paused.

Mrs Rival gave a cheerful chuckle.

‘I’d think it was getting on for tea-time.’

Hardcastle sighed.

‘Well, Mrs Rival,’ he said, ‘we are very grateful to you. The adjourned inquest, as I told you, will be the day after tomorrow. You won’t mind giving evidence of identification, will you?’

‘No. No, that will be all right. I’ll just have to say who he was, is that it? I shan’t have to go into things? I won’t have to go into the manner of his life-anything of that kind?’

‘That will not be necessary at present. All you will have to swear to is he is the man, Harry Castleton, to whom you were married. The exact date will be on record at Somerset House. Where were you married? Can you remember that?’

‘Place called Donbrook-St Michael’s, I think was the name of the church. I hope it isn’tmore than twenty years ago. Thatwould make me feel I had one foot in the grave,’ said Mrs Rival.

She got up and held out her hand. Hardcastle said goodbye. He went back to his desk and sat there tapping it with a pencil. Presently Sergeant Cray came in.

‘Satisfactory?’ he asked.

‘Seems so,’ said the inspector. ‘Name of Harry Castleton-possibly an alias. We’ll have to see what we can find out about the fellow. It seems likely that more than one woman might have reason to want revenge on him.’

‘Looks so respectable, too,’ said Cray.

‘That,’ said Hardcastle, ‘seems to have been his principal stock-in-trade.’

He thought again about the clock with Rosemary written on it. Remembrance?

Colin Lamb’s Narrative

‘So you have returned,’ said Hercule Poirot.

He placed a bookmarker carefully to mark his place in the book he was reading. This time a cup of hot chocolate stood on the table by his elbow. Poirot certainly has the most terrible taste in drinks! For once he did not urge me to join him.

‘How are you?’ I asked.

‘I am disturbed. I am much disturbed. They make the renovations, the redecorations, even the structural alteration in these flats.’

‘Won’t that improve them?’

‘It will improve them, yes-but it will be most vexatious tome. I shall have to disarrange myself. There will be a smell of paint!’ He looked at me with an air of outrage.

Then, dismissing his difficulties with a wave of his hand, he asked: 

‘You have had the success, yes?’

I said slowly: ‘I don’t know.’

‘Ah-it is like that.’

‘I found out what I was sent to find out. I did not find the man himself. I myself do not know what was wanted. Information? Or a body?’

‘Speaking of bodies, I read the account of the adjourned inquest at Crowdean. Wilful murder by a person or persons unknown. And your body has been given a name at last.’

I nodded.

‘Harry Castleton, whoever he may be.’

‘Identified by his wife. You have been to Crowdean?’

‘Not yet. I thought of going down tomorrow.’

‘Oh, you have some leisure time?’

‘Not yet. I’m still on the job. My job takes me there-’ I paused a moment and then said: ‘I don’t know much about what’s been happening while I’ve been abroad-just the mere fact of identification-what do you think of it?’

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

‘It was to be expected.’

‘Yes-the police are very good-’

‘And wives are very obliging.’

‘Mrs Merlina Rival! What a name!’

‘It reminds me of something,’ said Poirot. ‘Now of what does it remind me?’ 

He looked at me thoughtfully but I couldn’t help him. Knowing Poirot, it might have reminded him of anything.

‘A visit to a friend-in a country house,’ mused Poirot, then shook his head. ‘No-it is so long ago.’

‘When I come back to London, I’ll come and tell you all I can find out from Hardcastle about Mrs Merlina Rival,’ I promised.

Poirot waved a hand and said: ‘It is not necessary.’

‘You mean you know all about her already without being told?’

‘No. I mean that I am not interested in her-’

‘You’re not interested-but why not? I don’t get it.’ I shook my head.

‘One must concentrate on the essentials. Tell me instead of the girl called Edna-who died in the telephone box in Wilbraham Crescent.’

‘I can’t tell you more than I’ve told you already-I know nothing about the girl.’

‘So all you know,’ said Poirot accusingly, ‘or all you can tell me is that the girl was a poor little rabbit, whom you saw in a typewriting office, where she had torn the heel off her shoe in a grating-’ he broke off. ‘Where was that grating, by the way?’

‘Really, Poirot, how should I know?’

‘You could have known if you hadasked. How do you expect to knowanything if you do not ask the proper questions?’

‘But how can it matterwhere the heel came off?’

‘It may not matter. On the other hand, we should know a definite spot where this girl had been, and that might connect up with a person she had seen there-or with an event of some kind which took place there.’

‘You are being rather far-fetched. Anyway I do know it was quite near the office because she said so and that she bought a bun and hobbled back on her stocking feet to eat the bun in the office and she ended up by saying how on earth was she to get home like that?’

‘Ah, and howdid she get home?’ Poirot asked with interest.

I stared at him.

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Ah-but it is impossible, the way you never ask the right questions! As a result you know nothing of what is important.’

‘You’d better come down to Crowdean and ask questions yourself,’ I said, nettled.