‘That is impossible at the moment. There is a most interesting sale of authors’ manuscripts next week-’

‘Still on your hobby?’

‘But, yes, indeed.’ His eyes brightened. ‘Take the works of John Dickson Carr or Carter Dickson, as he calls himself sometimes-’ 

I escaped before he could get under way, pleading an urgent appointment. I was in no mood to listen to lectures on past masters of the art of crime fiction.

I was sitting on the front step of Hardcastle’s house, and rose out of the gloom to greet him when he got home on the following evening.

‘Hallo, Colin? Is that you? So you’ve appeared out of the blue again, have you?’

‘If you called it out of thered, it would be much more appropriate.’

‘How long have you been here, sitting on my front doorstep?’

‘Oh, half an hour or so.’

‘Sorry you couldn’t get into the house.’

‘I could have got into the house with perfect ease,’ I said indignantly. ‘You don’t know our training!’

‘Then why didn’t you get in?’

‘I wouldn’t like to lower your prestige in any way,’ I explained. ‘A detective inspector of police would be bound to lose face if his house were entered burglariously with complete ease.’

Hardcastle took his keys from his pocket and opened the front door. 

‘Come on in,’ he said, ‘and don’t talk nonsense.’

He led the way into the sitting-room, and proceeded to supply liquid refreshment.

‘Say when.’

I said it, not too soon, and we settled ourselves with our drinks.

‘Things are moving at last,’ said Hardcastle. ‘We’ve identified our corpse.’

‘I know. I looked up the newspaper files-who was Harry Castleton?’

‘A man of apparently the utmost respectability and who made his living by going through a form of marriage or merely getting engaged to well-to-do credulous women. They entrusted their savings to him, impressed by his superior knowledge of finance and shortly afterwards he quietly faded into the blue.’

‘He didn’t look that kind of man,’ I said, casting my mind back.

‘That was his chief asset.’

‘Wasn’t he ever prosecuted?’

‘No-we’ve made inquiries but it isn’t easy to get much information. He changed his name fairly often. And although they think at the Yard that Harry Castleton, Raymond Blair, Lawrence Dalton, Roger Byron were all one and the same person, they never could prove it. The women, you see, wouldn’t tell. They preferred to lose their money. The man was really more of a name than anything-cropping up here and there-always the same pattern-but incredibly elusive. Roger Byron, say, would disappear from Southend, and a man called Lawrence Dalton would commence operations in Newcastle on Tyne. He was shy of being photographed-eluded his lady friends’ desire to snapshot him. All this goes quite a long time back-fifteen to twenty years. About that time he seemed really to disappear. The rumour spread about that he was dead-but some people said he had gone abroad-’

‘Anyway, nothing was heard of him until he turned up, dead, on Miss Pebmarsh’s sitting-room carpet?’ I said.

‘Exactly.’

‘It certainly opens up possibilities.’

‘It certainly does.’

‘A woman scorned who never forgot?’ I suggested.

‘It does happen, you know. Thereare women with long memories who don’t forget-’

‘And if such a woman were to go blind-a second affliction on top of the other-’

‘That’s only conjecture. Nothing to substantiate it as yet.’

‘What was the wife like-Mrs-what was it?-Merlina Rival? What a name! It can’t be her own.’

‘Her real name is Flossie Gapp. The other she invented. More suitable for her way of life.’ 

‘What is she? A tart?’

‘Not a professional.’

‘What used to be called, tactfully, a lady of easy virtue?’

‘I should say she was a good-natured woman, and one willing to oblige her friends. Described herself as an ex-actress. Occasionally did “hostess” work. Quite likeable.’

‘Reliable?’

‘As reliable as most. Her recognition was quite positive. No hesitation.’

‘That’s a blessing.’

‘Yes. I was beginning to despair. The amount of wives I’ve had here! I’d begun to think it’s a wise woman who knows her own husband. Mind you, I think Mrs Rival might have known a little more about her husband than she lets on.’

‘Has she herself ever been mixed up in criminal activities?’

‘Not for the record. I think she may have had, perhaps still has, some shady friends. Nothing serious-just fiddles-that kind of thing.’

‘What about the clocks?’

‘Didn’t mean a thing to her. I think she was speaking the truth. We’ve traced where they came from-Portobello Market. That’s the ormolu and the Dresden china. And very little helpthat is! You know what it’s like on a Saturday there. Bought by an American lady, the stall keeperthinks -but I’d say that’s just a guess. Portobello Market is full of American tourists. His wife says it was a man bought them. She can’t remember what he looked like. The silver one came from a silversmith in Bournemouth. A tall lady who wanted a present for her little girl! All she can remember about her is she wore a green hat.’

‘And the fourth clock? The one that disappeared?’

‘No comment,’ said Hardcastle.

I knew just what he meant by that.

Colin Lamb’s Narrative

The hotel I was staying in was a poky little place by the station. It served a decent grill but that was all that could be said for it. Except, of course, that it was cheap.

At ten o’clock the following morning I rang the Cavendish Secretarial Bureau and said that I wanted a shorthand typist to take down some letters and retype a business agreement. My name was Douglas Weatherby and I was staying at the Clarendon Hotel (extraordinarily tatty hotels always have grand names). Was Miss Sheila Webb available? A friend of mine had found her very efficient.

I was in luck. Sheila could come straight away. She had, however, an appointment at twelve o’clock. I said that I would have finished with her well before that as I had an appointment myself.

I was outside the swing doors of the Clarendon when Sheila appeared. I stepped forward. 

‘Mr Douglas Weatherby at your service,’ I said.

‘Was ityou rang up?’

‘It was.’

‘But you can’t do things like that.’ She looked scandalized.

‘Why not? I’m prepared to pay the Cavendish Bureau for your services. What does it matter to them if we spend your valuable and expensive time in the Buttercup Cafe just across the street instead of dictating dull letters beginning “Yours of the 3rd prontissimo to hand,” etc. Come on, let’s go and drink indifferent coffee in peaceful surroundings.’

The Buttercup Cafe lived up to its name by being violently and aggressively yellow. Formica table tops, plastic cushions and cups and saucers were all canary colour.

I ordered coffee and scones for two. It was early enough for us to have the place practically to ourselves.

When the waitress had taken the order and gone away, we looked across the table at each other.

‘Are you all right, Sheila?’

‘What do you mean-am I all right?’

Her eyes had such dark circles under them that they looked violet rather than blue.

‘Have you been having a bad time?’

‘Yes-no-I don’t know. I thought you had gone away?’ 

‘I had. I’ve come back.’

‘Why?’

‘You know why.’

Her eyes dropped.

‘I’m afraid of him,’ she said after a pause of at least a minute, which is a long time.

‘Who are you afraid of?’

‘That friend of yours-that inspector. He thinks…he thinks I killed that man, and that I killed Edna too…’

‘Oh, that’s just his manner,’ I said reassuringly. ‘He always goes about looking as though he suspected everybody.’