The Clocks

‘It seems an ordinary travelling clock,’ she said, ‘the leather folding kind. It is not mine, Inspector Hardcastle, and it was not in this room, I am fairly sure I can say, when I left the house at half past one.’

‘Thank you.’

The inspector took it back from her. Carefully he lifted the small Dresden clock from the mantelpiece.

‘Be careful of this,’ he said, as he put it into her hands, ‘it’s breakable.’

Millicent Pebmarsh felt the small china clock with delicate probing fingertips. Then she shook her head. ‘It must be a charming clock,’ she said, ‘but it’s not mine. Where was it, do you say?’

‘On the right hand side of the mantelpiece.’

‘There should be one of a pair of china candlesticks there,’ said Miss Pebmarsh.

‘Yes,’ said Hardcastle, ‘there is a candlestick there, but it’s been pushed to the end.’

‘You say there was still another clock?’

‘Two more.’

Hardcastle took back the Dresden china clock and gave her the small French gilt ormolu one. She felt it over rapidly, then handed it back to him.

‘No. That is not mine either.’

He handed her the silver one and that, too, she returned.

‘The only clocks ordinarily in this room are a grandfather clock there in that corner by the window—’

‘Quite right.’

‘—and a cuckoo on the wall near the door.’

Hardcastle found it difficult to know exactly what to say next. He looked searchingly at the woman in front of him with the additional security of knowing that she could not return his survey. There was a slight frown as of perplexity on her forehead. She said sharply:

‘I can’t understand it. I simply can’t understand it.’

She stretched out one hand, with the easy knowledge of where she was in the room, and sat down. Hardcastle looked at the fingerprint man who was standing by the door.

‘You’ve been over these clocks?’ he asked.

‘I’ve been over everything, sir. No dabs on the gilt clock, but there wouldn’t be. The surface wouldn’t take it. The same goes for the china one. But there are no dabs on the leather travelling clock or the silver one and that is a bit unlikely if things were normal—there ought to be dabs. By the way, none of them are wound up and they are all set to the same time—thirteen minutes past four.’

‘What about the rest of the room?’

‘There are about three or four different sets of prints in the room, all women’s, I should say. The contents of the pockets are on the table.’

By an indication of his head he drew attention to a small pile of things on a table. Hardcastle went over and looked at them. There was a notecase containing seven pounds ten, a little loose change, a silk pocket handkerchief, unmarked, a small box of digestive pills and a printed card. Hardcastle bent to look at it.

Mr R. H. Curry,

Metropolis and Provincial Insurance Co. Ltd

7, Denvers Street,

London, W2.

Hardcastle came back to the sofa where Miss Pebmarsh sat.

‘Were you by any chance expecting someone from an insurance company to call upon you?’

‘Insurance company? No, certainly not.’

‘The Metropolis and Provincial Insurance Company,’ said Hardcastle.

Miss Pebmarsh shook her head. ‘I’ve never heard of it,’ she said.

‘You were not contemplating taking out insurance of any kind?’

‘No, I was not. I am insured against fire and burglary with the Jove Insurance Company which has a branch here. I carry no personal insurance. I have no family or near relations so I see no point in insuring my life.’

‘I see,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Does the name of Curry mean anything to you? Mr R. H. Curry?’ He was watching her closely. He saw no reaction in her face.

‘Curry,’ she repeated the name, then shook her head. ‘It’s not a very usual name, is it? No, I don’t think I’ve heard the name or known anyone of that name. Is that the name of the man who is dead?’

‘It would seem possible,’ said Hardcastle.

Miss Pebmarsh hesitated a moment. Then she said:

‘Do you want me to—to—touch—’

He was quick to understand her.

‘Would you, Miss Pebmarsh? If it’s not asking too much of you, that is? I’m not very knowledgeable in these matters, but your fingers will probably tell you more accurately what a person looks like than you would know by description.’

‘Exactly,’ said Miss Pebmarsh. ‘I agree it is not a very pleasant thing to have to do but I am quite willing to do it if you think it might be a help to you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Hardcastle. ‘If you will let me guide you—’

He took her round the sofa, indicated to her to kneel down, then gently guided her hands to the dead man’s face. She was very calm, displaying no emotion. Her fingers traced the hair, the ears, lingering a moment behind the left ear, the line of the nose, mouth and chin. Then she shook her head and got up.

‘I have a clear idea what he would look like,’ she said, ‘but I am quite sure that it is no one I have seen or known.’

The fingerprint man had packed up his kit and gone out of the room. He stuck his head back in.

‘They’ve come for him,’ he said, indicating the body. ‘All right to take him away?’

‘Right,’ said Inspector Hardcastle. ‘Just come and sit over here, will you, Miss Pebmarsh?’

He established her in a corner chair. Two men came into the room. The removal of the late Mr Curry was rapid and professional. Hardcastle went out to the gate and then returned to the sitting-room. He sat down near Miss Pebmarsh.