Below the Clock

‘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 was mad, Mrs Reardon was not conscious. She had fainted.

CHAPTER III (#uf5e340c6-cb93-51f5-8d7c-ad33f88d27c0)

THE START OF THE HUNT

MINUTES passed before Mrs Reardon returned to consciousness. She shuddered, stared round the room with haunted eyes. Watson patted her hands consolingly. Curtis waited for the widow to speak, wondering what her first thoughts would be as full consciousness returned.

‘Why didn’t Paling die instead of my husband?’ she inquired.

The men tried to hide their surprise. Watson slipped another cushion under her head and said nothing.

‘Oh! The number of times I told Edgar, grovelled to him, begged him, not to have any more to do with the man. But it made no difference. He was always on the doorstep.’

‘Perhaps Edgar was fond of him,’ said Curtis.

‘Fond of him? I’m sure he wasn’t. He got no pleasure out of the man’s company. It wasn’t that Paling couldn’t talk. He certainly could, and he’d been everywhere. But they never had anything to talk about. While they were together it always seemed to me that some sort of a struggle—a silent struggle—was going on. I couldn’t understand it. I hated it.’ She paused to recover her breath.

Then she rose from the chair. Every sign of her listlessness had gone. The effects of the faint had vanished. Her eyes shone with anger, her breast moved convulsively.

‘What was he to your husband?’ asked Curtis.

Mrs Reardon flung up her hands and turned to face him.

‘What was he? Friend, secretary, factotum … anything and everything or nothing. He seemed to do mostly what he liked.’

‘He had no fixed appointment with Edgar?’

‘I couldn’t tell you. I don’t think Edgar would have tolerated the man unless he had been useful for something. I only hope that it was nothing disgraceful.’

Curtis elevated his eyebrows, looked keenly at the widow.

‘Aren’t you being somewhat harsh, Mrs Reardon? Poor Edgar positively basked in affection. Do you think he might have been disturbed by the idea that you and he were drifting a little apart?’

The woman began to tap one foot on the carpet.