The Clocks

‘Oh, dear,’ she said again, ‘oh, dear. Inspector-what is it-Hardcastle-oh, yes.’ She looked at the card. ‘But why do you want to seeus? We don’t know anything about it. I mean I suppose itis this murder, isn’t it? I mean, it wouldn’t be the television licence?’ 

Hardcastle reassured her on that point.

‘It all seems so extraordinary, doesn’t it?’ said Mrs McNaughton, brightening up. ‘And more or less midday, too. Such an odd time to come and burgle a house. Just the time when people are usually at home. But then one does read of such terrible things nowadays. All happening in broad daylight. Why, some friends of ours-they were out for lunch and a furniture van drove up and the men broke in and carried out every stick of furniture. The whole street saw it happen but of course they never thought there was anything wrong. You know, I did think I heard someone screaming yesterday, but Angus said it was those dreadful boys of Mrs Ramsay’s. They rush about the garden making noises like space-ships, you know, or rockets, or atom bombs. It really is quite frightening sometimes.’

Once again Hardcastle produced his photograph.

‘Have you ever seen this man, Mrs McNaughton?’

Mrs McNaughton stared at it with avidity.

‘I’m almost sure I’ve seen him. Yes. Yes, I’m practically certain. Now, where was it? Was it the man who came and asked me if I wanted to buy a new encyclopedia in fourteen volumes? Or was it the man who came with a new model of vacuum cleaner. I wouldn’t have anything to do withhim, and he went out and worried my husband in the front garden. Angus was planting some bulbs, you know, and he didn’t want to be interrupted and the man went on and on saying what the thing would do. You know, how it would run up and down curtains, and would clean doorsteps and do the stairs and cushions and spring-clean things. Everything, he said, absolutely everything. And then Angus just looked up at him and said, “Can it plant bulbs?” and I must say I had to laugh because it took the man quite aback and he went away.’

‘And you really think that was the man in this photograph?’

‘Well, no, I don’t really,’ said Mrs McNaughton, ‘because that was a much younger man, now I come to think of it. But all the same I think Ihave seen this face before. Yes. The more I look at it the more sure I am that he came here and asked me to buy something.’

‘Insurance perhaps?’

‘No, no, not insurance. My husband attends to all that kind of thing. We are fully insured in every way. No. But all the same-yes, the more I look at that photograph-’

Hardcastle was less encouraged by this than he might have been. He put down Mrs McNaughton, from the fund of his experience, as a woman who would be anxious for the excitement of having seen someone connected with murder. The longer she looked at the picture, the more sure she would be that she could remember someone just like it.

He sighed.

‘He was driving a van, I believe,’ said Mrs McNaughton. ‘But just when I saw him I can’t remember. A baker’s van, I think.’

‘You didn’t see him yesterday, did you, Mrs McNaughton?’

Mrs McNaughton’s face fell slightly. She pushed back her rather untidy grey waved hair from her forehead.

‘No. No, notyesterday,’ she said. ‘At least-’ she paused. ‘I don’tthink so.’ Then she brightened a little. ‘Perhaps my husband will remember.’

‘Is he at home?’

‘Oh, he’s out in the garden.’ She pointed through the window where at this moment an elderly man was pushing a wheelbarrow along the path.

‘Perhaps we might go out and speak to him.’

‘Of course. Come this way.’

She led the way out through a side door and into the garden. Mr McNaughton was in a fine state of perspiration.

‘These gentlemen are from the police, Angus,’ said his wife breathlessly. ‘Come about the murder at Miss Pebmarsh’s. There’s a photograph they’ve got of the dead man. Do you know, I’m sure I’ve seen him somewhere. It wasn’t the man, was it, who came last week and asked us if we had any antiques to dispose of?’

‘Let’s see,’ said Mr McNaughton. ‘Just hold it for me, will you,’ he said to Hardcastle. ‘My hands are too earthy to touch anything.’

He took a brief look and remarked, ‘Never seen that fellow in my life.’

‘Your neighbour tells me you’re very fond of gardening,’ said Hardcastle.

‘Who told you that-not Mrs Ramsay?’

‘No. Mr Bland.’

Angus McNaughton snorted.

‘Bland doesn’t know what gardening means,’ he said. ‘Bedding out, that’s allhe does. Shoves in begonias and geraniums and lobelia edging. That’s not what I callgardening. Might as well live in a public park. Are you interested in shrubs at all, Inspector? Of course, it’s the wrong time of year now, but I’ve one or two shrubs here that you’d be surprised at my being able to grow. Shrubs that they say only do well in Devon and Cornwall.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t lay claim to be a practical gardener,’ said Hardcastle.

McNaughton looked at him much as an artist looks at someone who says they know nothing of art but they know what they like.