The Clocks - Christie Agatha (книги полные версии бесплатно без регистрации .TXT) 📗

‘Well-’ the young policeman looked into the court and observed the inspector in deep consultation with the coroner and with the chief constable of the county. 

‘He looks busy at the moment, miss,’ he said. ‘If you called round at the station later, or if you’d like to give me a message…Is it anything important?’

‘Oh, it doesn’t matter really,’ said Edna. ‘It’s-well-just that I don’t see how what she said could have been true because I mean…’ She turned away, still frowning perplexedly.

She wandered away from the Cornmarket and along the High Street. She was still frowning perplexedly and trying to think. Thinking had never been Edna’s strong point. The more she tried to get things clear in her mind, the more muddled her mind became.

Once she said aloud:

‘But it couldn’t have been like that…It couldn’t have been like she said…’

Suddenly, with an air of one making a resolution, she turned off from the High Street and along Albany Road in the direction of Wilbraham Crescent.

Since the day that the Press had announced that a murder had been committed at 19, Wilbraham Crescent, large numbers of people had gathered in front of the house every day to have a good look at it. The fascination mere bricks and mortar can have for the general public under certain circumstances is a truly mysterious thing. For the first twenty-four hours a policeman had been stationed there to pass people along in an authoritative manner. Since then interest had lessened; but had still not ceased entirely. Trades-men’s delivery vans would slacken speed a little as they passed, women wheeling prams would come to a four or five minute stop on the opposite pavement and stare their eyes out as they contemplated Miss Pebmarsh’s neat residence. Shopping women with baskets would pause with avid eyes and exchange pleasurable gossip with friends.

‘That’s the house-that one there…’

‘The body was in the sitting-room…No, I think the sitting-room’s the room at the front, the one on the left…’

‘The grocer’s man told me it was the one on the right.’

‘Well, of course it might be, I’ve been into Number 10 once and there, I distinctly remember thedining -room was on the right, and the sitting-room was on the left…’

‘It doesn’t look a bit as though there had been a murder done there, does it…?’

‘The girl, I believe, came out of the gate screaming her head off…’

‘They say she’s not been right in her head since…Terrible shock, of course…’

‘He broke in by a back window, so they say. He was putting the silver in a bag when this girl came in and found him there…’ 

‘The poor woman who owns the house, she’sblind, poor soul. So, of course,she couldn’t know what was going on.’

‘Oh, but she wasn’tthere at the time…’

‘Oh, I thought shewas. I thought she was upstairs and heard him. Oh, dear, Imust get on to the shops.’

These and similar conversations went on most of the time. Drawn as though by a magnet, the most unlikely people arrived in Wilbraham Crescent, paused, stared, and then passed on, some inner need satisfied.

Here, still puzzling in her mind, Edna Brent found herself jostling a small group of five or six people who were engaged in the favourite pastime of looking at the murder house.

Edna, always suggestible, stared also.

So that was the house where it happened! Net curtains in the windows. Looked ever so nice. And yet a man had been killed there. Killed with a kitchen knife. An ordinary kitchen knife. Nearly everybody had got a kitchen knife…

Mesmerized by the behaviour of the people round her, Edna, too, stared and ceased to think…

She had almost forgotten what had brought her here…

She started when a voice spoke in her ear.

She turned her head in surprised recognition.

Chapter 16

Colin Lamb’s Narrative

I noticed when Sheila Webb slipped quietly out of the Coroner’s Court. She’d given her evidence very well. She had looked nervous but not unduly nervous. Just natural, in fact. (What would Beck say? ‘Quite a good performance.’ I could hear him say it!)

I took in the surprise finish of Doctor Rigg’s evidence. (Dick Hardcastle hadn’t told me that, but he must have known) and then I went after her.

‘It wasn’t so bad after all, was it?’ I said, when I had caught her up.

‘No. It was quite easy really. The coroner was very nice.’ She hesitated. ‘What will happen next?’

‘He’ll adjourn the inquest-for further evidence. A fortnight probably or until they can identify the dead man.’

‘You think theywill identify him?’

‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘They’ll identify him all right. No doubt of that.’ 

She shivered. ‘It’s cold today.’

It wasn’t particularly cold. In fact I thought it was rather warm.

‘What about an early lunch?’ I suggested. ‘You haven’t got to go back to your typewriting place, have you?’

‘No. It’s closed until two o’clock.’

‘Come along then. How do you react to Chinese food? I see there’s a little Chinese restaurant just down the street.’

Sheila looked hesitant.

‘I’ve really got to do some shopping.’

‘You can do it afterwards.’

‘No, I can’t-some of the shops close between one and two.’

‘All right then. Will you meet me there? In half an hour’s time?’

She said she would.

I went along to the sea front and sat there in a shelter. As the wind was blowing straight in from the sea, I had it to myself.

I wanted to think. It always infuriates one when other people know more about you than you know about yourself. But old Beck and Hercule Poirot and Dick Hardcastle, they all had seen quite clearly what I was now forced to admit to myself was true.

I minded about this girl-minded in a way I had never minded about a girl before. 

It wasn’t her beauty-she was pretty, pretty in rather an unusual way, no more. It wasn’t her sex appeal-I had met that often enough-had been given the full treatment.

It was just that, almost from the first, I had recognized that she wasmy girl.

And I didn’t know the first damned thing about her!

It was just after two o’clock that I walked into the station and asked for Dick. I found him at his desk leafing over a pile of stuff. He looked up and asked me what I had thought of the inquest.

I told him I thought it had been a very nicely managed and gentlemanly performance.

‘We do this sort of thing so well in this country.’

‘What did you think of the medical evidence?’

‘Rather a facer. Why didn’t you tell me about it?’

‘You were away. Did you consult your specialist?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘I believe I remember him vaguely. A lot of moustache.’

‘Oceans of it,’ I agreed. ‘He’s very proud of that moustache.’ 

‘He must be quite old.’

‘Old but not ga-ga,’ I said.

‘Why did you really go to see him? Was it purely the milk of human kindness?’

‘You have such a suspicious policeman’s mind, Dick! It was mainly that. But I admit to curiosity, too. I wanted to hear what he had to say about our own particular set-up. You see, he’s always talked what I call a lot of cock about its being easy to solve a case by just sitting in your chair, bringing the tips of your fingers symmetrically together, closing your eyes and thinking. I wanted to call his bluff.’

‘Did he go through that procedure for you?’

‘He did.’

‘And what did he say?’ Dick asked with some curiosity.

‘He said,’ I told him, ‘that it must be a verysimple murder.’

‘Simple, my God!’ said Hardcastle, roused. ‘Why simple?’

‘As far as I could gather,’ I said, ‘because the whole set-up was so complex.’

Hardcastle shook his head. ‘I don’t see it,’ he said. ‘It sounds like one of those clever things that young people in Chelsea say, but I don’t see it. Anything else?’