Agatha Christie - The Clocks

‘So what did you tell Ingrid to say?’

Geraldine began to laugh a deep malicious chuckle. She started to speak but her chuckles prevented her, but at last she got it out.

‘I told her to say “Get the hell out of here”! So she said it to Miss Bulstrode next door and Miss Bulstrode was furious. So Ingrid found out and was very cross with me and we didn’t make friends until nearly tea-time the next day.’

I digested this information.

‘So you concentrated on your opera glasses.’

Geraldine nodded.

‘So that’s how I know Mr Curry didn’t go in by the front door. I think perhaps he got in somehow in the night and hid in an attic. Do you think that’s likely?’

‘I suppose anything really is possible,’ I said, ‘but it doesn’t seem to me very probable.’

‘No,’ said Geraldine, ‘he would have got hungry, wouldn’t he? And he couldn’t have asked Miss Pebmarsh for breakfast, not if he was hiding from her.’

‘And nobody came to the house?’ I said. ‘Nobody at all? Nobody in a car-a tradesman-callers?’

‘The grocer comes Mondays and Thursdays,’ said Geraldine, ‘and the milk comes at half past eight in the morning.’

The child was a positive encyclopaedia.

‘The cauliflowers and things Miss Pebmarsh buys herself. Nobody called at all except the laundry. It was a new laundry,’ she added.

‘A new laundry?’

‘Yes. It’s usually the Southern Downs Laundry. Most people have the Southern Downs. It was a new laundry that day-the Snowflake Laundry. I’ve never seen the Snowflake Laundry. They must have just started.’

I fought hard to keep any undue interest out of my voice. I didn’t want to start her romancing.

‘Did it deliver laundry or call for it?’ I asked.

‘Deliver it,’ said Geraldine. ‘In a great big basket, too. Much bigger than the usual one.’

‘Did Miss Pebmarsh take it in?’

‘No, of course not, she’d gone out again.’

‘What time was this, Geraldine?’

‘1.35 exactly,’ said Geraldine. ‘I wrote it down,’ she added proudly.

She motioned towards a small note-book and opening it pointed with a rather dirty forefinger to an entry. 1.35 laundry came. No. 19.

‘You ought to be at Scotland Yard,’ I said.

‘Do they have women detectives? I’d quite like that. I don’t mean police women. I think police women are silly.’

‘You haven’t told me exactly what happened when the laundry came.’

‘Nothing happened,’ said Geraldine. ‘The driver got down, opened the van, took out this basket and staggered along round the side of the house to the back door. I expect he couldn’t get in. Miss Pebmarsh probably locks it, so he probably left it there and came back.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Just ordinary,’ said Geraldine.

‘Like me?’ I asked.

‘Oh, no, much older than you,’ said Geraldine, ‘but I didn’t really see him properly because he drove up to the house-this way.’ She pointed to the right. ‘He drew up in front of 19 although he was on the wrong side of the road. But it doesn’t matter in a street like this. And then he went in through the gate bent over the basket. I could only see the back of his head and when he came out again he was rubbing his face. I expect he found it a bit hot and trying, carrying that basket.’

‘And then he drove off again?’

‘Yes. Why do you think it so interesting?’

‘Well, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I thought perhaps he might have seen something interesting.’

Ingrid flung the door open. She was wheeling a trolley.

‘We eat dinner now,’ she said, nodding brightly.

‘Goody,’ said Geraldine, ‘I’m starving.’

I got up.

‘I must be going now,’ I said. ‘Goodbye, Geraldine.’

‘Goodbye. What about this thing?’ She picked up the fruit knife. ‘It’s not mine.’ Her voice became wistful. ‘I wish it were.’

‘It looks as though it’s nobody’s in particular, doesn’t it?’

‘Would that make it treasure trove, or whatever it is?’

‘Something of the kind,’ I said. ‘I think you’d better hang on to it. That is, hang on to it until someone else claims it. But I don’t think,’ I said truthfully, ‘that anybody will.’

‘Get me an apple, Ingrid,’ said Geraldine.

‘Apple?’

‘Pomme! Apfel!’

She did her linguistic best. I left them to it.

Mrs Rival pushed open the door of the Peacock’s Arms and made a slightly unsteady progress towards the bar. She was murmuring under her breath. She was no stranger to this particular hostelry and was greeted quite affectionately by the barman.

‘How do, Flo,’ he said, ‘how’s tricks?’

‘It’s not right,’ said Mrs Rival. ‘It’s not fair. No, it’s not right. I know what I’m talking about, Fred, and I say it’s not right.’

‘Of course it isn’t right,’ said Fred, soothingly. ‘What is, I’d like to know? Want the usual, dear?’

Mrs Rival nodded assent. She paid and began to sip from her glass. Fred moved away to attend to another customer. Her drink cheered Mrs Rival slightly. She still muttered under her breath but with a more good-humoured expression. When Fred was near her once more she addressed him again with a slightly softened manner.

‘All the same, I’m not going to put up with it,’ she said. ‘No, I’m not. If there’s one thing I can’t bear, it’s deceit. I don’t stand for deceit, I never did.’

‘Of course you didn’t,’ said Fred.

He surveyed her with a practised eye. ‘Had a good few already,’ he thought to himself. ‘Still, she can stand a couple more, I expect. Something’s upset her.’

‘Deceit,’ said Mrs Rival. ‘Prevari-prevari-well, you know the word I mean.’

‘Sure I know,’ said Fred.

He turned to greet another acquaintance. The unsatisfactory performance of certain dogs came under review. Mrs Rival continued to murmur.

‘I don’t like it and I won’t stand for it. I shall say so. People can’t think they can go around treating me like that. No, indeed they can’t. I mean, it’s not right and if you don’t stick up for yourself, who’ll stick up for you? Give me another, dearie,’ she added in a louder voice.

Fred obliged.

‘I should go home after that one, if I were you,’ he advised.

He wondered what had upset the old girl so much. She was usually fairly even-tempered. A friendly soul, always good for a laugh.

‘It’ll get me in bad, Fred, you see,’ she said. ‘When people ask you to do a thing, they should tell you all about it. They should tell you what it means and what they’re doing. Liars. Dirty liars, that’s what I say. And I won’t stand for it.’

‘I should cut along home, if I were you,’ said Fred, as he observed a tear about to trickle down the mascaraed splendour. ‘Going to come on to rain soon, it is, and rain hard, too. Spoil that pretty hat of yours.’

Mrs Rival gave one faint appreciative smile.

‘I always was fond of cornflowers,’ she said. ‘Oh, dear me, I don’t know what to do, I’m sure.’

‘I should go home and have a nice kip,’ said the barman, kindly.

‘Well, perhaps, but-’

‘Come on, now, you don’t want to spoil that hat.’

‘That’s very true,’ said Mrs Rival. ‘Yes, that’s very true. That’s a very prof-profumed-no I don’t mean that-what do I mean?’

‘Profound remark of yours, Fred.’

‘Thank you very much.’

‘You’re welcome,’ said Fred.

Mrs Rival slipped down from her high seat and went not too steadily towards the door.

‘Something seems to have upset old Flo tonight,’ said one of the customers.