The Clocks

‘Oh, it’s allwhy,’ said Hardcastle impatiently. ‘Why, why?Why all this rigmarole? If Miss Pebmarsh made that call, why did she want to get the girl there? If it was someone else, why did they want to involve Miss Pebmarsh? We don’t know anything yet. If that Martindale woman had known Miss Pebmarsh personally, she’d have known whether it was her voice or not, or at any rate whether it was reasonably like Miss Pebmarsh’s. Oh well, we haven’t got much from Number 18. Let’s see whether Number 20 will do us any better.’

Chapter 8

In addition to its number, 20, Wilbraham Crescent had a name. It was called Diana Lodge. The gates had obstacles against intruders by being heavily wired on the inside. Rather melancholy speckled laurels, imperfectly trimmed, also interfered with the efforts of anyone to enter through the gate.

‘If ever a house could have been called The Laurels, this one could,’ remarked Colin Lamb. ‘Why call it Diana Lodge, I wonder?’

He looked round him appraisingly. Diana Lodge did not run to neatness or to flower-beds. Tangled and overgrown shrubbery was its most salient point together with a strong catty smell of ammonia. The house seemed in a rather tumbledown condition with gutters that could do with repairing. The only sign of any recent kind of attention being paid to it was a freshly painted front door whose colour of bright azure blue made the general unkempt appearance of the rest of the house and garden even more noticeable. There was no electric bell but a kind of handle that was clearly meant to be pulled. The inspector pulled it and a faint sound of remote jangling was heard inside.

‘It sounds,’ said Colin, ‘like the Moated Grange.’

They waited for a moment or two, then sounds were heard from inside. Rather curious sounds. A kind of high crooning, half singing, half speaking.

‘What the devil-’ began Hardcastle.

The singer or crooner appeared to be approaching the front door and words began to be discernible.

‘No, sweet-sweetie. In there, my love. Mindems tailems Shah-Shah-Mimi. Cleo-Cleopatra. Ah de doodlums. Ah lou-lou.’

Doors were heard to shut. Finally the front door opened. Facing them was a lady in a pale moss-green, rather rubbed, velvet tea gown. Her hair, in flaxen grey wisps, was twirled elaborately in a kind of coiffure of some thirty years back. Round her neck she was wearing a necklet of orange fur. Inspector Hardcastle said dubiously:

‘Mrs Hemming?’

‘I am Mrs Hemming. Gently, Sunbeam, gently doodleums.’

It was then that the inspector perceived that the orange fur was really a cat. It was not the only cat. Three other cats appeared along the hall, two of them miaowing. They took up their place, gazing at the visitors, twirling gently round their mistress’s skirts. At the same time a pervading smell of cat afflicted the nostrils of both men.

‘I am Detective Inspector Hardcastle.’

‘I hope you’ve come about that dreadful man who came to see me from the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals,’ said Mrs Hemming. ‘Disgraceful! I wrote and reported him. Saying my cats were kept in a condition prejudicial to their health and happiness! Quite disgraceful! Ilive for my cats, Inspector. They are my only joy and pleasure in life. Everything is done for them. Shah-Shah-Mimi. Notthere, sweetie.’

Shah-Shah-Mimi paid no attention to a restraining hand and jumped on the hall table. He sat down and washed his face, staring at the strangers.

‘Come in,’ said Mrs Hemming. ‘Oh no, not that room. I’d forgotten.’

She pushed open a door on the left. The atmosphere here was even more pungent.

‘Come on, my pretties, come on.’

In the room various brushes and combs with cat hairs in them lay about on chairs and tables. There were faded and soiled cushions, and there were at least six more cats. 

‘I live for my darlings,’ said Mrs Hemming. ‘They understand every word I say to them.’

Inspector Hardcastle walked in manfully. Unfortunately for him he was one of those men who have cat allergy. As usually happens on these occasions all the cats immediately made for him. One jumped on his knee, another rubbed affectionately against his trousers. Detective Inspector Hardcastle, who was a brave man, set his lips and endured.

‘I wonder if I could ask you a few questions, Mrs Hemming, about-’

‘Anything you please,’ said Mrs Hemming, interrupting him. ‘I have nothing to hide. I can show you the cats’ food, their beds where they sleep, five in my room, the other seven down here. They have only the very best fish cooked by myself.’

‘This is nothing to do withcats,’ said Hardcastle, raising his voice. ‘I came to talk to you about the unfortunate affair which happened next door. You have probably heard about it.’

‘Next door? You mean Mr Joshua’s dog?’

‘No,’ said Hardcastle, ‘I do not. I mean at Number 19 where a man was found murdered yesterday.’

‘Indeed?’ said Mrs Hemming, with polite interest but no more. Her eyes were still straying over her pets.