The Clocks

‘Miss Martindale? I don’t see how she can possibly come into it.’ 

‘No. One does not see at first. But since Miss Martindale undoubtedly killed Edna-oh, yes-only she could have killed Edna, then shemust come into it. And I begin to suspect that in Miss Martindale we have the Lady Macbeth of this crime, a woman who is ruthless and unimaginative.’

‘Unimaginative?’ queried Hardcastle.

‘Oh, yes, quite unimaginative. But very efficient. A good planner.’

‘But why? Where’s the motive?’

Hercule Poirot looked at me. He wagged a finger.

‘So the neighbours’ conversation was no use to you, eh? I found one most illuminating sentence. Do you remember that after talking of living abroad, Mrs Bland remarked that she liked living in Crowdeanbecause she had a sister here. But Mrs Bland was not supposed to have a sister. She had inherited a large fortune a year ago from a Canadian great-uncle because she was the only surviving member of his family.’

Hardcastle sat up alertly.

‘So you think-’

Poirot leaned back in his chair and put his fingertips together. He half closed his eyes and spoke dreamily.

‘Say you are a man, a very ordinary and not too scrupulous man, in bad financial difficulties. A letter comes one day from a firm of lawyers to say that your wife has inherited a big fortune from a great-uncle in Canada. The letter is addressed to Mrs Bland and the only difficulty is that the Mrs Bland who receives it is the wrong Mrs Bland-she is the second wife-not the first one-Imagine the chagrin! The fury! And then an idea comes. Who is to know that it is the wrong Mrs Bland? Nobody in Crowdean knows that Bland was married before. His first marriage, years ago, took place during the war when he was overseas. Presumably his first wife died soon afterwards, and he almost immediately remarried. He has the original marriage certificate, various family papers, photographs of Canadian relations now dead-It will be all plain sailing. Anyway, it is worth risking. They risk it, and it comes off. The legal formalities go through. And there the Blands are, rich and prosperous, all their financial troubles over-

‘And then-a year later-something happens. What happens? I suggest that someone was coming over from Canada to this country-and that this someone had known the first Mrs Bland well enough not to be deceived by an impersonation. He may have been an elderly member of the family attorneys, or a close friend of the family-but whoever he was, he willknow. Perhaps they thought of ways of avoiding a meeting. Mrs Bland could feign illness, she could go abroad-but anything of that kind would only arouse suspicion. The visitor would insist on seeing the woman he had come over to see-’ 

‘And so-to murder?’

‘Yes. And here, I fancy, Mrs Bland’s sister may have been the ruling spirit. She thought up and planned the whole thing.’

‘You are taking it that Miss Martindale and Mrs Blandare sisters?’

‘It is the only way things make sense.’

‘Mrs Bland did remind me of someone when I saw her,’ said Hardcastle. ‘They’re very different in manner-but it’s true-thereis a likeness. But how could they hope to get away with it?’ The man would be missed. Inquiries would be made-’

‘If this man were travelling abroad-perhaps for pleasure, not for business, his schedule would be vague. A letter from one place-a postcard from another-it would be a little time before people wondered why they had not heard from him. By that time who would connect a man identified and buried as Harry Castleton, with a rich Canadian visitor to the country who has not even been seen in this part of the world? If I had been the murderer, I would have slipped over on a day trip to France or Belgium and discarded the dead man’s passport in a train or a tram so that the inquiry would take place from another country.’

I moved involuntarily, and Poirot’s eyes came round to me. 

‘Yes?’ he said.

‘Bland mentioned to me that he had recently taken a day trip to Boulogne-with a blonde, I understand-’

‘Which would make it quite a natural thing to do. Doubtless it is a habit of his.’

‘This is still conjecture,’ Hardcastle objected.

‘But inquiries can be made,’ said Poirot.

He took a sheet of hotel notepaper from the rack in front of him and handed it to Hardcastle.

‘If you will write to Mr Enderby at 10, Ennismore Gardens, S.W.7 he has promised to make certain inquiries for me in Canada. He is a well-known international lawyer.’

‘And what about the business of the clocks?’

‘Oh! The clocks. Those famous clocks!’ Poirot smiled. ‘I think you will find that Miss Martindale was responsible for them. Since the crime, as I said, was a simple crime, it was disguised by making it a fantastic one. That Rosemary clock that Sheila Webb took to be repaired. Did she lose it in the Bureau of Secretarial Studies? Did Miss Martindale take it as the foundation of her rigmarole, and was it partly because of that clock that she chose Sheila as the person to discover the body-?’

Hardcastle burst out: