Eleven

“Ramsay,” said Colin, thoughtfully.

“What about him?”

“I like the sound of him, that’s all. He travels abroad—at a moment’s no-tice. His wife says he’s a construction engineer, but that’s all she seems toknow about him.”

“She’s a nice woman,” said Hardcastle.

“Yes—and not a very happy one.”

“Tired, that’s all. Kids are tiring.”

“I think it’s more than that.”

“Surely the sort of person you want wouldn’t be burdened with a wifeand two sons,” Hardcastle said sceptically.

“You never know,” said Colin. “You’d be surprised what some of theboys do for camouflage. A hard-up widow with a couple of kids might bewilling to come to an arrangement.”

“I shouldn’t have thought she was that kind,” said Hardcastle primly.

“I don’t mean living in sin, my dear fellow. I mean that she’d agree to beMrs. Ramsay and supply a background. Naturally, he’d spin her a yarn ofthe right kind. He’d be doing a spot of espionage, say, on our side. Allhighly patriotic.”

Hardcastle shook his head.

“You live in a strange world, Colin,” he said.

“Yes we do. I think, you know, I’ll have to get out of it one day … One be-gins to forget what is what and who is who. Half of these people work forboth sides and in the end they don’t know themselves which side they arereally on. Standards get gummed up—Oh, well—let’s get on with things.”

“We’d better do the McNaughtons,” said Hardcastle, pausing at the gatesof 63. “A bit of his garden touches 19—same as Bland.”

“What do you know about the McNaughtons?”

“Not much—they came here about a year ago. Elderly couple—retiredprofessor, I believe. He gardens.”

The front garden had rose bushes in it and a thick bed of autumn crocusunder the windows.

A cheerful young woman in a brightly flowered overall opened the doorto them and said:

“You want?—Yes?”

Hardcastle murmured, “The foreign help at last,” and handed her hiscard.

“Police,” said the young woman. She took a step or two back and lookedat Hardcastle as though he were the Fiend in person.

“Mrs. McNaughton,” said Hardcastle.

“Mrs. McNaughton is here.”

She led them into the sitting room, which overlooked the back garden. Itwas empty.

“She up the stairs is,” said the no-longer cheerful young woman. Shewent out into the hall and called, “Mrs. McNaughton—Mrs. McNaughton.”

A voice far away said, “Yes. What is it, Gretel?”

“It is the police—two police. I put them in sitting room.”

There was a faint scurrying noise upstairs and the words “Oh, dear. Oh,dear, what next?” floated down. Then there was a patter of feet andpresently Mrs. McNaughton entered the room with a worried expressionon her face. There was, Hardcastle decided quite soon, usually a worriedexpression on Mrs. McNaughton’s face.

“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 see us? Wedon’t know anything about it. I mean I suppose it is this murder, isn’t it? Imean, 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 comeand burgle a house. Just the time when people are usually at home. Butthen one does read of such terrible things nowadays. All happening inbroad daylight. Why, some friends of ours—they were out for lunch and afurniture van drove up and the men broke in and carried out every stickof furniture. The whole street saw it happen but of course they neverthought there was anything wrong. You know, I did think I heard someonescreaming yesterday, but Angus said it was those dreadful boys of Mrs.

Ramsay’s. They rush about the garden making noises like spaceships, youknow, 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 anew encyclopedia in fourteen volumes? Or was it the man who came witha new model of vacuum cleaner. I wouldn’t have anything to do with him,and he went out and worried my husband in the front garden. Angus wasplanting some bulbs, you know, and he didn’t want to be interrupted andthe man went on and on saying what the thing would do. You know, howit would run up and down curtains, and would clean doorsteps and do thestairs and cushions and spring- clean things. Everything, he said, abso-lutely everything. And then Angus just looked up at him and said, ‘Can itplant bulbs?’ and I must say I had to laugh because it took the man quiteaback 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 amuch 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 amthat he came here and asked me to buy something.”

“Insurance perhaps?”

“No, no, not insurance. My husband attends to all that kind of thing. Weare fully insured in every way. No. But all the same—yes, the more I lookat that photograph—”

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

He sighed.

“He was driving a van, I believe,” said Mrs. McNaughton. “But just whenI 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 untidygrey waved hair from her forehead.

“No. No, not yesterday,” she said. “At least—” she paused. “I don’t thinkso.” 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 atthis 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 breath-lessly. “Come about the murder at Miss Pebmarsh’s. There’s a photographthey’ve got of the dead man. Do you know, I’m sure I’ve seen him some-where. It wasn’t the man, was it, who came last week and asked us if wehad any antiques to dispose of?”

“Let’s see,” said Mr. McNaughton. “Just hold it for me, will you,” he saidto 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 Hard-castle.

“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 all he does. Shoves in begonias and geraniums and lobelia edging.

That’s not what I call gardening. Might as well live in a public park. Areyou interested in shrubs at all, Inspector? Of course, it’s the wrong time ofyear now, but I’ve one or two shrubs here that you’d be surprised at mybeing able to grow. Shrubs that they say only do well in Devon and Corn-wall.”

“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 saysthey know nothing of art but they know what they like.

“I’m afraid I’ve called about a much less pleasant subject,” Hardcastlesaid.

“Of course. This business yesterday. I was out in the garden, you know,when it happened.”

“Indeed?”

“Well, I mean I was here when the girl screamed.”

“What did you do?”

“Well,” said Mr. McNaughton rather sheepishly, “I didn’t do anything. Asa matter of fact I thought it was those blasted Ramsay boys. Always yellingand screaming and making a noise.”

“But surely this scream didn’t come from quite the same direction?”

“Not if those blasted boys ever stayed in their own garden. But theydon’t, you know. They get through people’s fences and hedges. They chasethose wretched cats of Mrs. Hemming’s all over the place. There’s nobodyto keep a firm hand on them, that’s the trouble. Their mother’s weak aswater. Of course, when there’s no man in the house, boys do get out ofhand.”

“Mr. Ramsay is abroad a good deal I understand.”

“Construction engineer, I believe,” said Mr. McNaughton vaguely. “Al-ways going off somewhere. Dams, you know. I’m not swearing, my dear,”

he assured his wife. “I mean jobs to do with the building of dams, or elseit’s oil or pipelines or something like that. I don’t really know. He had to gooff to Sweden a month ago at a moment’s notice. That left the boys’

mother with a lot to do—cooking and housework and that—and, well—ofcourse they were bound to run wild. They’re not bad boys, mind you, butthey need discipline.”

“You yourself didn’t see anything — apart I mean from hearing thescream? When was that, by the way?”

“No idea,” said Mr. McNaughton. “I take my watch off always before Icome out here. Ran the hose over it the other day and had quite a job get-ting it repaired afterwards. What time was it, my dear? You heard it,didn’t you?”

“It must have been half past two perhaps—it was at least half an hourafter we finished lunch.”

“I see. What time do you lunch?”

“Half past one,” said Mr. McNaughton, “if we’re lucky. Our Danish girlhas got no sense of time.”

“And afterwards—do you have a nap?”

“Sometimes. I didn’t today. I wanted to get on with what I was doing. Iwas clearing away a lot of stuff, adding to the compost heap, and all that.”

“Wonderful thing, a compost heap,” said Hardcastle, solemnly.

Mr. McNaughton brightened immediately.

“Absolutely. Nothing like it. Ah! The number of people I’ve converted.

Using all these chemical manures! Suicide! Let me show you.”

He drew Hardcastle eagerly by the arm and trundling his barrow, wentalong the path to the edge of the fence that divided his garden from that ofNo. 19. Screened by lilac bushes, the compost heap was displayed in itsglory. Mr. McNaughton wheeled the wheelbarrow to a small shed besideit. Inside the shed were several nicely arranged tools.

“Very tidy you keep everything,” remarked Hardcastle.

“Got to take care of your tools,” said McNaughton.

Hardcastle was looking thoughtfully towards No. 19. On the other sideof the fence was a rose pergola which led up to the side of the house.

“You didn’t see anyone in the garden at Number 19 or looking out of thewindow in the house, or anything like that while you were at your com-post heap?”

McNaughton shook his head.

“Didn’t see anything at all,” he said. “Sorry I can’t help you, Inspector.”

“You know, Angus,” said his wife, “I believe I did see a figure skulking inthe garden of 19.”

“I don’t think you did, my dear,” said her husband firmly. “I didn’t,either.”

“That woman would say she’d seen anything,” Hardcastle growled whenthey were back in the car.

“You don’t think she recognized the photograph?”

Hardcastle shook his head. “I doubt it. She just wants to think she’s seenhim. I know that type of witness only too well. When I pinned her down toit, she couldn’t give chapter or verse, could she?”

“No.”

“Of course she may have sat opposite him in a bus or something. I’ll al-low you that. But if you ask me, it’s wishful thinking. What do you think?”

“I think the same.”

“We didn’t get much,” Hardcastle sighed. “Of course there are thingsthat seem queer. For instance, it seems almost impossible that Mrs. Hem-ming—no matter how wrapped up in her cats she is—should know so littleabout her neighbour, Miss Pebmarsh, as she does. And also that sheshould be so extremely vague and uninterested in the murder.”

“She is a vague kind of woman.”

“Scatty!” said Hardcastle. “When you meet a scatty woman—well, fires,burglaries, murders can go on all round them and they wouldn’t notice it.”

“She’s very well fenced in with all that wire netting, and that Victorianshrubbery doesn’t leave you much of a view.”

They had arrived back at the police station. Hardcastle grinned at hisfriend and said:

“Well, Sergeant Lamb, I can let you go off duty now.”

“No more visits to pay?”

“Not just now. I must pay one more later, but I’m not taking you withme.”

“Well, thanks for this morning. Can you get these notes of mine typedup?” He handed them over. “Inquest is the day after tomorrow you said?

What time?”

“Eleven.”

“Right. I’ll be back for it.”

“Are you going away?”

“I’ve got to go up to London tomorrow—make my report up to date.”

“I can guess who to.”

“You’re not allowed to do that.”

Hardcastle grinned.

“Give the old boy my love.”

“Also, I may be going to see a specialist,” said Colin.

“A specialist? What for? What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing—bar thickheadedness. I don’t mean that kind of a specialist.

One in your line.”

“Scotland Yard?”

“No. A private detective—a friend of my Dad’s—and a friend of mine.

This fantastic business of yours will be just down his street. He’ll love it—itwill cheer him up. I’ve an idea he needs cheering up.”

“What’s his name?”

“Hercule Poirot.”

“I’ve heard of him. I thought he was dead.”

“He’s not dead. But I have a feeling he’s bored. That’s worse.”

Hardcastle looked at him curiously.

“You’re an odd fellow, Colin. You make such unlikely friends.”

“Including you,” Colin said, and grinned.