The Case of Naomi Clynes Read Free

to make herself comfortable.”
    â€œOh, the furniture doesn’t belong to her. She was only a sub-tenant.”
    The sergeant had taken out his notebook. “What was her name?”
    â€œMiss Clynes; first name Naomi.”
    â€œHer age?”
    â€œI couldn’t tell you that. I should think by the look of her that she was between thirty and forty.
    â€œHow long had she been with you?”
    â€œLet me see. It must be three months now.”
    â€œDo you know the address of any of her friends?”
    â€œNo, Sergeant, I don’t. She was very reserved and we scarce ever saw her. You see, the flat has its own front door—37 A Seymour Street—just round the corner, and she had no occasion to come into the shop.”
    â€œBut she must have had friends who called on her?”
    â€œFunny you should say that. My wife was talking of that very thing less than a week ago—wondering whether she ever had any visitors.”
    â€œWas she regular with her rent?”
    â€œI can’t tell you that either. She took a sublease of the flat from Harding & Anstruther—the house-agents in Lower Sloane Street. It’s them that receive the rent and pay it over to the real tenant.”
    â€œThe real tenant?”
    â€œYes; you see we let the flat by the year to Mr. Guy Widdows, but he’s travelling abroad most of the time, and then the house-agents let his flat for him by the month. He’s out in Algeria now, and we forward his letters to him.”
    â€œWas she employed anywhere? What did she do with her time?”
    â€œOh, she was an authoress, I believe, but her charwoman you saw downstairs might be able to tell you more about that.”
    â€œI’ll see her presently. Now tell me, who was sleeping on the premises last night?”
    â€œNo one but my roundsman, Bob Willis. He sleeps in that little room at the back of the shop.”
    â€œWhere do you and your wife sleep?”
    â€œWe’ve got a room at 78 King’s Road.”
    â€œWho has the floor above this?”
    â€œIt’s an office of some Jewish society, but no one sleeps there. A girl clerk goes up there once or twice a week to open their letters, but that’s all.”
    â€œHave they got a latchkey to the door in Seymour Street?”
    â€œYes, they have, otherwise they would have to come through my shop.”
    The doctor entered the room from the kitchen and addressed Sergeant Hammett. “It’s a clear case of gas-poisoning, Sergeant. If you’ll give me a hand we’ll carry the body into this room.”
    â€œVery good, sir. Can you form any opinion about the hour when death took place?”
    â€œBefore midnight, I should say. At any rate the woman’s wrist-watch stopped at 5.10, so she hadn’t wound it up overnight.”
    â€œThere is no trace of violence?”
    â€œNot a trace, except a slight bruise on one of her wrists, but she might have got that in knocking it against the kitchen range. I shall know more when we get the body down to the mortuary. Now, if you’ll come along.”
    The three men carried the body reverently into the bed-sitting-room and laid it out on the divan-bed. Corder was sent downstairs for a sheet to cover it, and to call Annie James, the charwoman, to answer Sergeant Hammett’s questions.
    â€œYou’ll report; the case to the coroner, sir?” said Hammett, “and, if you are passing the police-station, perhaps you will give the word for them to send along the ambulance to take the body to the mortuary.”
    â€œI will. I suppose that you’ll be able to tell the coroner’s officer when he comes where the woman’s relatives are to be found. The coroner is always fussy about that.”
    â€œThat’s the trouble, sir. Nobody here seems to know that she had any relatives, or for the matter of that, any friends. She had no visitors, they say. Perhaps you’ll mention this to the