The Clocks Read Free

cheerfully:
    â€œGood.”
    â€œThere—there was a dead man in there, wasn’t there?”
    I agreed promptly.
    â€œCertainly there was. I’m just going down to the telephone box to report it to the police. I should wait in the house if I were you.” I raised my voice to cover her quick protest. “Go into the dining room—on the left as you go in. Miss Pebmarsh is making a cup of tea for you.”
    â€œSo that was Miss Pebmarsh? And she’s blind?”
    â€œYes. It’s been a shock to her, too, of course, but she’s being very sensible. Come on, I’ll take you in. A cup of tea will do you good whilst you are waiting for the police to come.”
    I put an arm round her shoulders and urged her up the path. I settled her comfortably by the dining room table, and hurried off again to telephone.
    II
    An unemotional voice said, “Crowdean Police Station.”
    â€œCan I speak to Detective Inspector Hardcastle?”
    The voice said cautiously:
    â€œI don’t know whether he is here. Who is speaking?”
    â€œTell him it’s Colin Lamb.”
    â€œJust a moment, please.”
    I waited. Then Dick Hardcastle’s voice spoke.
    â€œColin? I didn’t expect you yet awhile. Where are you?”
    â€œCrowdean. I’m actually in Wilbraham Crescent. There’s a man lying dead on the floor of Number 19, stabbed I should think. He’s been dead approximately half an hour or so.”
    â€œWho found him. You?”
    â€œNo, I was an innocent passerby. Suddenly a girl came flying out of the house like a bat out of hell. Nearly knocked me down. She said there was a dead man on the floor and a blind woman was trampling on him.”
    â€œYou’re not having me on, are you?” Dick’s voice asked suspiciously.
    â€œIt does sound fantastic, I admit. But the facts seem to be as stated. The blind woman is Miss Millicent Pebmarsh who owns the house.”
    â€œAnd was she trampling on the dead man?”
    â€œNot in the sense you mean it. It seems that being blind she just didn’t know he was there.”
    â€œI’ll set the machinery in motion. Wait for me there. What have you done with the girl?”
    â€œMiss Pebmarsh is making her a cup of tea.”
    Dick’s comment was that it all sounded very cosy.

Two
    A t 19, Wilbraham Crescent the machinery of the Law was in possession. There was a police surgeon, a police photographer, fingerprint men. They moved efficiently, each occupied with his own routine.
    Finally came Detective Inspector Hardcastle, a tall, pokerfaced man with expressive eyebrows, godlike, to see that all he had put in motion was being done, and done properly. He took a final look at the body, exchanged a few brief words with the police surgeon and then crossed to the dining room where three people sat over empty teacups. Miss Pebmarsh, Colin Lamb and a tall girl with brown curling hair and wide, frightened eyes. “Quite pretty,” the inspector noted, parenthetically as it were.
    He introduced himself to Miss Pebmarsh.
    â€œDetective Inspector Hardcastle.”
    He knew a little about Miss Pebmarsh, though their paths had never crossed professionally. But he had seen her about, and he wasaware that she was an ex-schoolteacher, and that she had a job connected with the teaching of Braille at the Aaronberg Institute for handicapped children. It seemed wildly unlikely that a man should be found murdered in her neat, austere house—but the unlikely happened more often than one would be disposed to believe.
    â€œThis is a terrible thing to have happened, Miss Pebmarsh,” he said. “I’m afraid it must have been a great shock to you. I’ll need to get a clear statement of exactly what occurred from you all. I understand that it was Miss—” he glanced quickly at the notebook the constable had handed him, “Sheila Webb who actually discovered the body. If you’ll