Agatha Christie

The Moving Finger

A Miss Marple Mystery

To my friends
Sydney and Mary Smith

One

I

When at last I was taken out of the plaster, and the doctors had pulled me about to their heartsâ content, and nurses had wheedled me into cautiously using my limbs, and I had been nauseated by their practically using baby talk to me, Marcus Kent told me I was to go and live in the country.

âGood air, quiet life, nothing to doâthatâs the prescription for you. That sister of yours will look after you. Eat, sleep and imitate the vegetable kingdom as far as possible.â

I didnât ask him if Iâd ever be able to fly again. There are questions that you donât ask because youâre afraid of the answers to them. In the same way during the last five months Iâd never asked if I was going to be condemned to lie on my back all my life. I was afraid of a bright hypocritical reassurance from Sister. âCome now, what a question to ask! We donât let our patients go talking in that way!â

So I hadnât askedâand it had been all right. I wasnât to be a helpless cripple. I could move my legs, stand on them, finally walk a few stepsâand if I did feel rather like an adventurous baby learning to toddle, with wobbly knees and cotton wool soles to my feetâwell, that was only weakness and disuse and would pass.

Marcus Kent, who is the right kind of doctor, answered what I hadnât said.

âYouâre going to recover completely,â he said. âWe werenât sure until last Tuesday when you had that final overhaul, but I can tell you so authoritatively now. Butâitâs going to be a long business. A long and, if I may so, a wearisome business. When itâs a question of healing nerves and muscles, the brain must help the body. Any impatience, any fretting, will throw you back. And whatever you do, donât âwill yourself to get well quickly.â Anything of that kind and youâll find yourself back in a nursing home. Youâve got to take life slowly and easily, the tempo is marked Legato. Not only has your body got to recover, but your nerves have been weakened by the necessity of keeping you under drugs for so long.

âThatâs why I say, go down to the country, take a house, get interested in local politics, in local scandal, in village gossip. Take an inquisitive and violent interest in your neighbours. If I may make a suggestion, go to a part of the world where you havenât got any friends scattered about.â

I nodded. âI had already,â I said, âthought of that.â

I could think of nothing more insufferable than members of oneâs own gang dropping in full of sympathy and their own affairs.

âBut Jerry, youâre looking marvellousâisnât he? Absolutely. Darling, I must tell youâWhat do you think Buster has done now?â

No, none of that for me. Dogs are wise. They crawl away into a quiet corner and lick their wounds and do not rejoin the world until they are whole once more.

So it came about that Joanna and I, sorting wildly through houseagentsâ glowing eulogies of properties all over the British Isles, selected Little Furze, Lymstock, as one of the âpossiblesâ to be viewed, mainly because we had never been to Lymstock, and knew no one in that neighbourhood.

And when Joanna saw Little Furze she decided at once that it was just the house we wanted.

It lay about half a mile out of Lymstock on the road leading up to the moors. It was a prim low white house, with a sloping Victorian veranda painted a faded green. It had a pleasant view over a slope of heather-covered land with the church spire of Lymstock down below to the left.

It had belonged to a family of maiden ladies, the Misses Barton, of whom only one was left, the youngest, Miss Emily.

Miss Emily Barton was a charming little old lady who matched her house in an incredible way. In a soft apologetic voice she explained to Joanna that she had never let her house before, indeed would never have thought of doing so, âbut you see, my dear, things are so different nowadaysâtaxation, of course, and then my stocks and shares, so safe, as I always imagined, and indeed the bank manager himself recommended some of them, but they seem to be paying nothing at all these daysâforeign, of course! And really it makes it all so difficult. One does not (Iâm sure you will understand me, my dear, and not take offence, you look so kind) like the idea of letting oneâs house to strangersâbut something must be done, and really, having seen you, I shall be quite glad to think of you being hereâit needs, you know, young life. And I must confess I did shrink from the idea of having Men here!â

At this point, Joanna had to break the news of me. Miss Emily rallied well.

âOh dear, I see. How sad! A flying accident? So brave, these young men. Still, your brother will be practically an invalidââ

The thought seemed to soothe the gentle little lady. Presumably I should not be indulging in those grosser masculine activities which Emily Barton feared. She inquired diffidently if I smoked.

âLike a chimney,â said Joanna. âBut then,â she pointed out, âso do I.â

âOf course, of course. So stupid of me. Iâm afraid, you know, I havenât moved with the times. My sisters were all older than myself, and my dear mother lived to be ninety-sevenâjust fancy!âand was most particular. Yes, yes, everyone smokes now. The only thing is, there are no ashtrays in the house.â

Joanna said that we would bring lots of ashtrays, and she added with a smile, âWe wonât put down cigarette ends on your nice furniture, that I do promise you. Nothing makes me so mad myself as to see people do that.â

So it was settled and we took Little Furze for a period of six months, with an option of another three, and Emily Barton explained to Joanna that she herself was going to be very comfortable because she was going into rooms kept by an old parlourmaid, âmy faithful Florence,â who had married âafter being with us for fifteen years. Such a nice girl, and her husband is in the building trade. They have a nice house in the High Street and two beautiful rooms on the top floor where I shall be most comfortable, and Florence so pleased to have me.â

So everything seemed to be most satisfactory, and the agreement was signed and in due course Joanna and I arrived and settled in, and Miss Emily Bartonâs maid Partridge having consented to remain, we were well looked after with the assistance of a âgirlâ who came in every morning and who seemed to be half-witted but amiable.

Partridge, a gaunt dour female of middle age, cooked admirably, and though disapproving of late dinner (it having been Miss Emilyâs custom to dine lightly off a boiled egg) nevertheless accommodated herself to our ways and went so far as to admit that she could see I needed my strength building up.

When we had settled in and been at Little Furze a week Miss Emily Barton came solemnly and left cards. Her example was followed by Mrs. Symmington, the lawyerâs wife, Miss Griffith, the doctorâs sister, Mrs. Dane Calthrop, the vicarâs wife, and Mr. Pye of Priorâs End.

Joanna was very much impressed.

âI didnât know,â she said in an awestruck voice, âthat people really calledâwith cards.â

âThat is because, my child,â I said, âyou know nothing about the country.â

âNonsense. Iâve stayed away for heaps of weekends with people.â

âThat is not at all the same thing,â I said.

I am five years older than Joanna. I can remember as a child the big white shabby untidy house we had with the fields running down to the river. I can remember creeping under the nets of raspberry canes unseen by the gardener, and the smell of white dust in the stable yard and an orange cat crossing it, and the sound of horse hoofs kicking something in the stables.

But when I was seven and Joanna two, we went to live in London with an aunt, and thereafter our Christmas and Easter holidays were spent there with pantomimes and theatres and cinemas and excursions to Kensington Gardens with boats, and later to skating rinks. In August we were taken to an hotel by the seaside somewhere.

Reflecting on this, I said thoughtfully to Joanna, and with a feeling of compunction as I realized what a selfish, self-centred invalid I had become:

âThis is going to be pretty frightful for you, Iâm afraid. Youâll miss everything so.â

For Joanna is very pretty and very gay, and she likes dancing and cocktails, and love affairs and rushing about in high-powered cars.

Joanna laughed and said she didnât mind at all.

âAs a matter of fact, Iâm glad to get away from it all. I really was fed up with the whole crowd, and although you wonât be sympathetic, I was really very cut up about Paul. It will take me a long time to get over it.â

I was sceptical over this. Joannaâs love affairs always run the same course. She has a mad infatuation for some completely spineless young man who is a misunderstood genius. She listens to his endless complaints and works like anything to get him recognition. Then, when he is ungrateful, she is deeply wounded and says her heart is brokenâuntil the next gloomy young man comes along, which is usually about three weeks later!

So I did not take Joannaâs broken heart very seriously. But I did see that living in the country was like a new game to my attractive sister.

âAt any rate,â she said, âI look all right, donât I?â

I studied her critically and was not able to agree.

Joanna was dressed (by Mirotin) for le Sport. That is to say she was wearing a skirt of outrageous and preposterous checks. It was skintight, and on her upper half she had a ridiculous little shortsleeved jersey with a Tyrolean effect. She had sheer silk stockings and some irreproachable but brand new brogues.

âNo,â I said, âyouâre all wrong. You ought to be wearing a very old tweed skirt, preferably of dirty green or faded brown. Youâd wear a nice cashmere jumper matching it, and perhaps a cardigan coat, and youâd have a felt hat and thick stockings and old shoes. Then, and only then, youâd sink into the background of Lymstock High Street, and not stand out as you do at present.â I added: âYour face is all wrong, too.â

âWhatâs wrong with that? Iâve got on my Country Tan Makeup No. 2.â

âExactly,â I said. âIf you lived in Lymstock, you would have on just a little powder to take the shine off your nose, and possibly a soupÃ§on of lipstickânot very well appliedâand you would almost certainly be wearing all your eyebrows instead of only a quarter of them.â

Joanna gurgled and seemed much amused.

âDo you think theyâll think Iâm awful?â she said.

âNo,â I said. âJust queer.â

Joanna had resumed her study of the cards left by our callers. Only the vicarâs wife had been so fortunate, or possibly unfortunate, as to catch Joanna at home.

Joanna murmured:

âItâs rather like Happy Families, isnât it? Mrs. Legal the lawyerâs wife, Miss Dose the doctorâs daughter, etc.â She added with enthusiasm: âI do think this is a nice place, Jerry! So sweet and funny and old-world. You just canât think of anything nasty happening here, can you?â

And although I knew what she said was really nonsense, I agreed with her. In a place like Lymstock nothing nasty could happen. It is odd to think that it was just a week later that we got the first letter.

II

I see that I have begun badly. I have given no description of Lymstock and without understanding what Lymstock is like, it is impossible to understand my story.

To begin with, Lymstock has its roots in the past. Somewhere about the time of the Norman Conquest, Lymstock was a place of importance. That importance was chiefly ecclesiastical. Lymstock had a priory, and it had a long succession of ambitious and powerful priors. Lords and barons in the surrounding countryside made themselves right with Heaven by leaving certain of their lands to the priory. Lymstock Priory waxed rich and important and was a power in the land for many centuries. In due course, however, Henry the Eighth caused it to share the fate of its contemporaries. From then on a castle dominated the town. It was still important. It had rights and privileges and wealth.

And then, somewhere in seventeen hundred and something, the tide of progress swept Lymstock into a backwater. The castle crumbled. Neither railways nor main roads came near Lymstock. It turned into a little provincial market town, unimportant and forgotten, with a sweep of moorland rising behind it, and placid farms and fields ringing it round.

A market was held there once a week, on which day one was apt to encounter cattle in the lanes and roads. It had a small race meeting twice a year which only the most obscure horses attended. It had a charming High Street with dignified houses set flat back, looking slightly incongruous with their ground-floor windows displaying buns or vegetables or fruit. It had a long straggling draperâs shop, a large and portentous ironmongerâs, a pretentious post office, and a row of straggly indeterminate shops, two rival butchers and an International Stores. It had a doctor, a firm of solicitors, Messrs. Galbraith, Galbraith and Symmington, a beautiful and unexpectedly large church dating from fourteen hundred and twenty, with some Saxon remains incorporated in it, a new and hideous school, and two pubs.

Such was Lymstock, and urged on by Emily Barton, anybody who was anybody came to call upon us, and in due course Joanna, having bought a pair of gloves and assumed a velvet beret rather the worse for wear, sallied forth to return them.

To us, it was all quite novel and entertaining. We were not there for life. It was, for us, an interlude. I prepared to obey my doctorâs instructions and get interested in my neighbours.

Joanna and I found it all great fun.

I remembered, I suppose, Marcus Kentâs instructions to enjoy the local scandals. I certainly didnât suspect how these scandals were going to be introduced to my notice.

The odd part of it was that the letter, when it came, amused us more than anything else.

It arrived, I remember, at breakfast. I turned it over, in the idle way one does when time goes slowly and every event must be spun out to its full extent. It was, I saw, a local letter with a typewritten address.

I opened it before the two with London postmarks, since one of them was a bill and the other from a rather tiresome cousin.

Inside, printed words and letters had been cut out and gummed to a sheet of paper. For a minute or two I stared at the words without taking them in. Then I gasped.

Joanna, who was frowning over some bills, looked up.

âHallo,â she said, âwhat is it? You look quite startled.â

The letter, using terms of the coarsest character, expressed the writerâs opinion that Joanna and I were not brother and sister.

âItâs a particularly foul anonymous letter,â I said.

I was still suffering from shock. Somehow one didnât expect that kind of thing in the placid backwater of Lymstock.

Joanna at once displayed lively interest.

âNo? What does it say?â

In novels, I have noticed, anonymous letters of a foul and disgusting character are never shown, if possible, to women. It is implied that women must at all cost be shielded from the shock it might give their delicate nervous systems.

I am sorry to say it never occurred to me not to show the letter to Joanna. I handed it to her at once.

She vindicated my belief in her toughness by displaying no emotion but that of amusement.

âWhat an awful bit of dirt! Iâve always heard about anonymous letters, but Iâve never seen one before. Are they always like this?â

âI canât tell you,â I said. âItâs my first experience, too.â

Joanna began to giggle.

âYou must have been right about my makeup, Jerry. I suppose they think I just must be an abandoned female!â

âThat,â I said, âcoupled with the fact that our father was a tall, dark lantern-jawed man and our mother a fair-haired blue-eyed little creature, and that I take after him and you take after her.â

Joanna nodded thoughtfully.

âYes, weâre not a bit alike. Nobody would take us for brother and sister.â

âSomebody certainly hasnât,â I said with feeling.

Joanna said she thought it was frightfully funny.

She dangled the letter thoughtfully by one corner and asked what we were to do with it.

âThe correct procedure, I believe,â I said, âis to drop it into the fire with a sharp exclamation of disgust.â

I suited the action to the word, and Joanna applauded.

âYou did that beautifully,â she added. âYou ought to have been on the stage. Itâs lucky we still have fires, isnât it?â

âThe wastepaper basket would have been much less dramatic,â I agreed. âI could, of course, have set light to it with a match and slowly watched it burnâor watched it slowly burn.â

âThings never burn when you want them to,â said Joanna. âThey go out. Youâd probably have had to strike match after match.â

She got up and went towards the window. Then, standing there, she turned her head sharply.

âI wonder,â she said, âwho wrote it?â

âWeâre never likely to know,â I said.

âNoâI suppose not.â She was silent a moment, and then said: âI donât know when I come to think of it that it is so funny after all. You know, I thought theyâthey liked us down here.â

âSo they do,â I said. âThis is just some half-crazy brain on the borderline.â

âI suppose so. Ughâ Nasty!â

As she went out into the sunshine I thought to myself as I smoked my after-breakfast cigarette that she was quite right. It was nasty. Someone resented our coming hereâsomeone resented Joannaâs bright young sophisticated beautyâsomebody wanted to hurt. To take it with a laugh was perhaps the best wayâbut deep down it wasnât funnyâ¦.

Dr. Griffith came that morning. I had fixed up for him to give me a weekly overhaul. I liked Owen Griffith. He was dark, ungainly, with awkward ways of moving and deft, very gentle hands. He had a jerky way of talking and was rather shy.

He reported progress to be encouraging. Then he added:

âYouâre feeling all right, arenât you. Is it my fancy, or are you a bit under the weather this morning?â

âNot really,â I said. âA particularly scurrilous anonymous letter arrived with the morning coffee, and itâs left rather a nasty taste in the mouth.â

He dropped his bag on the floor. His thin dark face was excited.

âDo you mean to say that youâve had one of them?â

I was interested.

âTheyâve been going about, then?â

âYes. For some time.â

âOh,â I said, âI see. I was under the impression that our presence as strangers was resented here.â

âNo, no, itâs nothing to do with that. Itâs justââ He paused and then asked, âWhat did it say? At leastââ he turned suddenly red and embarrassedâ âperhaps I oughtnât to ask?â

âIâll tell you with pleasure,â I said. âIt just said that the fancy tart Iâd brought down with me wasnât my sisterânot âalf! And that, I may say, is a Bowdlerized version.â

His dark face flushed angrily.

âHow damnable! Your sister didnâtâsheâs not upset, I hope?â

âJoanna,â I said, âlooks a little like the angel off the top of the Christmas tree, but sheâs eminently modern and quite tough. She found it highly entertaining. Such things havenât come her way before.â

âI should hope not, indeed,â said Griffith warmly.

âAnd anyway,â I said firmly. âThatâs the best way to take it, I think. As something utterly ridiculous.â

âYes,â said Owen Griffith. âOnlyââ

âQuite so,â I said. âOnly is the word!â

âThe trouble is,â he said, âthat this sort of thing, once it starts, grows.â

âSo I should imagine.â

âItâs pathological, of course.â

I nodded. âAny idea whoâs behind it?â I asked.

âNo, I wish I had. You see, the anonymous letter pest arises from one of two causes. Either itâs particularâdirected at one particular person or set of people, that is to say itâs motivated, itâs someone whoâs got a definite grudge (or thinks they have) and who chooses a particularly nasty and underhand way of working it off. Itâs mean and disgusting but itâs not necessarily crazy, and itâs usually fairly easy to trace the writerâa discharged servant, a jealous womanâand so on. But if itâs general, and not particular, then itâs more serious. The letters are sent indiscriminately and serve the purpose of working off some frustration in the writerâs mind. As I say, itâs definitely pathological. And the craze grows. In the end, of course, you track down the person in questionâitâs often someone extremely unlikely, and thatâs that. There was a bad outburst of the kind over the other side of the county last yearâturned out to be the head of the millinery department in a big draperâs establishment. Quiet, refined womanâhad been there for years. I remember something of the same kind in my last practice up northâbut that turned out to be purely personal spite. Still, as I say, Iâve seen something of this kind of thing, and, quite frankly, it frightens me!â

âHas it been going on long?â I asked.

âI donât think so. Hard to say, of course, because people who get these letters donât go round advertising the fact. They put them in the fire.â

He paused.

âIâve had one myself. Symmington, the solicitor, heâs had one. And one or two of my poorer patients have told me about them.â

âAll much the same sort of thing?â

âOh yes. A definite harping on the sex theme. Thatâs always a feature.â He grinned. âSymmington was accused of illicit relations with his lady clerkâpoor old Miss Ginch, whoâs forty at least, with pince-nez and teeth like a rabbit. Symmington took it straight to the police. My letters accused me of violating professional decorum with my lady patients, stressing the details. Theyâre all quite childish and absurd, but horribly venomous.â His face changed, grew grave. âBut all the same, Iâm afraid. These things can be dangerous, you know.â

âI suppose they can.â

âYou see,â he said, âcrude, childish spite though it is, sooner or later one of these letters will hit the mark. And then, God knows what may happen! Iâm afraid, too, of the effect upon the slow, suspicious uneducated mind. If they see a thing written, they believe itâs true. All sorts of complications may arise.â

âIt was an illiterate sort of letter,â I said thoughtfully, âwritten by somebody practically illiterate, I should say.â

âWas it?â said Owen, and went away.

Thinking it over afterwards, I found that âWas it?â rather disturbing.

Two

I

I am not going to pretend that the arrival of our anonymous letter did not leave a nasty taste in the mouth. It did. At the same time, it soon passed out of my mind. I did not, you see, at that point, take it seriously. I think I remember saying to myself that these things probably happen fairly often in out-of-the-way villages. Some hysterical woman with a taste for dramatizing herself was probably at the bottom of it. Anyway, if the letters were as childish and silly as the one we had got, they couldnât do much harm.

The next incident, if I may put it so, occurred about a week later, when Partridge, her lips set tightly together, informed me that Beatrice, the daily help, would not be coming today.

âI gather, sir,â said Partridge, âthat the girl has been Upset.â

I was not very sure what Partridge was implying, but I diagnosed (wrongly) some stomachic trouble to which Partridge was too delicate to allude more directly. I said I was sorry and hoped she would soon be better.

âThe girl is perfectly well, sir,â said Partridge. âShe is Upset in her Feelings.â

âOh,â I said rather doubtfully.

âOwing,â went on Partridge, âto a letter she has received. Making, I understand, Insinuations.â

The grimness of Partridgeâs eye, coupled with the obvious capital I of Insinuations, made me apprehensive that the insinuations were concerned with me. Since I would hardly have recognized Beatrice by sight if I had met her in the town so unaware of her had I beenâI felt a not unnatural annoyance. An invalid hobbling about on two sticks is hardly cast for the role of deceiver of village girls. I said irritably:

âWhat nonsense!â

âMy very words, sir, to the girlâs mother,â said Partridge. ââGoings On in this house,â I said to her, âthere never have been and never will be while I am in charge. As to Beatrice,â I said, âgirls are different nowadays, and as to Goings On elsewhere I can say nothing.â But the truth is, sir, that Beatriceâs friend from the garage as she walks out with got one of them nasty letters too, and he isnât acting reasonable at all.â

âI have never heard anything so preposterous in my life,â I said angrily.

âItâs my opinion, sir,â said Partridge, âthat weâre well rid of the girl. What I say is, she wouldnât take on so if there wasnât something she didnât want found out. No smoke without fire, thatâs what I say.â

I had no idea how horribly tired I was going to get of that particular phrase.

II

That morning, by way of adventure, I was to walk down to the village. (Joanna and I always called it the village, although technically we were incorrect, and Lymstock would have been annoyed to hear us.)

The sun was shining, the air was cool and crisp with the sweetness of spring in it. I assembled my sticks and started off, firmly refusing to permit Joanna to accompany me.

âNo,â I said, âI will not have a guardian angel teetering along beside me and uttering encouraging chirrups. A man travels fastest who travels alone, remember. I have much business to transact. I shall go to Galbraith, Galbraith and Symmington, and sign that transfer of shares, I shall call in at the bakerâs and complain about the currant loaf, and I shall return that book we borrowed. I have to go to the bank, too. Let me away, woman, the morning is all too short.â

It was arranged that Joanna should pick me up with the car and drive me back up the hill in time for lunch.

âThat ought to give you time to pass the time of day with everyone in Lymstock.â

âI have no doubt,â I said, âthat I shall have seen anybody who is anybody by then.â

For morning in the High Street was a kind of rendezvous for shoppers, when news was exchanged.

I did not, after all, walk down to the town unaccompanied. I had gone about two hundred yards, when I heard a bicycle bell behind me, then a scrunching of brakes, and then Megan Hunter more or less fell off her machine at my feet.

âHallo,â she said breathlessly as she rose and dusted herself off.

I rather liked Megan and always felt oddly sorry for her.

She was Symmington the lawyerâs stepdaughter, Mrs. Symmingtonâs daughter by a first marriage. Nobody talked much about Mr. (or Captain) Hunter, and I gathered that he was considered best forgotten. He was reported to have treated Mrs. Symmington very badly. She had divorced him a year or two after the marriage. She was a woman with means of her own and had settled down with her little daughter in Lymstock âto forget,â and had eventually married the only eligible bachelor in the place, Richard Symmington. There were two boys of the second marriage to whom their parents were devoted, and I fancied that Megan sometimes felt odd man out in the establishment. She certainly did not resemble her mother, who was a small anaemic woman, fadedly pretty, who talked in a thin melancholy voice of servant difficulties and her health.

Megan was a tall awkward girl, and although she was actually twenty, she looked more like a schoolgirlish sixteen. She had a shock of untidy brown hair, hazel green eyes, a thin bony face, and an unexpected charming one-sided smile. Her clothes were drab and unattractive and she usually had on lisle thread stockings with holes in them.

She looked, I decided this morning, much more like a horse than a human being. In fact she would have been a very nice horse with a little grooming.

She spoke, as usual, in a kind of breathless rush.

âIâve been up to the farmâyou know, Lasherâsâto see if theyâd got any duckâs eggs. Theyâve got an awfully nice lot of little pigs. Sweet! Do you like pigs? I even like the smell.â

âWell-kept pigs shouldnât smell,â I said.

âShouldnât they? They all do round here. Are you walking down to the town? I saw you were alone, so I thought Iâd stop and walk with you, only I stopped rather suddenly.â

âYouâve torn your stocking,â I said.

Megan looked rather ruefully at her right leg.

âSo I have. But itâs got two holes already, so it doesnât matter very much, does it?â

âDonât you ever mend your stockings, Megan?â

âRather. When Mummy catches me. But she doesnât notice awfully what I doâso itâs lucky in a way, isnât it?â

âYou donât seem to realize youâre grown up,â I said.

âYou mean I ought to be more like your sister? All dolled up?â

I rather resented this description of Joanna.

âShe looks clean and tidy and pleasing to the eye,â I said.

âSheâs awfully pretty,â said Megan. âShe isnât a bit like you, is she? Why not?â

âBrothers and sisters arenât always alike.â

âNo. Of course. Iâm not very like Brian or Colin. And Brian and Colin arenât like each other.â She paused and said, âItâs very rum, isnât it?â

âWhat is?â

Megan replied briefly: âFamilies.â

I said thoughtfully, âI suppose they are.â

I wondered just what was passing in her mind. We walked on in silence for a moment or two, then Megan said in a rather shy voice:

âYou fly, donât you?â

âYes.â

âThatâs how you got hurt?â

âYes, I crashed.â

Megan said:

âNobody down here flies.â

âNo,â I said. âI suppose not. Would you like to fly, Megan?â

âMe?â Megan seemed surprised. âGoodness, no. I should be sick. Iâm sick in a train even.â

She paused, and then asked with that directness which only a child usually displays:

âWill you get all right and be able to fly again, or will you always be a bit of a crock?â

âMy doctor says I shall be quite all right.â

âYes, but is he the kind of man who tells lies?â

âI donât think so,â I replied. âIn fact, Iâm quite sure of it. I trust him.â

âThatâs all right then. But a lot of people do tell lies.â

I accepted this undeniable statement of fact in silence.

Megan said in a detached judicial kind of way:

âIâm glad. I was afraid you looked bad tempered because you were crocked up for lifeâbut if itâs just natural, itâs different.â

âIâm not bad tempered,â I said coldly.

âWell, irritable, then.â

âIâm irritable because Iâm in a hurry to get fit againâand these things canât be hurried.â

âThen why fuss?â

I began to laugh.

âMy dear girl, arenât you ever in a hurry for things to happen?â

Megan considered the question. She said:

âNo. Why should I be? Thereâs nothing to be in a hurry about. Nothing ever happens.â

I was struck by something forlorn in the words. I said gently: âWhat do you do with yourself down here?â

She shrugged her shoulders.

âWhat is there to do?â

âHavenât you got any hobbies? Do you play games? Have you got friends round about?â

âIâm stupid at games. And I donât like them much. There arenât many girls round here, and the ones there are I donât like. They think Iâm awful.â

âNonsense. Why should they?â

Megan shook her head.

âDidnât you go to school at all?â

âYes, I came back a year ago.â

âDid you enjoy school?â

âIt wasnât bad. They taught you things in an awfully silly way, though.â

âHow do you mean?â

âWellâjust bits and pieces. Chopping and changing from one thing to the other. It was a cheap school, you know, and the teachers werenât very good. They could never answer questions properly.â

âVery few teachers can,â I said.

âWhy not? They ought to.â

I agreed.

âOf course Iâm pretty stupid,â said Megan. âAnd such a lot of things seem to me such rot. History, for instance. Why, itâs quite different out of different books!â

âThat is its real interest,â I said.

âAnd grammar,â went on Megan. âAnd silly compositions. And all the blathering stuff Shelley wrote, twittering on about skylarks, and Wordsworth going all potty over some silly daffodils. And Shakespeare.â

âWhatâs wrong with Shakespeare?â I inquired with interest.

âTwisting himself up to say things in such a difficult way that you canât get at what he means. Still, I like some Shakespeare.â

âHe would be gratified to know that, Iâm sure,â I said.

Megan suspected no sarcasm. She said, her face lighting up:

âI like Goneril and Regan, for instance.â

âWhy these two?â

âOh, I donât know. Theyâre satisfactory, somehow. Why do you think they were like that?â

âLike what?â

âLike they were. I mean something must have made them like that?â

For the first time I wondered. I had always accepted Learâs elder daughters as two nasty bits of goods and had let it go at that. But Meganâs demand for a first cause interested me.

âIâll think about it,â I said.

âOh, it doesnât really matter. I just wondered. Anyway, itâs only English Literature, isnât it?â

âQuite, quite. Wasnât there any subject you enjoyed?â

âOnly Maths.â

âMaths?â I said, rather surprised.

Meganâs face had lit up.

âI loved Maths. But it wasnât awfully well taught. Iâd like to be taught Maths really well. Itâs heavenly. I think thereâs something heavenly about numbers, anyway, donât you?â

âIâve never felt it,â I said truthfully.

We were now entering the High Street. Megan said sharply:

âHereâs Miss Griffith. Hateful woman.â

âDonât you like her?â

âI loathe her. Sheâs always at me to join her foul Guides. I hate Guides. Why dress yourself up and go about in clumps, and put badges on yourself for something you havenât really learnt to do properly? I think itâs all rot.â

On the whole, I rather agreed with Megan. But Miss Griffith had descended on us before I could voice my assent.

The doctorâs sister, who rejoiced in the singularly inappropriate name of AimÃ©e, had all the positive assurance that her brother lacked. She was a handsome woman in a masculine weather-beaten way, with a deep hearty voice.

âHallo, you two,â she bayed at us. âGorgeous morning, isnât it? Megan, youâre just the person I wanted to see. I want some help addressing envelopes for the Conservative Association.â

Megan muttered something elusive, propped up her bicycle against the kerb and dived in a purposeful way into the International Stores.

âExtraordinary child,â said Miss Griffith, looking after her. âBone lazy. Spends her time mooning about. Must be a great trial to poor Mrs. Symmington. I know her motherâs tried more than once to get her to take up somethingâshorthand-typing, you know, or cookery, or keeping Angora rabbits. She needs an interest in life.â

I thought that was probably true, but felt that in Meganâs place I should have withstood firmly any of AimÃ©e Griffithâs suggestions for the simple reason that her aggressive personality would have put my back up.

âI donât believe in idleness,â went on Miss Griffith. âAnd certainly not for young people. Itâs not as though Megan was pretty or attractive or anything like that. Sometimes I think the girlâs half-witted. A great disappointment to her mother. The father, you know,â she lowered her voice slightly, âwas definitely a wrong âun. Afraid the child takes after him. Painful for her mother. Oh, well, it takes all sorts to make a world, thatâs what I say.â

âFortunately,â I responded.

AimÃ©e Griffith gave a âjollyâ laugh.

âYes, it wouldnât do if we were all made to one pattern. But I donât like to see anyone not getting all they can out of life. I enjoy life myself and I want everyone to enjoy it too. People say to me you must be bored to death living down there in the country all the year round. Not a bit of it, I say. Iâm always busy, always happy! Thereâs always something going on in the country. My timeâs taken up, what with my Guides, and the Institute and various committeesâto say nothing of looking after Owen.â

At this minute, Miss Griffith saw an acquaintance on the other side of the street, and uttering a bay of recognition she leaped across the road, leaving me free to pursue my course to the bank.

I always found Miss Griffith rather overwhelming, though I admired her energy and vitality, and it was pleasant to see the beaming contentment with her lot in life which she always displayed, and which was a pleasant contrast to the subdued complaining murmurs of so many women.

My business at the bank transacted satisfactorily, I went on to the offices of Messrs. Galbraith, Galbraith and Symmington. I donât know if there were any Galbraiths extant. I never saw any. I was shown into Richard Symmingtonâs inner office which had the agreeable mustiness of a long-established legal firm.

Vast numbers of deed boxes, labelled Lady Hope, Sir Everard Carr, William Yatesby-Hoares, Esq., Deceased, etc., gave the required atmosphere of decorous county families and legitimate long-established business.

Studying Mr. Symmington as he bent over the documents I had brought, it occurred to me that if Mrs. Symmington had encountered disaster in her first marriage, she had certainly played safe in her second. Richard Symmington was the acme of calm respectability, the sort of man who would never give his wife a momentâs anxiety. A long neck with a pronounced Adamâs apple, a slightly cadaverous face and a long thin nose. A kindly man, no doubt, a good husband and father, but not one to set the pulses madly racing.

Presently Mr. Symmington began to speak. He spoke clearly and slowly, delivering himself of much good sense and shrewd acumen. We settled the matter in hand and I rose to go, remarking as I did so:

âI walked down the hill with your stepdaughter.â

For a moment Mr. Symmington looked as though he did not know who his stepdaughter was, then he smiled.

âOh yes, of course, Megan. Sheâerâhas been back from school some time. Weâre thinking about finding her something to doâyes, to do. But of course sheâs very young still. And backward for her age, so they say. Yes, so they tell me.â

I went out. In the outer office was a very old man on a stool writing slowly and laboriously, a small cheeky-looking boy and a middle-aged woman with frizzy hair and pinze-nez who was typing with some speed and dash.

If this was Miss Ginch I agreed with Owen Griffith that tender passages between her and her employer were exceedingly unlikely.

I went into the bakerâs and said my piece about the currant loaf. It was received with the exclamation and incredulity proper to the occasion, and a new currant loaf was thrust upon me in replacementââfresh from the oven this minuteââas its indecent heat pressed against my chest proclaimed to be no less than truth.

I came out of the shop and looked up and down the street hoping to see Joanna with the car. The walk had tired me a good deal and it was awkward getting along with my sticks and the currant loaf.

But there was no sign of Joanna as yet.

Suddenly my eyes were held in glad and incredulous surprise.

Along the pavement towards me there came floating a goddess. There is really no other word for it.

The perfect features, the crisply curling golden hair, the tall exquisitely-shaped body! And she walked like a goddess, without effort, seeming to swim nearer and nearer. A glorious, an incredible, a breathtaking girl!

In my intense excitement something had to go. What went was the currant loaf. It slipped from my clutches. I made a dive after it and lost my stick, which clattered to the pavement, and I slipped and nearly fell myself.

It was the strong arm of the goddess that caught and held me. I began to stammer:

âTh-thanks awfully, Iâm f-f-frightfully sorry.â

She had retrieved the currant loaf and handed it to me together with the stick. And then she smiled kindly and said cheerfully:

âDonât mention it. No trouble, I assure you,â and the magic died completely before the flat, competent voice.

A nice healthy-looking well set-up girl, no more.

I fell to reflecting what would have happened if the Gods had given Helen of Troy exactly those flat accents. How strange that a girl could trouble your inmost soul so long as she kept her mouth shut, and that the moment she spoke the glamour could vanish as though it had never been.

I had known the reverse happen, though. I had seen a little sad monkey-faced woman whom no one would turn to look at twice. Then she opened her mouth and suddenly enchantment had lived and bloomed and Cleopatra had cast her spell anew.

Joanna had drawn up at the kerb beside me without my noticing her arrival. She asked if there was anything the matter.

âNothing,â I said, pulling myself together. âI was reflecting on Helen of Troy and others.â

âWhat a funny place to do it,â said Joanna. âYou looked most odd, standing there clasping currant bread to your breast with your mouth wide open.â

âIâve had a shock,â I said. âI have been transplanted to Ilium and back again.â

âDo you know who that is?â I added, indicating a retreating back that was swimming gracefully away.

Peering after the girl Joanna said that it was the Symmingtonsâ nursery governess.

âIs that what struck you all of a heap?â she asked. âSheâs good-looking, but a bit of a wet fish.â

âI know,â I said. âJust a nice kind girl. And Iâd been thinking her Aphrodite.â

Joanna opened the door of the car and I got in.

âItâs funny, isnât it?â she said. âSome people have lots of looks and absolutely no S.A. That girl has. It seems such a pity.â

I said that if she was a nursery governess it was probably just as well.

Three

I

That afternoon we went to tea with Mr. Pye.

Mr. Pye was an extremely ladylike plump little man, devoted to his petit point chairs, his Dresden shepherdesses and his collection of bric-Ã -brac. He lived at Priorâs Lodge in the grounds of which were the ruins of the old Priory.

Priorâs Lodge was certainly a very exquisite house and under Mr. Pyeâs loving care it showed to its best advantage. Every piece of furniture was polished and set in the exact place most suited to it. The curtains and cushions were of exquisite tone and colour, and of the most expensive silks.

It was hardly a manâs house, and it did strike me that to live there would be rather like taking up oneâs abode in a period room at a museum. Mr. Pyeâs principal enjoyment in life was taking people round his house. Even those completely insensitive to their surroundings could not escape. Even if you were so hardened as to consider the essentials of living a radio, a cocktail bar, a bath and a bed surrounded by the necessary walls. Mr. Pye did not despair of leading you to better things.

His small plump hands quivered with sensibility as he described his treasures, and his voice rose to a falsetto squeak as he narrated the exciting circumstances under which he had brought his Italian bedstead home from Verona.

Joanna and I being both fond of antiquities and of period furniture, met with approval.

âIt is really a pleasure, a great pleasure, to have such an acquisition to our little community. The dear good people down here, you know, so painfully bucolicânot to say provincial. They donât know anything. Vandalsâabsolute vandals! And the inside of their housesâit would make you weep, dear lady, I assure you it would make you weep. Perhaps it has done so?â

Joanna said that she hadnât gone quite as far as that.

âBut you see what I mean? They mix things so terribly! Iâve seen with my own eyes a most delightful little Sheraton pieceâdelicate, perfectâa collectorâs piece, absolutelyâand next to it a Victorian occasional table, or quite possibly a fumed oak revolving bookcaseâyes, even thatâfumed oak.â

He shudderedâand murmured plaintively:

âWhy are people so blind? You agreeâIâm sure you agree, that beauty is the only thing worth living for.â

Hypnotized by his earnestness, Joanna said, yes, yes, that was so.

âThen why,â demanded Mr. Pye, âdo people surround themselves with ugliness?â

Joanna said it was very odd.

âOdd? Itâs criminal! Thatâs what I call itâcriminal! And the excuses they give! They say something is comfortable. Or that it is quaint. Quaint! Such a horrible word.â

âThe house you have taken,â went on Mr. Pye, âMiss Emily Bartonâs house. Now that is charming, and she has some quite nice pieces. Quite nice. One or two of them are really first class. And she has taste, tooâalthough Iâm not quite so sure of that as I was. Sometimes, I am afraid, I think itâs really sentiment. She likes to keep things as they wereâbut not for le bon motifânot because of the resultant harmonyâbut because it is the way her mother had them.â

He transferred his attention to me, and his voice changed. It altered from that of the rapt artist to that of the born gossip.

âYou didnât know the family at all? No, quite soâyes, through house agents. But, my dears, you ought to have known that family! When I came here the old mother was still alive. An incredible personâquite incredible! A monster, if you know what I mean. Positively a monster. The old-fashioned Victorian monster, devouring her young. Yes, thatâs what it amounted to. She was monumental, you know, must have weighed seventeen stone, and all the five daughters revolved round her. âThe girlsâ! Thatâs how she always spoke of them. The girls! And the eldest was well over sixty then. âThose stupid girls!â she used to call them sometimes. Black slaves, thatâs all they were, fetching and carrying and agreeing with her. Ten oâclock they had to go to bed and they werenât allowed a fire in their bedroom, and as for asking their own friends to the house, that would have been unheard of. She despised them, you know, for not getting married, and yet so arranged their lives that it was practically impossible for them to meet anybody. I believe Emily, or perhaps it was Agnes, did have some kind of affair with a curate. But his family wasnât good enough and Mamma soon put a stop to that!â

âIt sounds like a novel,â said Joanna.

âOh, my dear, it was. And then the dreadful old woman died, but of course it was far too late then. They just went on living there and talking in hushed voices about what poor Mamma would have wished. Even repapering her bedroom they felt to be quite sacrilegious. Still they did enjoy themselves in the parish in a quiet wayâ¦ But none of them had much stamina, and they just died off one by one. Influenza took off Edith, and Minnie had an operation and didnât recover and poor Mabel had a strokeâEmily looked after her in the most devoted manner. Really that poor woman has done nothing but nursing for the last ten years. A charming creature, donât you think? Like a piece of Dresden. So sad for her having financial anxietiesâbut of course all investments have depreciated.â

âWe feel rather awful being in her house,â said Joanna.

âNo, no, my dear young lady. You mustnât feel that way. Her dear good Florence is devoted to her and she told me herself how happy she was to have got such nice tenants.â Here Mr. Pye made a little bow. âShe told me she thought she had been most fortunate.â

âThe house,â I said, âhas a very soothing atmosphere.â

Mr. Pye darted a quick glance at me.

âReally? You feel that? Now, thatâs very interesting. I wondered, you know. Yes, I wondered.â

âWhat do you mean, Mr. Pye?â asked Joanna.

My Pye spread out his plump hands.

âNothing, nothing. One wondered, that is all. I do believe in atmosphere, you know. Peopleâs thoughts and feelings. They give their impression to the walls and the furniture.â

I did not speak for a moment or two. I was looking round me and wondering how I would describe the atmosphere of Priorâs Lodge. It seemed to me that the curious thing was that it hadnât any atmosphere! That was really very remarkable.

I reflected on this point so long that I heard nothing of the conversation going on between Joanna and her host. I was recalled to myself, however, by hearing Joanna uttering farewell preliminaries. I came out of my dream and added my quota.

We all went out into the hall. As we came towards the front door a letter came through the box and fell on the mat.

âAfternoon post,â murmured Mr. Pye as he picked it up. âNow, my dear young people, you will come again, wonât you? Such a pleasure to meet some broader minds, if you understand me. Someone with an appreciation of Art. Really you know, these dear good people down here, if you mention the Ballet, it conveys to them pirouetting toes, and tulle skirts and old gentlemen with opera glasses in the Naughty Nineties. It does indeed. Fifty years behind the timesâthatâs what I put them down, as. A wonderful country, England. It has pockets. Lymstock is one of them. Interesting from a collectorâs point of viewâI always feel I have voluntarily put myself under a glass shade when I am here. The peaceful backwater where nothing ever happens.â

Shaking hands with us twice over, he helped me with exaggerated care into the car. Joanna took the wheel, she negotiated with some care the circular sweep round a plot of unblemished grass, then with a straight drive ahead, she raised a hand to wave goodbye to our host where he stood on the steps of the house. I leaned forward to do the same.

But our gesture of farewell went unheeded. Mr. Pye had opened his mail.

He was standing staring down at the open sheet in his hand.

Joanna had described him once as a plump pink cherub. He was still plump, but he was not looking like a cherub now. His face was a dark congested purple, contorted with rage and surprise.

And at that moment I realized that there had been something familiar about the look of that envelope. I had not realized it at the timeâindeed it had been one of those things that you note unconsciously without knowing that you do note them.

âGoodness,â said Joanna. âWhatâs bitten the poor pet?â

âI rather fancy,â I said, âthat itâs the Hidden Hand again.â

She turned an astonished face towards me and the car swerved.

âCareful, wench,â I said.

Joanna refixed her attention on the road. She was frowning.

âYou mean a letter like the one you got?â

âThatâs my guess.â

âWhat is this place?â asked Joanna. âIt looks the most innocent sleepy harmless little bit of England you can imagineââ

âWhere to quote Mr. Pye, nothing ever happens,â I cut in. âHe chose the wrong minute to say that. Something has happened.â

âBut who writes these things, Jerry?â

I shrugged my shoulders.

âMy dear girl, how should I know? Some local nitwit with a screw loose, I suppose.â

âBut why? It seems so idiotic.â

âYou must read Freud and Jung and that lot to find out. Or ask our Dr. Owen.â

Joanna tossed her head.

âDr. Owen doesnât like me.â

âHeâs hardly seen you.â

âHeâs seen quite enough, apparently, to make him cross over if he sees me coming along the High Street.â

âA most unusual reaction,â I said sympathetically. âAnd one youâre not used to.â

Joanna was frowning again.

âNo, but seriously, Jerry, why do people write anonymous letters?â

âAs I say, theyâve got a screw loose. It satisfies some urge, I suppose. If youâve been snubbed, or ignored, or frustrated, and your lifeâs pretty drab and empty, I suppose you get a sense of power from stabbing in the dark at people who are happy and enjoying themselves.â

Joanna shivered. âNot nice.â

âNo, not nice. I should imagine the people in these country places tend to be inbredâand so you would get a fair amount of queers.â

âSomebody, I suppose, quite uneducated and inarticulate? With better educationââ

Joanna did not finish her sentence, and I said nothing. I have never been able to accept the easy belief that education is a panacea for every ill.

As we drove through the town before climbing up the hill road, I looked curiously at the few figures abroad in the High Street. Was one of those sturdy countrywomen going about with a load of spite and malice behind her placid brow, planning perhaps even now a further outpouring of vindictive spleen?

But I still did not take the thing seriously.

II

Two days later we went to a bridge party at the Symmingtons.

It was a Saturday afternoonâthe Symmingtons always had their bridge parties on a Saturday, because the office was shut then.

There were two tables. The players were the Symmingtons, ourselves, Miss Griffith, Mr. Pye, Miss Barton and a Colonel Appleton whom we had not yet met and who lived at Combeacre, a village some seven miles distant. He was a perfect specimen of the Blimp type, about sixty years of age, liked playing what he called a âplucky gameâ (which usually resulted in immense sums above the line being scored by his opponents) and was so intrigued by Joanna that he practically never took his eyes off her the whole afternoon.

I was forced to admit that my sister was probably the most attractive thing that had been seen in Lymstock for many a long day.

When we arrived, Elsie Holland, the childrenâs governess, was hunting for some extra bridge scorers in an ornate writing desk. She glided across the floor with them in the same celestial way I had first noticed, but the spell could not be cast a second time. Exasperating that it should be soâa waste of a perfectly lovely form and face. But I noticed now only too clearly the exceptionally large white teeth like tombstones, and the way she showed her gums when she laughed. She was, unfortunately, one of your prattling girls.

âAre these the ones, Mrs. Symmington? Itâs ever so stupid of me not to remember where we put them away last time. Itâs my fault, too, Iâm afraid. I had them in my hand and then Brian called out his engine had got caught, and I ran out and what with one thing and another I must have just stuffed them in somewhere stupid. These arenât the right ones, I see now, theyâre a bit yellow at the edges. Shall I tell Agnes tea at five? Iâm taking the kiddies to Long Barrow so there wonât be any noise.â

A nice kind bright girl. I caught Joannaâs eye. She was laughing. I stared at her coldly. Joanna always knows what is passing in my mind, curse her.

We settled down to bridge.

I was soon to know to a nicety the bridge status of everyone in Lymstock. Mrs. Symmington was an exceedingly good bridge player and was quite a devotee of the game. Like many definitely unintellectual women, she was not stupid and had a considerable natural shrewdness. Her husband was a good sound player, slightly overcautious. Mr. Pye can best be described as brilliant. He had an uncanny flair for psychic bidding. Joanna and I, since the party was in our honour, played at a table with Mrs. Symmington and Mr. Pye. It was Symmingtonâs task to pour oil on troubled waters and by the exercise of tact to reconcile the three other players at his table. Colonel Appleton, as I have said, was wont to play âa plucky game.â Little Miss Barton was without exception the worst bridge player I have ever come across and always enjoyed herself enormously. She did manage to follow suit, but had the wildest ideas as to the strength of her hand, never knew the score, repeatedly led out of the wrong hand and was quite unable to count trumps and often forgot what they were. AimÃ©e Griffithâs play can be summed up in her own words. âI like a good game of bridge with no nonsenseâand I donât play any of these rubbishy conventions. I say what I mean. And no postmortems! After all, itâs only a game!â It will be seen, therefore, that their host had not too easy a task.

Play proceeded fairly harmoniously, however, with occasional forgetfulness on the part of Colonel Appleton as he stared across at Joanna.

Tea was laid in the dining room, round a big table. As we were finishing, two hot and excited little boys rushed in and were introduced, Mrs. Symmington beaming with maternal pride, as was their father.

Then, just as we were finishing, a shadow darkened my plate, and I turned my head to see Megan standing in the French window.

âOh,â said her mother. âHereâs Megan.â

Her voice held a faintly surprised note, as though she had forgotten that Megan existed.

The girl came in and shook hands, awkwardly and without any grace.

âIâm afraid I forgot about your tea, dear,â said Mrs. Symmington. âMiss Holland and the boys took theirs out with them, so thereâs no nursery tea today. I forgot you werenât with them.â

Megan nodded.

âThatâs all right. Iâll go to the kitchen.â

She slouched out of the room. She was untidily dressed as usual and there were potatoes in both heels.

Mrs. Symmington said with a little apologetic laugh:

âMy poor Megan. Sheâs just at that awkward age, you know. Girls are always shy and awkward when theyâve just left school before theyâre properly grown up.â

I saw Joannaâs fair head jerk backwards in what I knew to be a warlike gesture.

âBut Meganâs twenty, isnât she?â she said.

âOh, yes, yes. She is. But of course sheâs very young for her age. Quite a child still. Itâs so nice, I think, when girls donât grow up too quickly.â She laughed again. âI expect all mothers want their children to remain babies.â

âI canât think why,â said Joanna. âAfter all, it would be a bit awkward if one had a child who remained mentally six while his body grew up.â

âOh, you mustnât take things so literally, Miss Burton,â said Mrs. Symmington.

It occurred to me at that moment that I did not much care for Mrs. Symmington. That anaemic, slighted, faded prettiness concealed, I thought, a selfish and grasping nature. She said, and I disliked her a little more still:

âMy poor Megan. Sheâs rather a difficult child, Iâm afraid. Iâve been trying to find something for her to doâI believe there are several things one can learn by correspondence. Designing and dressmakingâor she might try and learn shorthand and typing.â

The red glint was still in Joannaâs eye. She said as we sat down again at the bridge table:

âI suppose sheâll be going to parties and all that sort of thing. Are you going to give a dance for her?â

âA dance?â Mrs. Symmington seemed surprised and amused. âOh, no, we donât do things like that down here.â

âI see. Just tennis parties and things like that.â

âOur tennis court has not been played on for years. Neither Richard nor I play. I suppose, later, when the boys grow upâOh, Megan will find plenty to do. Sheâs quite happy just pottering about, you know. Let me see, did I deal? Two No Trumps.â

As we drove home, Joanna said with a vicious pressure on the accelerator pedal that made the car leap forward:

âI feel awfully sorry for that girl.â

âMegan?â

âYes. Her mother doesnât like her.â

âOh, come now, Joanna, itâs not as bad as that.â

âYes, it is. Lots of mothers donât like their children. Megan, I should imagine, is an awkward sort of creature to have about the house. She disturbs the patternâthe Symmington pattern. Itâs a complete unit without herâand thatâs a most unhappy feeling for a sensitive creature to haveâand she is sensitive.â

âYes,â I said, âI think she is.â

I was silent a moment.

Joanna suddenly laughed mischievously.

âBad luck for you about the governess.â

âI donât know what you mean,â I said with dignity.

âNonsense. Masculine chagrin was written on your face every time you looked at her. I agree with you. It is a waste.â

âI donât know what youâre talking about.â

âBut Iâm delighted, all the same. Itâs the first sign of reviving life. I was quite worried about you at the nursing home. You never even looked at that remarkably pretty nurse you had. An attractive minx, tooâabsolutely Godâs gift to a sick man.â

âYour conversation, Joanna, I find definitely low.â

My sister continued without paying the least attention to my remarks.

âSo I was much relieved to see youâd still got an eye for a nice bit of skirt. She is a good looker. Funny that the S.A. should have been left out completely. It is odd, you know, Jerry. What is the thing that some women have and others havenât? What is it makes one woman, even if she only says âFoul weatherâ so attractive that every man within range wants to come over and talk about the weather with her? I suppose Providence makes a mistake every now and then when sending out the parcel. One Aphrodite face and form, one temperament ditto. And something goes astray and the Aphrodite temperament goes to some little plain-faced creature, and then all the other women go simply mad and say, âI canât think what the men see in her. She isnât even good-looking!ââ

âHave you quite finished, Joanna?â

âWell, you do agree, donât you?â

I grinned. âIâll admit to disappointment.â

âAnd I donât see who else there is here for you. Youâll have to fall back upon AimÃ©e Griffith.â

âGod forbid,â I said.

âSheâs quite good-looking, you know.â

âToo much of an Amazon for me.â

âShe seems to enjoy her life, all right,â said Joanna. âAbsolutely disgustingly hearty, isnât she? I shouldnât be at all surprised if she had a cold bath every morning.â

âAnd what are you going to do for yourself?â I asked.

âMe?â

âYes. Youâll need a little distraction down here if I know you.â

âWhoâs being low now? Besides, you forget Paul.â Joanna heaved up a not very convincing sigh.

âI shanât forget him nearly as quickly as you will. In about ten days youâll be saying, âPaul? Paul Who? I never knew a Paul.ââ

âYou think Iâm completely fickle,â said Joanna.

âWhen people like Paul are in question, Iâm only too glad that you should be.â

âYou never did like him. But he really was a bit of a genius.â

âPossibly, though I doubt it. Anyway, from all Iâve heard, geniuses are people to be heartily disliked. One thing, you wonât find any geniuses down here.â

Joanna considered for a moment, her head on one side.

âIâm afraid not,â she said regretfully.

âYouâll have to fall back upon Owen Griffith,â I said. âHeâs the only unattached male in the place. Unless you count old Colonel Appleton. He was looking at you like a hungry bloodhound most of the afternoon.â

Joanna laughed.

âHe was, wasnât he? It was quite embarrassing.â

âDonât pretend. Youâre never embarrassed.â

Joanna drove in silence through the gate and round to the garage.

She said then:

âThere may be something in that idea of yours.â

âWhat idea?â

Joanna replied:

âI donât see why any man should deliberately cross the street to avoid me. Itâs rude, apart from anything else.â

âI see,â I said. âYouâre going to hunt the man down in cold blood.â

âWell, I donât like being avoided.â

I got slowly and carefully out of the car, and balanced my sticks. Then I offered my sister a piece of advice.

âLet me tell you this, my girl. Owen Griffith isnât any of your tame whining artistic young men. Unless youâre careful youâll stir up a hornetâs nest about your ears. That man could be dangerous.â

âOo, do you think so?â demanded Joanna with every symptom of pleasure at the prospect.

âLeave the poor devil alone,â I said sternly.

âHow dare he cross the street when he saw me coming?â

âAll you women are alike. You harp on one theme. Youâll have Sister AimÃ©e gunning you, too, if Iâm not mistaken.â

âShe dislikes me already,â said Joanna. She spoke meditatively, but with a certain satisfaction.

âWe have come down here,â I said sternly, âfor peace and quiet, and I mean to see we get it.â

But peace and quiet were the last things we were to have.

Four

I

It was, I think, about a week later, that Partridge informed me that Mrs. Baker would like to speak to me for a minute or two if I would be so kind.

The name Mrs. Baker conveyed nothing at all to me.

âWho is Mrs. Baker?â I said, bewilderedââCanât she see Miss Joanna?â

But it appeared that I was the person with whom an interview was desired. It further transpired that Mrs. Baker was the mother of the girl Beatrice.

I had forgotten Beatrice. For a fortnight now, I had been conscious of a middle-aged woman with wisps of grey hair, usually on her knees retreating crablike from bathroom and stairs and passages when I appeared, and I knew, I suppose, that she was our new Daily Woman. Otherwise the Beatrice complication had faded from my mind.

I could not very well refuse to see Beatriceâs mother, especially as I learned that Joanna was out, but I was, I must confess, a little nervous at the prospect. I sincerely hoped that I was not going to be accused of having trifled with Beatriceâs affections. I cursed the mischievous activities of anonymous letter writers to myself at the same time as, aloud, I commanded that Beatriceâs mother should be brought to my presence.

Mrs. Baker was a big broad weather-beaten woman with a rapid flow of speech. I was relieved to notice no signs of anger or accusation.

âI hope, sir,â she said, beginning at once when the door had closed behind Partridge, âthat youâll excuse the liberty Iâve taken in coming to see you. But I thought, sir, as you was the proper person to come to, and I should be thankful if you could see your way to telling me what I ought to do in the circumstances, because in my opinion, sir, something ought to be done, and Iâve never been one to let the grass grow under my feet, and what I say is, no use moaning and groaning, but âUp and doingâ as vicar said in his sermon only the week before last.â

I felt slightly bewildered and as though I had missed something essential in the conversation.

âCertainly,â I said. âWonât youâerâsit down, Mrs. Baker? Iâm sure I shall be glad toâer help you in anyway I canââ

I paused expectantly.

âThank you, sir.â Mrs. Baker sat down on the edge of a chair. âItâs very good of you, Iâm sure. And glad I am that I came to you, I said to Beatrice, I said, and her howling and crying on her bed, Mr. Burton will know what to do, I said, being a London gentleman. And something must be done, what with young men being so hotheaded and not listening to reason the way they are, and not listening to a word a girl says, and anyway, if it was me, I says to Beatrice Iâd give him as good as I got, and what about that girl down at the mill?â

I felt more than ever bewildered.

âIâm sorry,â I said. âBut I donât quite understand. What has happened?â

âItâs the letters, sir. Wicked lettersâindecent, too, using such words and all. Worse than Iâve ever seen in the Bible, even.â

Passing over an interesting sideline here, I said desperately:

âHas your daughter been having more letters?â

âNot her, sir. She had just the one. That one as was the occasion of her leaving here.â

âThere was absolutely no reasonââ I began, but Mrs. Baker firmly and respectfully interrupted me:

âThere is no need to tell me, sir, that what was wrote was all wicked lies. I had Miss Partridgeâs word for thatâand indeed I would have known it for myself. You arenât that type of gentleman, sir, that I well know, and you an invalid and all. Wicked untruthful lies it was, but all the same I says to Beatrice as sheâd better leave because you know what talk is, sir. No smoke without fire, thatâs what people say. And a girl canât be too careful. And besides the girl herself felt bashful like after what had been written, so I says, âQuite right,â to Beatrice when she said she wasnât coming up here again, though Iâm sure we both regretted the inconvenience being suchââ

Unable to find her way out of this sentence, Mrs. Baker took a deep breath and began again.

âAnd that, I hoped, would be the end of any nasty talk. But now George, down at the garage, him what Beatrice is going with, heâs got one of them. Saying awful things about our Beatrice, and how sheâs going on with Fred Ledbetterâs Tomâand I can assure you, sir, the girl has been no more than civil to him and passing the time of day so to speak.â

My head was now reeling under this new complication of Mr. Ledbetterâs Tom.

âLet me get this straight,â I said. âBeatriceâsâerâyoung man has had an anonymous letter making accusations about her and another young man?â

âThatâs right, sir, and not nicely put at allâhorrible words used, and it drove young George mad with rage, it did, and he came round and told Beatrice he wasnât going to put up with that sort of thing from her, and he wasnât going to have her go behind his back with other chapsâand she says itâs all a lieâand he says no smoke without fire, he says, and rushes off being hot-like in his temper, and Beatrice she took on ever so, poor girl, and I said Iâll put my hat on and come straight up to you, sir.â

Mrs. Baker paused and looked at me expectantly, like a dog waiting for reward after doing a particularly clever trick.

âBut why come to me?â I demanded.

âI understood, sir, that youâd had one of these nasty letters yourself, and I thought, sir, that being a London gentleman, youâd know what to do about them.â

âIf I were you,â I said, âI should go to the police. This sort of thing ought to be stopped.â

Mrs. Baker looked deeply shocked.

âOh, no, sir. I couldnât go to the police.â

âWhy not?â

âIâve never been mixed up with the police, sir. None of us ever have.â

âProbably not. But the police are the only people who can deal with this sort of thing. Itâs their business.â

âGo to Bert Rundle?â

Bert Rundle was the constable, I knew.

âThereâs a sergeant, or an inspector, surely, at the police station.â

âMe, go into the police station?â

Mrs. Bakerâs voice expressed reproach and incredulity. I began to feel annoyed.

âThatâs the only advice I can give you.â

Mrs. Baker was silent, obviously quite unconvinced. She said wistfully and earnestly:

âThese letters ought to be stopped, sir, they did ought to be stopped. Thereâll be mischief done sooner or later.â

âIt seems to me there is mischief done now,â I said.

âI meant violence, sir. These young fellows, they get violent in their feelingsâand so do the older ones.â

I asked:

âAre a good many of these letters going about?â

Mrs. Baker nodded.

âItâs getting worse and worse, sir. Mr. and Mrs. Beadle at the Blue Boarâvery happy theyâve always beenâand now these letters comes and it sets him thinking thingsâthings that arenât so, sir.â

I leaned forward:

âMrs. Baker,â I said, âhave you any idea, any idea at all, who is writing these abominable letters?â

To my great surprise she nodded her head.

âWeâve got our idea, sir. Yes, weâve all got a very fair idea.â

âWho is it?â

I had fancied she might be reluctant to mention a name, but she replied promptly:

ââTis Mrs. Cleatâthatâs what we all think, sir. âTis Mrs. Cleat for sure.â

I had heard so many names this morning that I was quite bewildered. I asked:

âWho is Mrs. Cleat?â

Mrs. Cleat, I discovered, was the wife of an elderly jobbing gardener. She lived in a cottage on the road leading down to the Mill. My further questions only brought unsatisfactory answers. Questioned as to why Mrs. Cleat should write these letters, Mrs. Baker would only say vaguely that ââT would be like her.â

In the end I let her go, reiterating once more my advice to go to the police, advice which I could see Mrs. Baker was not going to act upon. I was left with the impression that I had disappointed her.

I thought over what she had said. Vague as the evidence was, I decided that if the village was all agreed that Mrs. Cleat was the culprit, then it was probably true. I decided to go and consult Griffith about the whole thing. Presumably he would know this Cleat woman. If he thought advisable, he or I might suggest to the police that she was at the bottom of this growing annoyance.

I timed my arrival for about the moment I fancied Griffith would have finished his âSurgery.â When the last patient had left, I went into the surgery.

âHallo, itâs you, Burton.â

I outlined my conversation with Mrs. Baker, and passed on to him the conviction that this Mrs. Cleat was responsible. Rather to my disappointment, Griffith shook his head.

âItâs not so simple as that,â he said.

âYou donât think this Cleat woman is at the bottom of it?â

âShe may be. But I should think it most unlikely.â

âThen why do they all think it is her?â

He smiled.

âOh,â he said, âyou donât understand. Mrs. Cleat is the local witch.â

âGood gracious!â I exclaimed.

âYes, sounds rather strange nowadays, nevertheless thatâs what it amounts to. The feeling lingers, you know, that there are certain people, certain families, for instance, whom it isnât wise to offend. Mrs. Cleat came from a family of âwise women.â And Iâm afraid sheâs taken pains to cultivate the legend. Sheâs a queer woman with a bitter and sardonic sense of humour. Itâs been easy enough for her, if a child cut its finger, or had a bad fall, or sickened with mumps, to nod her head and say, âYes, he stole my apples last weekâ or âHe pulled my catâs tail.â Soon enough mothers pulled their children away, and other women brought honey or a cake theyâd baked to give to Mrs. Cleat so as to keep on the right side of her so that she shouldnât âill wishâ them. Itâs superstitious and silly, but it happens. So naturally, now, they think sheâs at the bottom of this.â

âBut she isnât?â

âOh, no. She isnât the type. Itâsâitâs not so simple as that.â

âHave you any idea?â I looked at him curiously.

He shook his head, but his eyes were absent.

âNo,â he said. âI donât know at all. But I donât like it, Burtonâsome harm is going to come of this.â

II

When I got back to the house I found Megan sitting on the veranda steps, her chin resting on her knees.

She greeted me with her usual lack of ceremony.

âHallo,â she said. âDo you think I could come to lunch?â

âCertainly,â I said.

âIf itâs chops, or anything difficult like that and they wonât go round, just tell me,â shouted Megan as I went round to apprize Partridge of the fact that there would be three to lunch.

I fancy that Partridge sniffed. She certainly managed to convey without saying a word of any kind, that she didnât think much of that Miss Megan.

I went back to the veranda.

âIs it quite all right?â asked Megan anxiously.

âQuite all right,â I said. âIrish stew.â

âOh well, thatâs rather like dogsâ dinner anyway, isnât it? I mean itâs mostly potato and flavour.â

âQuite,â I said.

I took out my cigarette case and offered it to Megan. She flushed.

âHow nice of you.â

âWonât you have one?â

âNo, I donât think I will, but it was very nice of you to offer it to meâjust as though I was a real person.â

âArenât you a real person?â I said amused.

Megan shook her head, then, changing the subject, she stretched out a long dusty leg for my inspection.

âIâve darned my stockings,â she announced proudly.

I am not an authority on darning, but it did occur to me that the strange puckered blot of violently contrasting wool was perhaps not quite a success.

âItâs much more uncomfortable than the hole,â said Megan.

âIt looks as though it might be,â I agreed.

âDoes your sister darn well?â

I tried to think if I had ever observed any of Joannaâs handiwork in this direction.

âI donât know,â I had to confess.

âWell, what does she do when she gets a hole in her stocking?â

âI rather think,â I said reluctantly, âthat she throws them away and buys another pair.â

âVery sensible,â said Megan. âBut I canât do that. I get an allowance nowâforty pounds a year. You canât do much on that.â

I agreed.

âIf only I wore black stockings, I could ink my legs,â said Megan sadly. âThatâs what I always did at school. Miss Batworthy, the mistress who looked after our mending was like her nameâblind as a bat. It was awfully useful.â

âIt must have been,â I said.

We were silent while I smoked my pipe. It was quite a companionable silence.

Megan broke it by saying suddenly and violently:

âI suppose you think Iâm awful, like everyone else?â

I was so startled that my pipe fell out of my mouth. It was a meerschaum, just colouring nicely, and it broke. I said angrily to Megan:

âNow, see what youâve done.â

That most unaccountable of children, instead of being upset, merely grinned broadly.

âI do like you,â she said.

It was a most warming remark. It is the remark that one fancies perhaps erroneously that oneâs dog would say if he could talk. It occurred to me that Megan, for all she looked like a horse, had the disposition of a dog. She was certainly not quite human.

âWhat did you say before the catastrophe?â I asked, carefully picking up the fragments of my cherished pipe.

âI said I supposed you thought me awful,â said Megan, but not at all in the same tone she had said it before.

âWhy should I?â

Megan said gravely:

âBecause I am.â

I said sharply:

âDonât be stupid.â

Megan shook her head.

âThatâs just it. Iâm not really stupid. People think I am. They donât know that inside I know just what theyâre like, and that all the time Iâm hating them.â

âHating them?â

âYes,â said Megan.

Her eyes, those melancholy, unchildlike eyes, stared straight into mine, without blinking. It was a long mournful gaze.

âYou would hate people if you were like me,â she said. âIf you werenât wanted.â

âDonât you think youâre being rather morbid?â I asked.

âYes,â said Megan. âThatâs what people always say when youâre saying the truth. And it is true. Iâm not wanted and I can quite see why. Mummie doesnât like me a bit. I remind her, I think, of my father, who was cruel to her and pretty dreadful from all I can hear. Only mothers canât say they donât want their children and just go away. Or eat them. Cats eat the kittens they donât like. Awfully sensible, I think. No waste or mess. But human mothers have to keep their children, and look after them. It hasnât been so bad while I could be sent away to schoolâbut you see, what Mummie would really like is to be just herself and my stepfather and the boys.â

I said slowly:

âI still think youâre morbid, Megan, but accepting some of what you say as true, why donât you go away and have a life of your own?â

She gave me an unchildlike smile.

âYou mean take up a career. Earn my living?â

âYes.â

âWhat at?â

âYou could train for something, I suppose. Shorthand typingâbookkeeping.â

âI donât believe I could. I am stupid about doing things. And besidesââ

âWell?â

She had turned her face away, now she turned it slowly back again. It was crimson and there were tears in her eyes. She spoke now with all the childishness back in her voice.

âWhy should I go away? And be made to go away? They donât want me, but Iâll stay. Iâll stay and make everyone sorry. Iâll make them all sorry. Hateful pigs! I hate everyone here in Lymstock. They all think Iâm stupid and ugly. Iâll show them. Iâll show them. Iâllââ

It was a childish, oddly pathetic rage.

I heard a step on the gravel round the corner of the house.

âGet up,â I said savagely. âGo into the house through the drawing room. Go up to the first floor to the bathroom. End of the passage. Wash your face. Quick.â

She sprang awkwardly to her feet and darted through the window as Joanna came round the corner of the house.

âGosh, Iâm hot,â she called out. She sat down beside me and fanned her face with the Tyrolean scarf that had been round her head. âStill I think Iâm educating these damned brogues now. Iâve walked miles. Iâve learnt one thing, you shouldnât have these fancy holes in your brogues. The gorse prickles go through. Do you know, Jerry, I think we ought to have a dog?â

âSo do I,â I said. âBy the way, Megan is coming to lunch.â

âIs she? Good.â

âYou like her?â I asked.

âI think sheâs a changeling,â said Joanna. âSomething left on a doorstep, you know, while the fairies take the right one away. Itâs very interesting to meet a changeling. Oof, I must go up and wash.â

âYou canât yet,â I said, âMegan is washing.â

âOh, sheâs been footslogging too, has she?â

Joanna took out her mirror and looked at her face long and earnestly. âI donât think I like this lipstick,â she announced presently.

Megan came out through the window. She was composed, moderately clean, and showed no signs of the recent storm. She looked doubtfully at Joanna.

âHallo,â said Joanna, still preoccupied by her face. âIâm so glad youâve come to lunch. Good gracious, Iâve got a freckle on my nose. I must do something about it. Freckles are so earnest and Scottish.â

Partridge came out and said coldly that luncheon was served.

âCome on,â said Joanna, getting up. âIâm starving.â

She put her arm through Meganâs and they went into the house together.

Five

I

I see that there has been one omission in my story. So far I have made little or no mention of Mrs. Dane Calthrop, or indeed of the Rev. Caleb Dane Calthrop.

And yet both the vicar and his wife were distinct personalities. Dane Calthrop himself was perhaps a being more remote from everyday life than anyone I have ever met. His existence was in his books and in his study, and in his intimate knowledge of early Church history. Mrs. Dane Calthrop, on the other hand, was quite terrifyingly on the spot. I have perhaps purposely put off mentioning her, because I was from the first a little afraid of her. She was a woman of character and of almost Olympian knowledge. She was not in the least the typical vicarâs wifeâbut that, as I set it down, makes me ask myself, what do I know of vicarsâ wives?

The only one I remember well was a quiet nondescript creature, devoted to a big strong husband with a magnetic way of preaching. She had so little general conversation that it was a puzzle to know how to sustain a conversation with her.

Otherwise I was depending on the fictional presentment of vicarsâ wives, caricatures of females poking their noses everywhere, and uttering platitudes. Probably no such type exists.

Mrs. Dane Calthrop never poked her nose in anywhere, yet she had an uncanny power of knowing things and I soon discovered that almost everyone in the village was slightly afraid of her. She gave no advice and never interfered, yet she represented, to any uneasy conscience, the Deity personified.

I have never seen a woman more indifferent to her material surroundings. On hot days she would stride about clad in Harris tweed, and in rain or even sleet, I have seen her absentmindedly race down the village street in a cotton dress of printed poppies. She had a long thin well-bred face like a greyhound, and a most devastating sincerity of speech.

She stopped me in the High Street the day after Megan had come to lunch. I had the usual feeling of surprise, because Mrs. Dane Calthropâs progress resembled coursing more than walking, and her eyes were always fixed on the distant horizon so that you felt sure her real objective was about a mile and a half away.

âOh,â she said. âMr. Burton!â

She said it rather triumphantly, as someone might who had solved a particularly clever puzzle.

I admitted that I was Mr. Burton and Mrs. Dane Calthrop stopped focusing on the horizon and seemed to be trying to focus on me instead.

âNow what,â she said, âdid I want to see you about?â

I could not help her there. She stood frowning, deeply perplexed.

âSomething rather nasty,â she said.

âIâm sorry about that,â I said, startled.

âAh,â cried Mrs. Dane Calthrop. âI hate my love with an A. Thatâs it. Anonymous letters! Whatâs this story youâve brought down here about anonymous letters?â

âI didnât bring it,â I said. âIt was here already.â

âNobody got any until you came, though,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop accusingly.

âBut they did, Mrs. Dane Calthrop. The trouble had already started.â

âOh dear,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop. âI donât like that.â

She stood there, her eyes absent and faraway again. She said:

âI canât help feeling itâs all wrong. Weâre not like that here. Envy, of course, and malice, and all the mean spiteful little sinsâbut I didnât think there was anyone who would do thatâNo, I really didnât. And it distresses me, you see, because I ought to know.â

Her fine eyes came back from the horizon and met mine. They were worried, and seemed to hold the honest bewilderment of a child.

âHow should you know?â I said.

âI usually do. Iâve always felt thatâs my function. Caleb preaches good sound doctrine and administers the sacraments. Thatâs a priestâs duty, but if you admit marriage at all for a priest, then I think his wifeâs duty is to know what people are feeling and thinking, even if she canât do anything about it. And I havenât the least idea whose mind isââ

She broke off, adding absently.

âThey are such silly letters, too.â

âHave youâerâhad any yourself?â

I was a little diffident of asking, but Mrs. Dane Calthrop replied perfectly naturally, her eyes opening a little wider:

âOh yes, twoâno, three. I forget exactly what they said. Something very silly about Caleb and the schoolmistress, I think. Quite absurd, because Caleb has absolutely no taste for fornication. He never has had. So lucky, being a clergyman.â

âQuite,â I said. âOh quite.â

âCaleb would have been a saint,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop, âif he hadnât been just a little too intellectual.â

I did not feel qualified to answer this criticism, and anyway Mrs. Dane Calthrop went on, leaping back from her husband to the letters in rather a puzzling way.

âThere are so many things the letters might say, but donât. Thatâs what is so curious.â

âI should hardly have thought they erred on the side of restraint,â I said bitterly.

âBut they donât seem to know anything. None of the real things.â

âYou mean?â

Those fine vague eyes met mine.

âWell, of course. Thereâs plenty of adultery hereâand everything else. Any amount of shameful secrets. Why doesnât the writer use those?â She paused and then asked abruptly, âWhat did they say in your letter?â

âThey suggested that my sister wasnât my sister.â

âAnd she is?â

Mrs. Dane Calthrop asked the question with unembarrassed friendly interest.

âCertainly Joanna is my sister.â

Mrs. Dane Calthrop nodded her head.

âThat just shows you what I mean. I dare say there are other thingsââ

Her clear uninterested eyes looked at me thoughtfully, and I suddenly understood why Lymstock was afraid of Mrs. Dane Calthrop.

In everybodyâs life there are hidden chapters which they hope may never be known. I felt that Mrs. Dane Calthrop knew them.

For once in my life, I was positively delighted when AimÃ©e Griffithâs hearty voice boomed out:

âHallo, Maud. Glad Iâve just caught you. I want to suggest an alteration of date for the Sale of Work. Morning, Mr. Burton.â

She went on:

âI must just pop into the grocerâs and leave my order, then Iâll come along to the Institute if that suits you?â

âYes, yes, that will do quite well,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop.

AimÃ©e Griffith went into the International Stores.

Mrs. Dane Calthrop said: âPoor thing.â

I was puzzled. Surely she could not be pitying AimÃ©e?

She went on, however:

âYou know, Mr. Burton, Iâm rather afraidââ

âAbout this letter business?â

âYes, you see it meansâit must meanââ She paused lost in thought, her eyes screwed up. Then she said slowly, as one who solves a problem, âBlind hatredâ¦yes, blind hatred. But even a blind man might stab to the heart by pure chanceâ¦ And what would happen then, Mr. Burton?â

We were to know that before another day had passed.

II

It was Partridge who brought the news of the tragedy. Partridge enjoys calamity. Her nose always twitches ecstatically when she has to break bad news of any kind.

She came into Joannaâs room with her nose working overtime, her eyes bright, and her mouth pulled down into an exaggerated gloom. âThereâs terrible news, this morning, miss,â she observed as she drew up the blinds.

It takes a minute or two for Joanna, with her London habits, to become fully conscious in the morning. She said, âEr ah,â and rolled over without real interest.

Partridge placed her early tea beside her and began again. âTerrible it is. Shocking! I couldnât hardly believe it when I heard.â

âWhatâs terrible?â said Joanna, struggling into wakefulness.

âPoor Mrs. Symmington.â She paused dramatically. âDead.â

âDead?â Joanna sat up in bed, now wide awake.

âYes, miss, yesterday afternoon, and whatâs worse, took her own life.â

âOh no, Partridge?â

Joanna was really shockedâMrs. Symmington was not, somehow, the sort of person you associated with tragedies.

âYes, miss, itâs the truth. Did it deliberate. Not but what she was drove to it, poor soul.â

âDrove to it?â Joanna had an inkling of the truth then. âNotâ?â

Her eyes questioned Partridge and Partridge nodded.

âThatâs right, miss. One of them nasty letters!â

âWhat did it say?â

But that, to Partridgeâs regret, she had not succeeded in learning.

âTheyâre beastly things,â said Joanna. âBut I donât see why they should make one want to kill oneself.â

Partridge sniffed and then said with meaning:

âNot unless they were true, miss.â

âOh,â said Joanna.

She drank her tea after Partridge had left the room, then she threw on a dressing-gown and came in to me to tell me the news.

I thought of what Owen Griffith had said. Sooner or later the shot in the dark went home. It had done with Mrs. Symmington. She, apparently the most unlikely of women, had had a secretâ¦ It was true, I reflected, that for all her shrewdness she was not a woman of much stamina. She was the anaemic clinging type that crumples easily.

Joanna nudged me and asked me what I was thinking about.

I repeated to her what Owen had said.

âOf course,â said Joanna waspishly, âhe would know all about it. That man thinks he knows everything.â

âHeâs clever,â I said.

âHeâs conceited,â said Joanna. She added, âAbominably conceited!â

After a minute or two she said:

âHow awful for her husbandâand for the girl. What do you think Megan will feel about it?â

I hadnât the slightest idea and said so. It was curious that one could never gauge what Megan would think or feel.

Joanna nodded and said:

âNo, one never does know with changelings.â

After a minute or two she said:

âDo you thinkâwould you likeâI wonder if sheâd like to come and stay with us for a day or two? Itâs rather a shock for a girl that age.â

âWe might go along and suggest it,â I agreed.

âThe children are all right,â said Joanna. âTheyâve got that governess woman. But I expect sheâs just the sort of creature that would drive someone like Megan mad.â

I thought that was very possible. I could imagine Elsie Holland uttering platitude after platitude and suggesting innumerable cups of tea. A kindly creature, but not, I thought, the person for a sensitive girl.

I had thought myself of bringing Megan away, and I was glad that Joanna had thought of it spontaneously without prompting from me.

We went down to the Symmingtonsâ house after breakfast.

We were a little nervous, both of us. Our arrival might look like sheer ghoulish curiosity. Luckily we met Owen Griffith just coming out through the gate. He looked worried and preoccupied.

He greeted me, however, with some warmth.

âOh, hallo, Burton. Iâm glad to see you. What I was afraid would happen sooner or later has happened. A damnable business!â

âGood morning, Dr. Griffith,â said Joanna, using the voice she keeps for one of our deafer aunts.

Griffith started and flushed.

âOhâoh, good morning, Miss Burton.â

âI thought perhaps,â said Joanna, âthat you didnât see me.â

Owen Griffith got redder still. His shyness enveloped him like a mantle.

âIâmâ Iâm so sorryâpreoccupiedâI didnât.â

Joanna went on mercilessly: âAfter all, I am life size.â

âMerely kit-kat,â I said in a stern aside to her. Then I went on:

âMy sister and I, Griffith, wondered whether it would be a good thing if the girl came and stopped with us for a day or two? What do you think? I donât want to butt inâbut it must be rather grim for the poor child. What would Symmington feel about it, do you think?â

Griffith turned the idea over in his mind for a moment or two.

âI think it would be an excellent thing,â he said at last. âSheâs a queer nervy sort of girl, and it would be good for her to get away from the whole thing. Miss Holland is doing wondersâsheâs an excellent head on her shoulders, but she really has quite enough to do with the two children and Symmington himself. Heâs quite broken upâbewildered.â

âIt wasââ I hesitatedââsuicide?â

Griffith nodded.

âOh yes. No question of accident. She wrote, âI canât go onâ on a scrap of paper. The letter must have come by yesterday afternoonâs post. The envelope was down on the floor by her chair and the letter itself was screwed up into a ball and thrown into the fireplace.â

âWhat didââ

I stopped, rather horrified at myself.

âI beg your pardon,â I said.

Griffith gave a quick unhappy smile.

âYou neednât mind asking. That letter will have to be read at the inquest. No getting out of it, moreâs the pity. It was the usual kind of thingâcouched in the same foul style. The specific accusation was that the second boy, Colin, was not Symmingtonâs child.â

âDo you think that was true?â I exclaimed incredulously.

Griffith shrugged his shoulders.

âIâve no means of forming a judgment. Iâve only been here five years. As far as Iâve ever seen, the Symmingtons were a placid, happy couple devoted to each other and their children. Itâs true that the boy doesnât particularly resemble his parentsâheâs got bright red hair, for one thingâbut a child often throws back in appearance to a grandfather or grandmother.â

âThat lack of resemblance might have been what prompted the particular accusation. A foul and quite uncalled for bow at a venture.â

âVery likely. In fact, probably. Thereâs not been much accurate knowledge behind these poison pen letters, just unbridled spite and malice.â

âBut it happened to hit the bullâs eye,â said Joanna. âAfter all, she wouldnât have killed herself otherwise, would she?â

Griffith said doubtfully:

âIâm not quite sure. Sheâs been ailing in health for some time, neurotic, hysterical. Iâve been treating her for a nervous condition. Itâs possible, I think, that the shock of receiving such a letter, couched in those terms, may have induced such a state of panic and despondency that she may have decided to take her life. She may have worked herself up to feel that her husband might not believe her if she denied the story, and the general shame and disgust might have worked upon her so powerfully as to temporarily unbalance her judgment.â

âSuicide whilst of unsound mind,â said Joanna.

âExactly. I shall be quite justified, I think, in putting forward that point of view at the inquest.â

âI see,â said Joanna.

There was something in her voice which made Owen say:

âPerfectly justified!â in an angry voice. He added, âYou donât agree, Miss Burton?â

âOh yes, I do,â said Joanna. âIâd do exactly the same in your place.â

Owen looked at her doubtfully, then moved slowly away down the street. Joanna and I went on into the house.

The front door was open and it seemed easier than ringing the bell, especially as we heard Elsie Hollandâs voice inside.

She was talking to Mr. Symmington who, huddled in a chair, was looking completely dazed.

âNo, but really, Mr. Symmington, you must take something. You havenât had any breakfast, not what I call a proper breakfast, and nothing to eat last night, and what with the shock and all, youâll be getting ill yourself, and youâll need all your strength. The doctor said so before he left.â

Symmington said in a toneless voice:

âYouâre very kind, Miss Holland, butââ

âA nice cup of hot tea,â said Elsie Holland, thrusting the beverage on him firmly.

Personally I should have given the poor devil a stiff whisky and soda. He looked as though he needed it. However, he accepted the tea, and looking up at Elsie Holland:

âI canât thank you for all youâve done and are doing, Miss Holland. Youâve been perfectly splendid.â

The girl flushed and looked pleased.

âItâs nice of you to say that, Mr. Symmington. You must let me do all I can to help. Donât worry about the childrenâIâll see to them, and Iâve got the servants calmed down, and if thereâs anything I can do, letterwriting or telephoning, donât hesitate to ask me.â

âYouâre very kind,â Symmington said again.

Elsie Holland, turning, caught sight of us and came hurrying out into the hall.

âIsnât it terrible?â she said in a hushed whisper.

I thought, as I looked at her, that she was really a very nice girl. Kind, competent, practical in an emergency. Her magnificent blue eyes were just faintly rimmed with pink, showing that she had been softhearted enough to shed tears for her employerâs death.

âCan we speak to you a minute,â asked Joanna. âWe donât want to disturb Mr. Symmington.â

Elsie Holland nodded comprehendingly and led the way into the dining room on the other side of the hall.

âItâs been awful for him,â she said. âSuch a shock. Who ever would have thought a thing like this could happen? But of course, I do realize now that she had been queer for some time. Awfully nervy and weepy. I thought it was her health, though Dr. Griffith always said there was nothing really wrong with her. But she was snappy and irritable and some days you wouldnât know just how to take her.â

âWhat we really came for,â said Joanna, âwas to know whether we could have Megan for a few daysâthat, is if sheâd like to come.â

Elsie Holland looked rather surprised.

âMegan?â she said doubtfully. âI donât know, Iâm sure. I mean, itâs ever so kind of you, but sheâs such a queer girl. One never knows what sheâs going to say or feel about things.â

Joanna said rather vaguely:

âWe thought it might be a help, perhaps.â

âOh well, as far as that goes, it would. I mean, Iâve got the boys to look after (theyâre with Cook just now) and poor Mr. Symmingtonâhe really needs looking after as much as anyone, and such a lot to do and see to. I really havenât had time to see much to Megan. I think sheâs upstairs in the old nursery at the top of the house. She seems to want to get away from everyone. I donât know ifââ

Joanna gave me the faintest of looks. I slipped quickly out of the room and upstairs. The old nursery was at the top of the house. I opened the door and went in. The room downstairs had given on to the garden behind and the blinds had not been down there. But in this room which faced the road they were decorously drawn down.

Through a dim grey gloom I saw Megan. She was crouching on a divan set against the far wall, and I was reminded at once of some terrified animal, hiding. She looked petrified with fear.

âMegan,â I said.

I came forward, and unconsciously I adopted the tone one does adopt when you want to reassure a frightened animal. Iâm really surprised I didnât hold out a carrot or a piece of sugar. I felt like that.

She stared at me, but she did not move, and her expression did not alter.

âMegan,â I said again. âJoanna and I have come to ask you if you would like to come and stay with us for a little.â

Her voice came hollowly out of the dim twilight.

âStay with you? In your house?â

âYes.â

âYou mean, youâll take me away from here?â

âYes, my dear.â

Suddenly she began to shake all over. It was frightening and very moving.

âOh, do take me away! Please do. Itâs so awful, being here, and feeling so wicked.â

I came over to her and her hands fastened on my coat sleeve.

âIâm an awful coward. I didnât know what a coward I was.â

âItâs all right, funny face,â I said. âThese things are a bit shattering. Come along.â

âCan we go at once? Without waiting a minute?â

âWell, youâll have to put a few things together, I suppose.â

âWhat sort of things? Why?â

âMy dear girl,â I said. âWe can provide you with a bed and a bath and the rest of it, but Iâm damned if I lend you my toothbrush.â

She gave a very faint weak little laugh.

âI see. I think Iâm stupid today. You mustnât mind. Iâll go and pack some things. Youâyou wonât go away? Youâll wait for me?â

âIâll be on the mat.â

âThank you. Thank you very much. Iâm sorry Iâm so stupid. But you see itâs rather dreadful when your mother dies.â

âI know,â I said.

I gave her a friendly pat on the back and she flashed me a grateful look and disappeared into a bedroom. I went on downstairs.

âI found Megan,â I said. âSheâs coming.â

âOh now, that is a good thing,â exclaimed Elsie Holland. âIt will take her out of herself. Sheâs rather a nervy girl, you know. Difficult. It will be a great relief to feel I havenât got her on my mind as well as everything else. Itâs very kind of you, Miss Burton. I hope she wonât be a nuisance. Oh dear, thereâs the telephone. I must go and answer it. Mr. Symmington isnât fit.â

She hurried out of the room. Joanna said:

âQuite the ministering angel!â

âYou said that rather nastily,â I observed. âSheâs a nice kind girl, and obviously most capable.â

âMost. And she knows it.â

âThis is unworthy of you, Joanna,â I said.

âMeaning why shouldnât the girl do her stuff?â

âExactly.â

âI never can stand seeing people pleased with themselves,â said Joanna. âIt arouses all my worst instincts. How did you find Megan?â

âCrouching in a darkened room looking rather like a stricken gazelle.â

âPoor kid. She was quite willing to come?â

âShe leapt at it.â

A series of thuds out in the hall announced the descent of Megan and her suitcase. I went out and took it from her. Joanna, behind me, said urgently:

âCome on. Iâve already refused some nice hot tea twice.â

We went out to the car. It annoyed me that Joanna had to sling the suitcase in. I could get along with one stick now, but I couldnât do any athletic feats.

âGet in,â I said to Megan.

She got in. I followed her. Joanna started the car and we drove off.

We got to Little Furze and went into the drawing room.

Megan dropped into a chair and burst into tears. She cried with the hearty fervour of a childâbawled, I think, is the right word. I left the room in search of a remedy. Joanna stood by feeling rather helpless, I think.

Presently I heard Megan say in a thick choked voice:

âIâm sorry for doing this. It seems idiotic.â

Joanna said kindly, âNot at all. Have another handkerchief.â

I gather she supplied the necessary article. I reentered the room and handed Megan a brimming glass.

âWhat is it?â

âA cocktail,â I said.

âIs it? Is it really?â Meganâs tears were instantly dried. âIâve never drunk a cocktail.â

âEverything has to have a beginning,â I said.

Megan sipped her drink gingerly, then a beaming smile spread over her face, she tilted her head back and gulped it down at a draught.

âItâs lovely,â she said. âCan I have another?â

âNo,â I said.

âWhy not?â

âIn about ten minutes youâll probably know.â

âOh!â

Megan transferred her attention to Joanna.

âI really am awfully sorry for having made such a nuisance of myself howling away like that. I canât think why. It seems awfully silly when Iâm so glad to be here.â

âThatâs all right,â said Joanna. âWeâre very pleased to have you.â

âYou canât be, really. Itâs just kindness on your part. But I am grateful.â

âPlease donât be grateful,â said Joanna. âIt will embarrass me. I was speaking the truth when I said we should be glad to have you. Jerry and I have used up all our conversation. We canât think of anymore things to say to each other.â

âBut now,â I said, âwe shall be able to have all sorts of interesting discussionsâabout Goneril and Regan and things like that.â

Meganâs face lit up.

âIâve been thinking about that, and I think I know the answer. It was because that awful old father of theirs always insisted on such a lot of sucking up. When youâve always got to be saying thank you and how kind and all the rest of it, it would make you go a bit rotten and queer inside, and youâd just long to be able to be beastly for a changeâand when you got the chance, youâd probably find it went to your head and youâd go too far. Old Lear was pretty awful, wasnât he? I mean, he did deserve the snub Cordelia gave him.â

âI can see,â I said, âthat we are going to have many interesting discussions about Shakespeare.â

âI can see you two are going to be very highbrow,â said Joanna. âIâm afraid I always find Shakespeare terribly dreary. All those long scenes where everybody is drunk and itâs supposed to be funny.â

âTalking of drink,â I said turning to Megan. âHow are you feeling?â

âQuite all right, thank you.â

âNot at all giddy? You donât see two of Joanna or anything like that?â

âNo. I just feel as though Iâd like to talk rather a lot.â

âSplendid,â I said. âObviously you are one of our natural drinkers. That is to say, if that really was your first cocktail.â

âOh, it was.â

âA good strong head is an asset to any human being,â I said.

Joanna took Megan upstairs to unpack.

Partridge came in, looking sour, and said she had made two cup custards for lunch and what should she do about it?

Six

I

The inquest was held three days later. It was all done as decorously as possible, but there was a large attendance and, as Joanna observed, the beady bonnets were wagging.

The time of Mrs. Symmingtonâs death was put at between three and four oâclock. She was alone in the house, Symmington was at his office, the maids were having their day out, Elsie Holland and the children were out walking and Megan had gone for a bicycle ride.

The letter must have come by the afternoon post. Mrs. Symmington must have taken it out of the box, read itâand then in a state of agitation she had gone to the potting shed, fetched some of the cyanide kept there for taking waspsâ nests, dissolved it in water and drunk it after writing those last agitated words, âI canât go onâ¦.â

Owen Griffith gave medical evidence and stressed the view he had outlined to us of Mrs. Symmingtonâs nervous condition and poor stamina. The coroner was suave and discreet. He spoke with bitter condemnation of people who write those despicable things, anonymous letters. Whoever had written that wicked and lying letter was morally guilty of murder, he said. He hoped the police would soon discover the culprit and take action against him or her. Such a dastardly and malicious piece of spite deserved to be punished with the utmost rigour of the law. Directed by him, the jury brought in the inevitable verdict. Suicide whilst temporarily insane.

The coroner had done his bestâOwen Griffith also, but afterwards, jammed in the crowd of eager village women, I heard the same hateful sibilant whisper I had begun to know so well, âNo smoke without fire, thatâs what I say!â âMust âa been something in it for certain sure. She wouldnât never have done it otherwiseâ¦.â

Just for a moment I hated Lymstock and its narrow boundaries, and its gossiping whispering women.

II

It is difficult to remember things in their exact chronological order. The next landmark of importance, of course, was Superintendent Nashâs visit. But it was before that, I think, that we received calls from various members of the community, each of which was interesting in its way and shed some light on the characters and personalities of the people involved.

AimÃ©e Griffith came on the morning after the inquest. She was looking, as always, radiant with health and vigour and succeeded, also as usual, in putting my back up almost immediately. Joanna and Megan were out, so I did the honours.

âGood morning,â said Miss Griffith. âI hear youâve got Megan Hunter here?â

âWe have.â

âVery good of you, Iâm sure. It must be rather a nuisance to you. I came up to say she can come to us if you like. I dare say I can find ways of making her useful about the house.â

I looked at AimÃ©e Griffith with a good deal of distaste.

âHow kind of you,â I said. âBut we like having her. She potters about quite happily.â

âI dare say. Much too fond of pottering, that child. Still, I suppose she canât help it, being practically half-witted.â

âI think sheâs rather an intelligent girl,â I said.

AimÃ©e Griffith gave me a hard stare.

âFirst time Iâve ever heard anyone say that of her,â she remarked. âWhy, when you talk to her, she looks through you as though she doesnât understand what you are saying!â

âShe probably just isnât interested,â I said.

âIf so, sheâs extremely rude,â said AimÃ©e Griffith.

âThat may be. But not half-witted.â

Miss Griffith declared sharply:

âAt best, itâs woolgathering. What Megan needs is good hard workâsomething to give her an interest in life. Youâve no idea what a difference that makes to a girl. I know a lot about girls. Youâd be surprised at the difference even becoming a Guide makes to a girl. Meganâs much too old to spend her time lounging about and doing nothing.â

âItâs been rather difficult for her to do anything else so far,â I said. âMrs. Symmington always seemed under the impression that Megan was about twelve years old.â

Miss Griffith snorted.

âI know. I had no patience with that attitude of hers. Of course sheâs dead now, poor woman, so one doesnât want to say much, but she was a perfect example of what I call the unintelligent domestic type. Bridge and gossip and her childrenâand even there that Holland girl did all the looking after them. Iâm afraid I never thought very much of Mrs. Symmington, although of course I never suspected the truth.â

âThe truth?â I said sharply.

Miss Griffith flushed.

âI was terribly sorry for Dick Symmington, its all having to come out as it did at the inquest,â she said. âIt was awful for him.â

âBut surely you heard him say that there was not a word of truth in that letterâthat he was quite sure of that?â

âOf course he said so. Quite right. A manâs got to stick up for his wife. Dick would.â She paused and then explained: âYou see, Iâve known Dick Symmington a long time.â

I was a little surprised.

âReally?â I said. âI understood from your brother that he only bought this practice a few years ago.â

âOh yes, but Dick Symmington used to come and stay in our part of the world up north. Iâve known him for years.â

Women jump to conclusions that men do not. Nevertheless, the suddenly softened tone of AimÃ©e Griffithâs voice put, as our old nurse would have expressed it, ideas into my head.

I looked at AimÃ©e curiously. She went onâstill in that softened tone:

âI know Dick very wellâ¦ Heâs a proud man, and very reserved. But heâs the sort of man who could be very jealous.â

âThat would explain,â I said deliberately, âwhy Mrs. Symmington was afraid to show him or tell him about the letter. She was afraid that, being a jealous man, he might not believe her denials.â

Miss Griffith looked at me angrily and scornfully.

âGood Lord,â she said, âdo you think any woman would go and swallow a lot of cyanide of potassium for an accusation that wasnât true?â

âThe coroner seemed to think it was possible. Your brother, tooââ

AimÃ©e interrupted me.

âMen are all alike. All for preserving the decencies. But you donât catch me believing that stuff. If an innocent woman gets some foul anonymous letter, she laughs and chucks it away. Thatâs what Iââ she paused suddenly, and then finished, âwould do.â

But I had noticed the pause. I was almost sure that what she had been about to say was âThatâs what I did.â

I decided to take the war into the enemyâs country.

âI see,â I said pleasantly, âso youâve had one, too?â

AimÃ©e Griffith was the type of woman who scorns to lie. She paused a minuteâflushed, then said:

âWell, yes. But I didnât let it worry me!â

âNasty?â I inquired sympathetically, as a fellow sufferer.

âNaturally. These things always are. The ravings of a lunatic. I read a few words of it, realized what it was and chucked it straight into the wastepaper basket.â

âYou didnât think of taking it to the police?â

âNot then. Least said soonest mendedâthatâs what I felt.â

An urge came over me to say solemnly: âNo smoke without fire!â but I restrained myself. To avoid temptation I reverted to Megan.

âHave you any idea of Meganâs financial position?â I asked. âItâs not idle curiosity on my part. I wondered if it would actually be necessary for her to earn her living.â

âI donât think itâs strictly necessary. Her grandmother, her fatherâs mother, left her a small income, I believe. And in any case Dick Symmington would always give her a home and provide for her, even if her mother hasnât left her anything outright. No, itâs the principle of the thing.â

âWhat principle?â

âWork, Mr. Burton. Thereâs nothing like work, for men and women. The one unforgivable sin is idleness.â

âSir Edward Grey,â I said, âafterwards our foreign minister, was sent down from Oxford for incorrigible idleness. The Duke of Wellington, I have heard, was both dull and inattentive at his books. And has it ever occurred to you, Miss Griffith, that you would probably not be able to take a good express train to London if little Georgie Stephenson had been out with his youth movement instead of lolling about, bored, in his motherâs kitchen until the curious behaviour of the kettle lid attracted the attention of his idle mind?â

AimÃ©e merely snorted.

âIt is a theory of mine,â I said, warming to my theme, âthat we owe most of our great inventions and most of the achievements of genius to idlenessâeither enforced or voluntary. The human mind prefers to be spoon-fed with the thoughts of others, but deprived of such nourishment it will, reluctantly, begin to think for itselfâand such thinking, remember, is original thinking and may have valuable results.

âBesides,â I went on, before AimÃ©e could get in another sniff, âthere is the artistic side.â

I got up and took from my desk where it always accompanied me a photograph of my favourite Chinese picture. It represents an old man sitting beneath a tree playing catâs cradle with a piece of string on his fingers and toes.

âIt was in the Chinese exhibition,â I said. âIt fascinated me. Allow me to introduce you. It is called âOld Man enjoying the Pleasure of Idleness.ââ

AimÃ©e Griffith was unimpressed by my lovely picture. She said: âOh well, we all know what the Chinese are like!â

âIt doesnât appeal to you?â I asked.

âFrankly, no. Iâm not very interested in art, Iâm afraid. Your attitude, Mr. Burton, is typical of that of most men. You dislike the idea of women workingâof their competingââ

I was taken aback, I had come up against the Feminist. AimÃ©e was well away, her cheeks flushed.

âIt is incredible to you that women should want a career. It was incredible to my parents. I was anxious to study for a doctor. They would not hear of paying the fees. But they paid them readily for Owen. Yet I should have made a better doctor than my brother.â

âIâm sorry about that,â I said. âIt was tough on you. If one wants to do a thingââ

She went on quickly:

âOh, Iâve got over it now. Iâve plenty of willpower. My life is busy and active. Iâm one of the happiest people in Lymstock. Plenty to do. But I do go up in arms against the silly old-fashioned prejudice that womenâs place is always the home.â

âIâm sorry if I offended you,â I said. âAnd that wasnât really my point. I donât see Megan in a domestic role at all.â

âNo, poor child. Sheâll be a misfit anywhere, Iâm afraid.â AimÃ©e had calmed down. She was speaking quite normally again. âHer father, you knowââ

She paused and I said bluntly: âI donât know. Everyone says âher fatherâ and drops their voice, and that is that. What did the man do? Is he alive still?â

âI really donât know. And Iâm rather vague myself, Iâm afraid. But he was definitely a bad lot. Prison, I believe. And a streak of very strong abnormality. Thatâs why it wouldnât surprise me if Megan was a bit âwanting.ââ

âMegan,â I said, âis in full possession of her senses, and as I said before, I consider her an intelligent girl. My sister thinks so too. Joanna is very fond of her.â

AimÃ©e said:

âIâm afraid your sister must find it very dull down here.â

And as she said it, I learnt something else. AimÃ©e Griffith disliked my sister. It was there in the smooth conventional tones of her voice.

âWeâve all wondered how you could both bear to bury yourselves in such an out-of-the-way spot.â

It was a question and I answered it.

âDoctorâs orders. I was to come somewhere very quiet where nothing ever happened.â I paused and added, âNot quite true of Lymstock now.â

âNo, no, indeed.â

She sounded worried and got up to go. She said then:

âYou knowâitâs got to be put a stop toâall this beastliness! We canât have it going on.â

âArenât the police doing anything?â

âI suppose so. But I think we ought to take it in hand ourselves.â

âWeâre not as well equipped as they are.â

âNonsense! We probably have far more sense and intelligence! A little determination is all that is needed.â

She said goodbye abruptly and went away.

When Joanna and Megan came back from their walk I showed Megan my Chinese picture. Her face lighted up. She said, âItâs heavenly, isnât it?â

âThat is rather my opinion.â

Her forehead was crinkling in the way I knew so well.

âBut it would be difficult, wouldnât it?â

âTo be idle?â

âNo, not to be idleâbut to enjoy the pleasures of it. Youâd have to be very oldââ

She paused. I said: âHe is an old man.â

âI donât mean old that way. Not age. I mean old inâinâ¦.â

âYou mean,â I said, âthat one would have to attain a very high state of civilization for the thing to present itself to you in that wayâa fine point of sophistication? I think I shall complete your education, Megan, by reading to you one hundred poems translated from the Chinese.â

III

I met Symmington in the town later in the day.

âIs it quite all right for Megan to stay on with us for a bit?â I asked. âItâs company for Joannaâsheâs rather lonely sometimes with none of her own friends.â

âOhâerâ Megan? Oh yes, very good of you.â

I took a dislike to Symmington then which I never quite overcame. He had so obviously forgotten all about Megan. I wouldnât have minded if he had actively disliked the girlâa man may sometimes be jealous of a first husbandâs childâbut he didnât dislike her, he just hardly noticed her. He felt towards her much as a man who doesnât care much for dogs would feel about a dog in the house. You notice it when you fall over it and swear at it, and you give it a vague pat sometimes when it presents itself to be patted. Symmingtonâs complete indifference to his stepdaughter annoyed me very much.

I said, âWhat are you planning to do with her?â

âWith Megan?â He seemed rather startled. âWell, sheâll go on living at home. I mean, naturally, it is her home.â

My grandmother, of whom I had been very fond, used to sing old-fashioned songs to her guitar. One of them, I remembered, ended thus:

âOh maid, most dear, I am not here

I have no place, no part,

No dwelling more, by sea nor shore,

But only in your heart.â

I went home humming it.

IV

Emily Barton came just after tea had been cleared away.

She wanted to talk about the garden. We talked garden for about half an hour. Then we turned back towards the house.

It was then that lowering her voice, she murmured:

âI do hope that that childâthat she hasnât been too much upset by all this dreadful business?â

âHer motherâs death, you mean?â

âThat, of course. But I really meant, theâthe unpleasantness behind it.â

I was curious. I wanted Miss Bartonâs reaction.

âWhat do you think about that? Was it true?â

âOh, no, no, surely not. Iâm quite sure that Mrs. Symmington neverâthat he wasnâtââlittle Emily Barton was pink and confusedââI mean itâs quite untrueâalthough of course it may have been a judgment.â

âA judgment?â I said, staring.

Emily Barton was very pink, very Dresden china shepherdess-like.

âI cannot help feeling that all these dreadful letters, all the sorrow and pain they have caused, may have been sent for a purpose.â

âThey were sent for a purpose, certainly,â I said grimly.

âNo, no, Mr. Burton, you misunderstood me. Iâm not talking of the misguided creature who wrote themâsomeone quite abandoned that must be. I mean that they have been permittedâby Providence! To awaken us to a sense of our shortcomings.â

âSurely,â I said, âthe Almighty could choose a less unsavoury weapon.â

Miss Emily murmured that God moved in a mysterious way.

âNo,â I said. âThereâs too much tendency to attribute to God the evils that man does of his own free will. I might concede you the Devil. God doesnât really need to punish us, Miss Barton. Weâre so very busy punishing ourselves.â

âWhat I canât make out is why should anyone want to do such a thing?â

I shrugged my shoulders.

âA warped mentality.â

âIt seems very sad.â

âIt doesnât seem to me sad. It seems to me just damnable. And I donât apologize for the word. I mean just that.â

The pink had gone out of Miss Bartonâs cheeks. They were very white.

âBut why, Mr. Burton, why? What pleasure can anyone get out of it?â

âNothing you and I can understand, thank goodness.â

Emily Barton lowered her voice.

âThey say that Mrs. Cleatâbut I really cannot believe it.â

I shook my head. She went on in an agitated manner:

âNothing of this kind has ever happened beforeânever in my memory. It has been such a happy little community. What would my dear mother have said? Well, one must be thankful that she has been spared.â

I thought from all I had heard that old Mrs. Barton had been sufficiently tough to have taken anything, and would probably have enjoyed this sensation.

Emily went on:

âIt distresses me deeply.â

âYouâve notâerâhad anything yourself?â

She flushed crimson.

âOh, noâoh, no, indeed. Oh! that would be dreadful.â

I apologized hastily, but she went away looking rather upset.

I went into the house. Joanna was standing by the drawing room fire which she had just lit, for the evenings were still chilly.

She had an open letter in her hand.

She turned her head quickly as I entered.

âJerry! I found this in the letter boxâdropped in by hand. It begins, âYou painted trollopâ¦.â

âWhat else does it say?â

Joanna gave a wide grimace.

âSame old muck.â

She dropped it on to the fire. With a quick gesture that hurt my back I jerked it off again just before it caught.

âDonât,â I said. âWe may need it.â

âNeed it?â

âFor the police.â

V

Superintendent Nash came to see me the following morning. From the first moment I saw him I took a great liking to him. He was the best type of C.I.D. county superintendent. Tall, soldierly, with quiet reflective eyes and a straightforward unassuming manner.

He said: âGood morning, Mr. Burton, I expect you can guess what Iâve come to see you about.â

âYes, I think so. This letter business.â

He nodded.

âI understand you had one of them?â

âYes, soon after we got here.â

âWhat did it say exactly?â

I thought a minute, then conscientiously repeated the wording of the letter as closely as possible.

The superintendent listened with an immovable face, showing no signs of any kind of emotion. When I had finished, he said:

âI see. You didnât keep the letter, Mr. Burton?â

âIâm sorry. I didnât. You see, I thought it was just an isolated instance of spite against newcomers to the place.â

The superintendent inclined his head comprehendingly.

He said briefly: âA pity.â

âHowever,â I said, âmy sister got one yesterday. I just stopped her putting it in the fire.â

âThank you, Mr. Burton, that was thoughtful of you.â

I went across to my desk and unlocked the drawer in which I had put it. It was not, I thought, very suitable for Partridgeâs eyes. I gave it to Nash.

He read it through. Then he looked up and asked me:

âIs this the same in appearance as the last one?â

âI think soâas far as I can remember.â

âThe same difference between the envelope and the text?â

âYes,â I said. âThe envelope was typed. The letter itself had printed words pasted on to a sheet of paper.â

Nash nodded and put it in his pocket. Then he said:

âI wonder, Mr. Burton, if you would mind coming down to the station with me? We could have a conference there and it would save a good deal of time and overlapping.â

âCertainly,â I said. âYou would like me to come now?â

âIf you donât mind.â

There was a police car at the door. We drove down in it.

I said:

âDo you think youâll be able to get to the bottom of this?â

Nash nodded with easy confidence.

âOh yes, weâll get to the bottom of it all right. Itâs a question of time and routine. Theyâre slow, these cases, but theyâre pretty sure. Itâs a matter of narrowing things down.â

âElimination?â I said.

âYes. And general routine.â

âWatching post boxes, examining typewriters, fingerprints, all that?â

He smiled. âAs you say.â

At the police station I found Symmington and Griffith were already there. I was introduced to a tall lantern-jawed man in plain clothes, Inspector Graves.

âInspector Graves,â explained Nash, âhas come down from London to help us. Heâs an expert on anonymous letter cases.â

Inspector Graves smiled mournfully. I reflected that a life spent in the pursuit of anonymous letter writers must be singularly depressing. Inspector Graves, however, showed a kind of melancholy enthusiasm.

âTheyâre all the same, these cases,â he said in a deep lugubrious voice like a depressed bloodhound. âYouâd be surprised. The wording of the letters and the things they say.â

âWe had a case just on two years ago,â said Nash. âInspector Graves helped us then.â

Some of the letters, I saw, were spread out on the table in front of Graves. He had evidently been examining them.

âDifficulty is,â said Nash, âto get hold of the letters. Either people put them in the fire, or they wonât admit to having received anything of the kind. Stupid, you see, and afraid of being mixed up with the police. Theyâre a backward lot here.â

âStill weâve got a fair amount to get on with,â said Graves. Nash took the letter I had given him from his pocket and tossed it over to Graves.

The latter glanced through it, laid it with the others and observed approvingly:

âVery niceâvery nice indeed.â

It was not the way I should have chosen to describe the epistle in question, but experts, I suppose, have their own point of view. I was glad that that screed of vituperative and obscene abuse gave somebody pleasure.

âWeâve got enough, I think, to go on with,â said Inspector Graves, âand Iâll ask you gentlemen, if you should get anymore, to bring them along at once. Also, if you hear of someone else getting oneâ(you, in particular, doctor, among your patients) do your best to get them to come along here with them. Iâve gotââ he sorted with deft fingers among his exhibits, âone to Mr. Symmington, received as far back as two months ago, one to Dr. Griffith, one to Miss Ginch, one written to Mrs. Mudge, the butcherâs wife, one to Jennifer Clark, barmaid at the Three Crowns, the one received by Mrs. Symmington, this one now to Miss Burtonâoh yes, and one from the bank manager.â

âQuite a representative collection,â I remarked.

âAnd not one I couldnât match from other cases! This one here is as near as nothing to one written by that milliner woman. This one is the dead spit of an outbreak we had up in Northumberlandâwritten by a schoolgirl, they were. I can tell you, gentlemen, Iâd like to see something new sometimes, instead of the same old treadmill.â

âThere is nothing new under the sun,â I murmured.

âQuite so, sir. Youâd know that if you were in our profession.â

Nash sighed and said, âYes, indeed.â

Symmington asked:

âHave you come to any definite opinion as to the writer?â

Graves cleared his throat and delivered a small lecture.

âThere are certain similarities shared by all these letters. I shall enumerate them, gentlemen, in case they suggest anything to your minds. The text of the letters is composed of words made-up from individual letters cut out of a printed book. Itâs an old book, printed, I should say, about the year 1830. This has obviously been done to avoid the risk of recognition through handwriting which is, as most people know nowadays, a fairly easy matterâ¦the so-called disguising of a hand not amounting to much when faced with expert tests. There are no fingerprints on the letters and envelopes of a distinctive character. That is to say, they have been handled by the postal authorities, the recipient, and there are other stray fingerprints, but no set common to all, showing therefore that the person who put them together was careful to wear gloves. The envelopes are typewritten by a Windsor 7 machine, well worn, with the a and the t out of alignment. Most of them have been posted locally, or put in the box of a house by hand. It is therefore evident that they are of local provenance. They were written by a woman, and in my opinion a woman of middle age or over, and probably, though not certainly, unmarried.â

We maintained a respectful silence for a minute or two. Then I said:

âThe typewriterâs your best bet, isnât it? That oughtnât to be difficult in a little place like this.â

Inspector Graves shook his head sadly and said:

âThatâs where youâre wrong, sir.â

âThe typewriter,â said Superintendent Nash, âis unfortunately too easy. It is an old one from Mr. Symmingtonâs office, given by him to the Womenâs Institute where, I may say, itâs fairly easy of access. The ladies here all often go into the Institute.â

âCanât you tell something definite from theâerâthe touch, donât you call it?â

Again Graves nodded.

âYes, that can be doneâbut these envelopes have all been typed by someone using one finger.â

âSomeone, then, unused to the typewriter?â

âNo, I wouldnât say that. Someone, say, who can type but doesnât want us to know the fact.â

âWhoever writes these things has been very cunning,â I said slowly.

âShe is, sir, she is,â said Graves. âUp to every trick of the trade.â

âI shouldnât have thought one of these bucolic women down here would have had the brains,â I said.

Graves coughed.

âI havenât made myself plain, Iâm afraid. Those letters were written by an educated woman.â

âWhat, by a lady?â

The word slipped out involuntarily. I hadnât used the term âladyâ for years. But now it came automatically to my lips, reechoed from days long ago, and my grandmotherâs faint unconsciously arrogant voice saying, âOf course, she isnât a lady, dear.â

Nash understood at once. The word lady still meant something to him.

âNot necessarily a lady,â he said. âBut certainly not a village woman. Theyâre mostly pretty illiterate down here, canât spell, and certainly canât express themselves with fluency.â

I was silent, for I had had a shock. The community was so small. Unconsciously I had visualized the writer of the letters as a Mrs. Cleat or her like, some spiteful, cunning half-wit.

Symmington put my thoughts into words. He said sharply:

âBut that narrows it down to about half a dozen to a dozen people in the whole place!â

âThatâs right.â

âI canât believe it.â

Then, with a slight effort, and looking straight in front of him as though the mere sound of his own words were distasteful he said:

âYou have heard what I stated at the inquest. In case you may have thought that that statement was actuated by a desire to protect my wifeâs memory, I should like to repeat now that I am firmly convinced that the subject matter of the letter my wife received was absolutely false. I know it was false. My wife was a very sensitive woman, andâerâwell, you might call it prudish in some respects. Such a letter would have been a great shock to her, and she was in poor health.â

Graves responded instantly.

âThatâs quite likely to be right, sir. None of these letters show any signs of intimate knowledge. Theyâre just blind accusations. Thereâs been no attempt to blackmail. And there doesnât seem to be any religious biasâsuch as we sometimes get. Itâs just sex and spite! And thatâs going to give us quite a good pointer towards the writer.â

Symmington got up. Dry and unemotional as the man was, his lips were trembling.

âI hope you find the devil who writes these soon. She murdered my wife as surely as if sheâd put a knife into her.â He paused. âHow does she feel now, I wonder?â

He went out, leaving that question unanswered.

âHow does she feel, Griffith?â I asked. It seemed to me the answer was in his province.

âGod knows. Remorseful, perhaps. On the other hand, it may be that sheâs enjoying her power. Mrs. Symmingtonâs death may have fed her mania.â

âI hope not,â I said, with a slight shiver. âBecause if so, sheâllââ

I hesitated and Nash finished the sentence for me.

âSheâll try it again? That, Mr. Burton, would be the best thing that could happen, for us. The pitcher goes to the well once too often, remember.â

âSheâd be mad to go on with it,â I exclaimed.

âSheâll go on,â said Graves. âThey always do. Itâs a vice, you know, they canât let it alone.â

I shook my head with a shudder. I asked if they needed me any longer, I wanted to get out into the air. The atmosphere seemed tinged with evil.

âThereâs nothing more, Mr. Burton,â said Nash. âOnly keep your eyes open, and do as much propaganda as you canâthat is to say, urge on everyone that theyâve got to report any letter they receive.â I nodded.

âI should think everyone in the place has had one of the foul things by now,â I said.

âI wonder,â said Graves. He put his sad head a little on one side and asked, âYou donât know, definitely, of anyone who hasnât had a letter?â

âWhat an extraordinary question! The population at large isnât likely to take me into their confidence.â

âNo, no, Mr. Burton, I didnât mean that. I just wondered if you knew of anyone person who quite definitely, to your certain knowledge, has not received an anonymous letter.â

âWell, as a matter of fact,â I hesitated, âI do, in a way.â

And I repeated my conversation with Emily Barton and what she had said.

Graves received the information with a wooden face and said: âWell, that may come in useful. Iâll note it down.â

I went out into the afternoon sunshine with Owen Griffith. Once in the street, I swore aloud.

âWhat kind of place is this for a man to come to lie in the sun and heal his wounds? Itâs full of festering poison, this place, and it looks as peaceful and as innocent as the Garden of Eden.â

âEven there,â said Owen dryly, âthere was one serpent.â

âLook here, Griffith, do they know anything? Have they got any idea?â

âI donât know. Theyâve got a wonderful technique, the police. Theyâre seemingly so frank, and they tell you nothing.â

âYes. Nash is a nice fellow.â

âAnd a very capable one.â

âIf anyoneâs batty in this place, you ought to know it.â I said accusingly.

Griffith shook his head. He looked discouraged. But he looked more than thatâhe looked worried. I wondered if he had an inkling of some kind.

We had been walking along the High Street. I stopped at the door of the house agents.

âI believe my second instalment of rent is dueâin advance. Iâve got a good mind to pay it and clear out with Joanna right away. Forfeit the rest of the tenancy.â

âDonât go,â said Owen.

âWhy not?â

He didnât answer. He said slowly after a minute or two,

âAfter allâI dare say youâre right. Lymstock isnât healthy just now. It mightâit might harm you orâor your sister.â

âNothing harms Joanna,â I said. âSheâs tough. Iâm the weakly one. Somehow this business makes me sick.â

âIt makes me sick,â said Owen.

I pushed the door of the house agents half open.

âBut I shanât go,â I said. âVulgar curiosity is stronger than pusillanimity. I want to know the solution.â

I went in.

A woman who was typing got up and came towards me. She had frizzy hair and simpered, but I found her more intelligent than the spectacled youth who had previously held sway in the outer office.

A minute or two later something familiar about her penetrated through to my consciousness. It was Miss Ginch, lately Symmingtonâs lady clerk. I commented on the fact.

âYou were with Galbraith and Symmington, werenât you?â I said.

âYes. Yes, indeed. But I thought it was better to leave. This is quite a good post, though not quite so well paid. But there are things that are more valuable than money, donât you think so?â

âUndoubtedly,â I said.

âThose awful letters,â breathed Miss Ginch in a sibilant whisper. âI got a dreadful one. About me and Mr. Symmingtonâoh, terrible it was, saying the most awful things! I knew my duty and I took it to the police, though of course it wasnât exactly pleasant for me, was it?â

âNo, no, most unpleasant.â

âBut they thanked me and said I had done quite right. But I felt that, after that, if people were talkingâand evidently they must have been, or where did the writer get the idea from?âthen I must avoid even the appearance of evil, though there has never been anything at all wrong between me and Mr. Symmington.â

I felt rather embarrassed.

âNo, no, of course not.â

âBut people have such evil minds. Yes, alas, such evil minds!â

Nervously trying to avoid it, I nevertheless met her eye, and I made a most unpleasant discovery.

Miss Ginch was thoroughly enjoying herself.

Already once today I had come across someone who reacted pleasurably to anonymous letters. Inspector Gravesâs enthusiasm was professional. Miss Ginchâs enjoyment I found merely suggestive and disgusting.

An idea flashed across my startled mind.

Had Miss Ginch written these letters herself?

Seven

I

When I got home I found Mrs. Dane Calthrop sitting talking to Joanna. She looked, I thought, grey and ill.

âThis has been a terrible shock to me, Mr. Burton,â she said. âPoor thing, poor thing.â

âYes,â I said. âItâs awful to think of someone being driven to the stage of taking their own life.â

âOh, you mean Mrs. Symmington?â

âDidnât you?â

Mrs. Dane Calthrop shook her head.

âOf course one is sorry for her, but it would have been bound to happen anyway, wouldnât it?â

âWould it?â said Joanna dryly.

Mrs. Dane Calthrop turned to her.

âOh, I think so, dear. If suicide is your idea of escape from trouble then it doesnât very much matter what the trouble is. Whenever some very unpleasant shock had to be faced, sheâd have done the same thing. What it really comes down to is that she was that kind of woman. Not that one would have guessed it. She always seemed to me a selfish rather stupid woman, with a good firm hold on life. Not the kind to panic, you would thinkâbut Iâm beginning to realize how little I really know anyone.â

âIâm still curious as to whom you meant when you said âPoor thing,ââ I remarked.

She stared at me.

âThe woman who wrote the letters, of course.â

âI donât think,â I said dryly, âI shall waste sympathy on her.â

Mrs. Dane Calthrop leaned forward. She laid a hand on my knee.

âBut donât you realizeâcanât you feel? Use your imagination. Think how desperately, violently unhappy anyone must be to sit down and write these things. How lonely, how cut off from human kind. Poisoned through and through, with a dark stream of poison that finds its outlet in this way. Thatâs why I feel so self-reproachful. Somebody in this town has been racked with that terrible unhappiness, and Iâve had no idea of it. I should have had. You canât interfere with actionsâ I never do. But that black inward unhappinessâlike a septic arm physically, all black and swollen. If you could cut it and let the poison out it would flow away harmlessly. Yes, poor soul, poor soul.â

She got up to go.

I did not feel like agreeing with her. I had no sympathy for our anonymous letter writer whatsoever. But I did ask curiously:

âHave you any idea at all, Mrs. Calthrop, who this woman is?â

She turned her fine perplexed eyes on me.

âWell, I can guess,â she said. âBut then I might be wrong, mightnât I?â

She went swiftly out through the door, popping her head back to ask:

âDo tell me, why have you never married, Mr. Burton?â

In anyone else it would have been an impertinence, but with Mrs. Dane Calthrop you felt that the idea had suddenly come into her head and she had really wanted to know.

âShall we say,â I said, rallying, âthat I have never met the right woman?â

âWe can say so,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop, âbut it wouldnât be a very good answer, because so many men have obviously married the wrong woman.â

This time she really departed.

Joanna said:

âYou know I really do think sheâs mad. But I like her. The people in the village here are afraid of her.â

âSo am I, a little.â

âBecause you never know whatâs coming next?â

âYes. And thereâs a careless brilliancy about her guesses.â

Joanna said slowly: âDo you really think whoever wrote these letters is very unhappy?â

âI donât know what the damned hag is thinking or feeling! And I donât care. Itâs her victims Iâm sorry for.â

It seems odd to me now that in our speculations about Poison Penâs frame of mind, we missed the most obvious one. Griffith had pictured her as possibly exultant. I had envisaged her as remorsefulâappalled by the result of her handiwork. Mrs. Dane Calthrop had seen her as suffering.

Yet the obvious, the inevitable reaction we did not considerâor perhaps I should say, I did not consider. That reaction was Fear.

For with the death of Mrs. Symmington, the letters had passed out of one category into another. I donât know what the legal position wasâSymmington knew, I suppose, but it was clear that with a death resulting, the position of the writer of the letters was much more serious. There could now be no question of passing it off as a joke if the identity of the writer was discovered. The police were active, a Scotland Yard expert called in. It was vital now for the anonymous author to remain anonymous.

And granted that Fear was the principal reaction, other things followed. Those possibilities also I was blind to. Yet surely they should have been obvious.

II

Joanna and I came down rather late to breakfast the next morning. That is to say, late by the standards of Lymstock. It was nine-thirty, an hour at which, in London, Joanna was just unclosing an eyelid, and mine would probably be still tight shut. However when Partridge had said âBreakfast at half past eight, or nine oâclock?â neither Joanna nor I had had the nerve to suggest a later hour.

To my annoyance, AimÃ©e Griffith was standing on the doorstep talking to Megan.

She gave tongue with her usual heartiness at the sight of us.

âHallo, there, slackers! Iâve been up for hours.â

That, of course, was her own business. A doctor, no doubt, has to have early breakfast, and a dutiful sister is there to pour out his tea, or coffee. But it is no excuse for coming and butting in on oneâs more somnolent neighbours. Nine-thirty is not the time for a morning call.

Megan slipped back into the house and into the dining room, where I gathered she had been interrupted in her breakfast.

âI said I wouldnât come in,â said AimÃ©e Griffithâthough why it is more of a merit to force people to come and speak to you on the doorstep, than to talk to them inside the house I do not know. âI just wanted to ask Miss Burton if sheâd any vegetables to spare for our Red Cross stall on the main road. If so, Iâd get Owen to call for them in the car.â

âYouâre out and about very early,â I said.

âThe early bird catches the worm,â said AimÃ©e. âYou have a better chance of finding people in this time of day. Iâm off to Mr. Pyeâs next. Got to go over to Brenton this afternoon. Guides.â

âYour energy makes me quite tired,â I said, and at that moment the telephone rang and I retired to the back of the hall to answer it, leaving Joanna murmuring rather doubtfully something about rhubarb and French beans and exposing her ignorance of the vegetable garden.

âYes?â I said into the telephone mouthpiece.

A confused noise of deep breathing came from the other end of the wire and a doubtful female voice said âOh!â

âYes?â I said again encouragingly.

âOh,â said the voice again, and then it inquired adenoidally, âIs thatâwhat I meanâis that Little Furze?â

âThis is Little Furze.â

âOh!â This was clearly a stock beginning to every sentence. The voice inquired cautiously: âCould I speak to Miss Partridge just a minute?â

âCertainly,â I said. âWho shall I say?â

âOh. Tell her itâs Agnes, would you? Agnes Waddle.â âAgnes Waddle?â

âThatâs right.â

Resisting the temptation to say, âDonald Duck to you,â I put down the telephone receiver and called up the stairs to where I could hear the sound of Partridgeâs activities overheard.

âPartridge. Partridge.â

Partridge appeared at the head of the stairs, a long mop in one hand, and a look of âWhat is it now?â clearly discernible behind her invariably respectful manner.

âYes, sir?â

âAgnes Waddle wants to speak to you on the telephone.â

âI beg your pardon, sir?â

I raised my voice. âAgnes Waddle.â

I have spelt the name as it presented itself to my mind. But I will now spell it as it was actually written.

âAgnes Woddellâwhatever can she want now?â

Very much put out of countenance, Partridge relinquished her mop and rustled down the stairs, her print dress crackling with agitation.

I beat an unobtrusive retreat into the dining room where Megan was wolfing down kidneys and bacon. Megan, unlike AimÃ©e Griffith, was displaying no âglorious morning face.â In fact she replied very gruffly to my morning salutations and continued to eat in silence.

I opened the morning paper and a minute or two later Joanna entered looking somewhat shattered.

âWhew!â she said. âIâm so tired. And I think Iâve exposed my utter ignorance of what grows when. Arenât there runner beans this time of year?â

âAugust,â said Megan. âWell, one has them anytime in London,â said Joanna defensively.

âTins, sweet fool,â I said. âAnd cold storage on ships from the far-flung limits of empire.â

âLike ivory, apes and peacocks?â asked Joanna.

âExactly.â

âIâd rather have peacocks,â said Joanna thoughtfully.

âIâd like a monkey of my own as a pet,â said Megan.

Meditatively peeling an orange, Joanna said:

âI wonder what it would feel like to be AimÃ©e Griffith, all bursting with health and vigour and enjoyment of life. Do you think sheâs ever tired, or depressed, orâor wistful?â

I said I was quite certain AimÃ©e Griffith was never wistful, and followed Megan out of the open French window on to the veranda.

Standing there, filling my pipe, I heard Partridge enter the dining room from the hall and heard her voice say grimly:

âCan I speak to you a minute, miss?â

âDear me,â I thought. âI hope Partridge isnât going to give notice. Emily Barton will be very annoyed with us if so.â

Partridge went on: âI must apologize, miss, for being rung up on the telephone. That is to say, the young person who did so should have known better. I have never been in the habit of using the telephone or of permitting my friends to ring me up on it, and Iâm very sorry indeed that it should have occurred, and the master taking the call and everything.â

âWhy, thatâs quite all right, Partridge,â said Joanna soothingly, âwhy shouldnât your friends use the phone if they want to speak to you?â

Partridgeâs face, I could feel, though I could not see it, was more dour than ever as she replied coldly:

âIt is not the kind of thing that has ever been done in this house. Miss Emily would never permit it. As I say, I am sorry it occurred, but Agnes Woddell, the girl who did it, was upset and sheâs young too, and doesnât know whatâs fitting in a gentlemanâs house.â

âThatâs one for you, Joanna,â I thought gleefully.

âThis Agnes who rung me up, miss,â went on Partridge, âshe used to be in service here under me. Sixteen she was, then, and come straight from the orphanage. And you see, not having a home, or a mother or any relations to advise her, sheâs been in the habit of coming to me. I can tell her whatâs what, you see.â

âYes?â said Joanna and waited. Clearly there was more to follow.

âSo I am taking the liberty of asking you, miss, if you would allow Agnes to come here to tea this afternoon in the kitchen. Itâs her day out, you see, and sheâs got something on her mind she wants to consult me about. I wouldnât dream of suggesting such a thing in the usual way.â

Joanna said bewildered:

âBut why shouldnât you have anyone to tea with you?â

Partridge drew herself up at this, so Joanna said afterwards, and really looked most formidable, as she replied:

âIt has never been the custom of This House, miss. Old Mrs. Barton never allowed visitors in the kitchen, excepting as it should be our own day out, in which case we were allowed to entertain friends here instead of going out, but otherwise, on ordinary days, no. And Miss Emily she keeps to the old ways.â

Joanna is very nice to servants and most of them like her but she has never cut any ice with Partridge.

âItâs no good, my girl,â I said when Partridge had gone and Joanna had joined me outside. âYour sympathy and leniency are not appreciated. The good old overbearing ways for Partridge and things done the way they should be done in a gentlemanâs house.â

âI never heard of such tyranny as not allowing them to have their friends to see them,â said Joanna. âItâs all very well, Jerry, but they canât like being treated like black slaves.â

âEvidently they do,â I said. âAt least the Partridges of this world do.â

âI canât imagine why she doesnât like me. Most people do.â

âShe probably despises you as an inadequate housekeeper. You never draw your hand across a shelf and examine it for traces of dust. You donât look under the mats. You donât ask what happened to the remains of the chocolate soufflÃ©, and you never order a nice bread pudding.â

âUgh!â said Joanna.

She went on sadly. âIâm a failure all round today. Despised by our AimÃ©e for ignorance of the vegetable kingdom. Snubbed by Partridge for being a human being. I shall now go out into the garden and eat worms.â

âMeganâs there already,â I said.

For Megan had wandered away a few minutes previously and was now standing aimlessly in the middle of a patch of lawn looking not unlike a meditative bird waiting for nourishment.

She came back, however, towards us and said abruptly:

âI say, I must go home today.â

âWhat?â I was dismayed.

She went on, flushing, but speaking with nervous determination.

âItâs been awfully good of you having me and I expect Iâve been a fearful nuisance, but I have enjoyed it awfully, only now I must go back, because after all, well, itâs my home and one canât stay away for ever, so I think Iâll go this morning.â

Both Joanna and I tried to make her change her mind, but she was quite adamant, and finally Joanna got out the car and Megan went upstairs and came down a few minutes later with her belongings packed up again.

The only person pleased seemed to be Partridge, who had almost a smile on her grim face. She had never liked Megan much.

I was standing in the middle of the lawn when Joanna returned.

She asked me if I thought I was a sundial.

âWhy?â

âStanding there like a garden ornament. Only one couldnât put on you the motto of only marking the sunny hours. You looked like thunder!â

âIâm out of humour. First AimÃ©e Griffithâ(âGracious!â murmured Joanna in parenthesis, âI must speak about those vegetables!â) and then Megan beetling off. Iâd thought of taking her for a walk up to Legge Tor.â

âWith a collar and lead, I suppose?â said Joanna.

âWhat?â

Joanna repeated loudly and clearly as she moved off round the corner of the house to the kitchen garden:

âI said, âWith a collar and lead, I suppose?â Masterâs lost his dog, thatâs whatâs the matter with you!â

III

I was annoyed, I must confess, at the abrupt way in which Megan had left us. Perhaps she had suddenly got bored with us.

After all, it wasnât a very amusing life for a girl. At home sheâd got the kids and Elsie Holland.

I heard Joanna returning and hastily moved in case she should make more rude remarks about sundials.

Owen Griffith called in his car just before lunchtime, and the gardener was waiting for him with the necessary garden produce.

Whilst old Adams was stowing it in the car I brought Owen indoors for a drink. He wouldnât stay to lunch.

When I came in with the sherry I found Joanna had begun doing her stuff.

No signs of animosity now. She was curled up in the corner of the sofa and was positively purring, asking Owen questions about his work, if he liked being a G.P., if he wouldnât rather have specialized? She thought, doctoring was one of the most fascinating things in the world.

Say what you will of her, Joanna is a lovely, a heaven-born listener. And after listening to so many would-be geniuses telling her how they had been unappreciated, listening to Owen Griffith was easy money. By the time we had got to the third glass of sherry, Griffith was telling her about some obscure reaction or lesion in such scientific terms that nobody could have understood a word of it except a fellow medico.

Joanna was looking intelligent and deeply interested.

I felt a momentâs qualm. It was really too bad of Joanna. Griffith was too good a chap to be played fast and loose with. Women really were devils.

Then I caught a sideways view of Griffith, his long purposeful chin and the grim set of his lips, and I was not so sure that Joanna was going to have it her own way after all. And anyway, a man has no business to let himself be made a fool of by a woman. Itâs his own look out if he does.

Then Joanna said:

âDo change your mind and stay to lunch with us, Dr. Griffith,â and Griffith flushed a little and said he would, only his sister would be expecting him backâ

âWeâll ring her up and explain,â said Joanna quickly and went out into the hall and did so.

I thought Griffith looked a little uneasy, and it crossed my mind that he was probably a little afraid of his sister.

Joanna came back smiling and said that that was all right.

And Owen Griffith stayed to lunch and seemed to enjoy himself. We talked about books and plays and world politics, and about music and painting and modern architecture.

We didnât talk about Lymstock at all, or about anonymous letters, or Mrs. Symmingtonâs suicide.

We got right away from everything, and I think Owen Griffith was happy. His dark sad face lighted up, and he revealed an interesting mind.

When he had gone I said to Joanna:

âThat fellowâs too good for your tricks.â

Joanna said:

âThatâs what you say! You men all stick together!â

âWhy were you out after his hide, Joanna? Wounded vanity?â

âPerhaps,â said my sister.

IV

That afternoon we were to go to tea with Miss Emily Barton at her rooms in the village.

We strolled down there on foot, for I felt strong enough now to manage the hill back again.

We must actually have allowed too much time and got there early, for the door was opened to us by a tall rawboned fierce-looking woman who told us that Miss Barton wasnât in yet.

âBut sheâs expecting you, I know, so if youâll come up and wait, please.â

This was evidently Faithful Florence.

We followed her up the stairs and she threw open a door and showed us into what was quite a comfortable sitting room, though perhaps a little over-furnished. Some of the things, I suspected, had come from Little Furze.

The woman was clearly proud of her room.

âItâs nice, isnât it?â she demanded.

âVery nice,â said Joanna warmly.

âI make her as comfortable as I can. Not that I can do for her as Iâd like to and in the way she ought to have. She ought to be in her own house, properly, not turned out into rooms.â

Florence, who was clearly a dragon, looked from one to the other of us reproachfully. It was not, I felt, our lucky day. Joanna had been ticked off by AimÃ©e Griffith and Partridge and now we were both being ticked off by the dragon Florence.

âParlourmaid I was for fifteen years there,â she added.

Joanna, goaded by injustice, said:

âWell, Miss Barton wanted to let the house. She put it down at the house agents.â

âForced to it,â said Florence. âAnd she living so frugal and careful. But even then, the government canât leave her alone! Has to have its pound of flesh just the same.â

I shook my head sadly.

âPlenty of money there was in the old ladyâs time,â said Florence. âAnd then they all died off one by one, poor dears. Miss Emily nursing of them one after the other. Wore herself out she did, and always so patient and uncomplaining. But it told on her, and then to have worry about money on top of it all! Shares not bringing in what they used to, so she says, and why not, I should like to know? They ought to be ashamed of themselves. Doing down a lady like her whoâs got no head for figures and canât be up to their tricks.â

âPractically everyone has been hit that way,â I said, but Florence remained unsoftened.

âItâs all right for some as can look after themselves, but not for her. She needs looking after, and as long as sheâs with me Iâm going to see no one imposes on her or upsets her in anyway. Iâd do anything for Miss Emily.â

And glaring at us for some moments in order to drive that point thoroughly home, the indomitable Florence left the room, carefully shutting the door behind her.

âDo you feel like a bloodsucker, Jerry?â inquired Joanna. âBecause I do. Whatâs the matter with us?â

âWe donât seem to be going down very well,â I said. âMegan gets tired of us, Partridge disapproves of you, faithful Florence disapproves of both of us.â

Joanna murmured, âI wonder why Megan did leave?â

âShe got bored.â

âI donât think she did at all. I wonderâdo you think, Jerry, it could have been something that AimÃ©e Griffith said?â

âYou mean this morning, when they were talking on the doorstep.â

âYes. Thereâs wasnât much time, of course, butââ I finished the sentence.

âBut that womanâs got the tread of a cow elephant! She might haveââ

The door opened and Miss Emily came in. She was pink and a little out of breath and seemed excited. Her eyes were very blue and shining.

She chirruped at us in quite a distracted manner.

âOh dear, Iâm so sorry Iâm late. Just doing a little shopping in the town, and the cakes at the Blue Rose didnât seem to me quite fresh, so I went on to Mrs. Lygonâs. I always like to get my cakes the last thing, then one gets the newest batch just out of the oven, and one isnât put off with the day beforeâs. But I am so distressed to have kept you waitingâreally unpardonableââ

Joanna cut in.

âItâs our fault, Miss Barton. Weâre early. We walked down and Jerry strides along so fast now that we arrive everywhere too soon.â

âNever too soon, dear. Donât say that. One cannot have too much of a good thing, you know.â

And the old lady patted Joanna affectionately on the shoulder.

Joanna brightened up. At last, so it seemed, she was being a success. Emily Barton extended her smile to include me, but with a slight timidity in it, rather as one might approach a man-eating tiger guaranteed for the moment harmless.

âItâs very good of you to come to such a feminine meal as tea, Mr. Burton.â

Emily Barton, I think, has a mental picture of men as interminably consuming whiskies and sodas and smoking cigars, and in the intervals dropping out to do a few seductions of village maidens, or to conduct a liaison with a married woman.

When I said this to Joanna later, she replied that it was probably wishful thinking, that Emily Barton would have liked to come across such a man, but alas had never done so.

In the meantime Miss Emily was fussing round the room, arranging Joanna and myself with little tables, and carefully providing ashtrays, and a minute later the door opened and Florence came in bearing a tray of tea with some fine Crown Derby cups on it which I gathered Miss Emily had brought with her. The tea was china and delicious and there were plates of sandwiches and thin bread and butter, and a quantity of little cakes.

Florence was beaming now, and looked at Miss Emily with a kind of maternal pleasure, as at a favourite child enjoying a dollâs tea party.

Joanna and I ate far more than we wanted to, our hostess pressed us so earnestly. The little lady was clearly enjoying her tea party and I perceived that, to Emily Barton, Joanna and I were a big adventure, two people from the mysterious world of London and sophistication.

Naturally, our talk soon dropped into local channels. Miss Barton spoke warmly of Dr. Griffith, his kindness and his cleverness as a doctor. Mr. Symmington, too, was a very clever lawyer, and had helped Miss Barton to get some money back from the income tax which she would never have known about. He was so nice to his children, too, devoted to them and to his wifeâshe caught herself up. âPoor Mrs. Symmington, itâs so dreadfully sad, with those young children left motherless. Never, perhaps, a very strong womanâand her health had been bad of late. A brain storm, that is what it must have been. I read about such a thing in the paper. People really do not know what they are doing under those circumstances. And she canât have known what she was doing or else she would have remembered Mr. Symmington and the children.â

âThat anonymous letter must have shaken her up very badly,â said Joanna.

Miss Barton flushed. She said, with a tinge of reproof in her voice:

âNot a very nice thing to discuss, do you think, dear? I know there have beenâerâletters, but we wonât talk about them. Nasty things. I think they are better just ignored.â

Well, Miss Barton might be able to ignore them, but for some people it wasnât so easy. However I obediently changed the subject and we discussed AimÃ©e Griffith.

âWonderful, quite wonderful,â said Emily Barton. âHer energy and her organizing powers are really splendid. Sheâs so good with girls too. And sheâs so practical and up-to-date in every way. She really runs this place. And absolutely devoted to her brother. Itâs very nice to see such devotion between brother and sister.â

âDoesnât he ever find her a little overwhelming?â asked Joanna.

Emily Barton stared at her in a startled fashion.

âShe has sacrificed a great deal for his sake,â she said with a touch of reproachful dignity.

I saw a touch of Oh Yeay! in Joannaâs eye and hastened to divert the conversation to Mr. Pye.

Emily Barton was a little dubious about Mr. Pye.

All she could say was, repeated rather doubtfully, that he was very kindâyes, very kind. Very well off, too, and most generous. He had very strange visitors sometimes, but then, of course, he had travelled a lot.

We agreed that travel not only broadened the mind, but occasionally resulted in the forming of strange acquaintances.

âI have often wished, myself, to go on a cruise,â said Emily Barton wistfully. âOne reads about them in the papers and they sound so attractive.â

âWhy donât you go?â asked Joanna.

This turning of a dream into a reality seemed to alarm Miss Emily. âOh, no, no, that would be quite impossible.â

âBut why? Theyâre fairly cheap.â

âOh, itâs not only the expense. But I shouldnât like to go alone. Travelling alone would look very peculiar, donât you think?â

âNo,â said Joanna.

Miss Emily looked at her doubtfully.

âAnd I donât know how I would manage about my luggageâand going ashore at foreign portsâand all the different currenciesââ

Innumerable pitfalls seemed to rise up before the little ladyâs affrighted gaze, and Joanna hastened to calm her by a question about an approaching garden fÃªte and sale of work. This led us quite naturally to Mrs. Dane Calthrop.

A faint spasm showed for a minute on Miss Bartonâs face.

âYou know, dear,â she said, âshe is really a very odd woman. The things she says sometimes.â

I asked what things.

âOh, I donât know. Such very unexpected things. And the way she looks at you, as though you werenât there but somebody else wasâIâm expressing it badly but it is so hard to convey the impression I mean. And then she wonâtâwell, interfere at all. There are so many cases where a vicarâs wife could advise andâperhaps admonish. Pull people up, you know, and make them mend their ways. Because people would listen to her, Iâm sure of that, theyâre all quite in awe of her. But she insists on being aloof and faraway, and has such a curious habit of feeling sorry for the most unworthy people.â

âThatâs interesting,â I said, exchanging a quick glance with Joanna.

âStill, she is a very well-bred woman. She was a Miss Farroway of Bellpath, very good family, but these old families sometimes are a little peculiar, I believe. But she is devoted to her husband who is a man of very fine intellectâwasted, I am sometimes afraid, in this country circle. A good man, and most sincere, but I always find his habit of quoting Latin a little confusing.â

âHear, hear,â I said fervently.

âJerry had an expensive public school education, so he doesnât recognize Latin when he hears it,â said Joanna.

This led Miss Barton to a new topic.

âThe schoolmistress here is a most unpleasant young woman,â she said. âQuite Red, Iâm afraid.â She lowered her voice over the word âRed.â

Later, as we walked home up the hill, Joanna said to me:

âSheâs rather sweet.â

V

At dinner that night, Joanna said to Partridge that she hoped her tea party had been a success.

Partridge got rather red in the face and held herself even more stiffly.

âThank you, miss, but Agnes never turned up after all.â

âOh, Iâm sorry.â

âIt didnât matter to me,â said Partridge.

She was so swelling with grievance that she condescended to pour it out to us.

âIt wasnât me who thought of asking her! She rang up herself, said sheâd something on her mind and could she come here, it being her day off. And I said, yes, subject to your permission which I obtained. And after that, not a sound or sign of her! And no word of apology either, though I should hope Iâll get a postcard tomorrow morning. These girls nowadaysâdonât know their placeâno idea of how to behave.â

Joanna attempted to soothe Partridgeâs wounded feelings.

âShe maynât have felt well. You didnât ring up to find out?â

Partridge drew herself up again.

âNo, I did not, Miss. No, indeed. If Agnes likes to behave rudely thatâs her lookout, but I shall give her a piece of my mind when we meet.â

Partridge went out of the room still stiff with indignation and Joanna and I laughed.

âProbably a case of âAdvice from Aunt Nancyâs Column,ââ I said. ââMy boy is very cold in his manner to me, what shall I do about it?â Failing Aunt Nancy, Partridge was to be applied to for advice, but instead there has been a reconciliation and I expect at this minute that Agnes and her boy are one of those speechless couples locked in each otherâs arms that you come upon suddenly standing by a dark hedge. They embarrass you horribly, but you donât embarrass them.â

Joanna laughed and said she expected that was it.

We began talking of the anonymous letters and wondered how Nash and the melancholy Graves were getting on.

âItâs a week today exactly,â said Joanna, âsince Mrs. Symmingtonâs suicide. I should think they must have got on to something by now. Fingerprints, or handwriting, or something.â

I answered her absently. Somewhere behind my conscious mind, a queer uneasiness was growing. It was connected in some way with the phrase that Joanna had used, âa week exactly.â

I ought, I dare say, to have put two and two together earlier. Perhaps, unconsciously, my mind was already suspicious.

Anyway the leaven was working now. The uneasiness was growingâcoming to a head.

Joanna noticed suddenly that I wasnât listening to her spirited account of a village encounter.

âWhatâs the matter, Jerry?â

I did not answer because my mind was busy piecing things together.

Mrs. Symmingtonâs suicideâ¦ She was alone in the house that afternoonâ¦ Alone in the house because the maids were having their day outâ¦ A week ago exactlyâ¦.

âJerry, whatââ

I interrupted.

âJoanna, maids have days out once a week, donât they?â

âAnd alternate Sundays,â said Joanna. âWhat onââ

âNever mind Sundays. They go out the same day every week?â

âYes. Thatâs the usual thing.â

Joanna was staring at me curiously. Her mind had not taken the track mine had done.

I crossed the room and rang the bell. Partridge came.

âTell me,â I said, âthis Agnes Woddell. Sheâs in service?â

âYes, sir. At Mrs. Symmingtonâs. At Mr. Symmingtonâs, I should say now.â

I drew a deep breath. I glanced at the clock. It was halfpast ten.

âWould she be back now, do you think?â

Partridge was looking disapproving.

âYes, sir. The maids have to be in by ten there. Theyâre old-fashioned.â

I said: âIâm going to ring up.â

I went out to the hall. Joanna and Partridge followed me. Partridge was clearly furious. Joanna was puzzled. She said, as I was trying to get the number:

âWhat are you going to do, Jerry?â

âIâd like to be sure that the girl has come in all right.â

Partridge sniffed. Just sniffed, nothing more. But I did not care twopence about Partridgeâs sniffs.

Elsie Holland answered the telephone the other end.

âSorry to ring you up,â I said. âThis is Jerry Burton speaking. Isâhasâyour maid Agnes come in?â

It was not until after I had said it that I suddenly felt a bit of a fool. For if the girl had come in and it was all right, how on earth was I going to explain my ringing up and asking. It would have been better if I had let Joanna ask the question, though even that would need a bit of explaining. I foresaw a new trail of gossip started in Lymstock, with myself and the unknown Agnes Woddell at its centre.

Elsie Holland sounded, not unnaturally, very much surprised.

âAgnes? Oh, sheâs sure to be in by now.â

I felt a fool, but I went on with it.

âDo you mind just seeing if she has come in, Miss Holland?â

There is one thing to be said for a nursery governess; she is used to doing things when told. Hers not to reason why! Elsie Holland put down the receiver and went off obediently.

Two minutes later I heard her voice.

âAre you there, Mr. Burton?â

âYes.â

âAgnes isnât in yet, as a matter of fact.â

I knew then that my hunch had been right.

I heard a noise of voices vaguely from the other end, then Symmington himself spoke.

âHallo, Burton, whatâs the matter?â

âYour maid Agnes isnât back yet?â

âNo. Miss Holland has just been to see. Whatâs the matter? Thereâs not been an accident, has there?â

âNot an accident,â I said.

âDo you mean you have reason to believe something has happened to the girl?â

I said grimly: âI shouldnât be surprised.â

Eight

I

I slept badly that night. I think that, even then, there were pieces of the puzzle floating about in my mind. I believe that if I had given my mind to it, I could have solved the whole thing then and there. Otherwise why did those fragments tag along so persistently?

How much do we know at anytime? Much more, or so I believe, than we know we know! But we cannot break through to that subterranean knowledge. It is there, but we cannot reach it.

I lay on my bed, tossing uneasily, and only vague bits of the puzzle came to torture me.

There was a pattern, if only I could get hold of it. I ought to know who wrote those damned letters. There was a trail somewhere if only I could follow itâ¦.

As I dropped off to sleep, words danced irritatingly through my drowsy mind.

âNo smoke without fire.â No fire without smoke. Smokeâ¦ Smoke? Smoke screenâ¦ No, that was the warâa war phrase. War. Scrap of paperâ¦ Only a scrap of paper. Belgiumâ Germanyâ¦.

I fell asleep. I dreamt that I was taking Mrs. Dane Calthrop, who had turned into a greyhound, for a walk with a collar and lead.

II

It was the ringing of the telephone that roused me. A persistent ringing.

I sat up in bed, glanced at my watch. It was half past seven. I had not yet been called. The telephone was ringing in the hall downstairs.

I jumped out of bed, pulled on a dressing-gown, and raced down. I beat Partridge coming through the back door from the kitchen by a short head. I picked up the receiver.

âHallo?â

âOhââ It was a sob of relief. âItâs you!â Meganâs voice. Meganâs voice indescribably forlorn and frightened. âOh, please do comeâdo come. Oh, please do! Will you?â

âIâm coming at once,â I said. âDo you hear? At once.â

I took the stairs two at a time and burst in on Joanna.

âLook here, Jo, Iâm going off to the Symmingtons.ââ

Joanna lifted a curly blonde head from the pillow and rubbed her eyes like a small child.

âWhyâwhatâs happened?â

âI donât know. It was the childâ Megan. She sounded all in.â

âWhat do you think it is?â

âThe girl Agnes, unless Iâm very much mistaken.â

As I went out of the door, Joanna called after me:

âWait. Iâll get up and drive you down.â

âNo need. Iâll drive myself.â

âYou canât drive the car.â

âYes, I can.â

I did, too. It hurt, but not too much. Iâd washed, shaved, dressed, got the car out and driven to the Symmingtonsâ in half an hour. Not bad going.

Megan must have been watching for me. She came out of the house at a run and clutched me. Her poor little face was white and twitching.

âOh, youâve comeâyouâve come!â

âHold up, funny face,â I said. âYes, Iâve come. Now what is it?â

She began to shake. I put my arm round her.

âIâ I found her.â

âYou found Agnes? Where?â

The trembling grew.

âUnder the stairs. Thereâs a cupboard there. It has fishing rods and golf clubs and things. You know.â

I nodded. It was the usual cupboard.

Megan went on.

âShe was thereâall huddled upâandâand coldâhorribly cold. She wasâshe was dead, you know!â

I asked curiously, âWhat made you look there?â

âIâI donât know. You telephoned last night. And we all began wondering where Agnes was. We waited up some time, but she didnât come in, and at last we went to bed. I didnât sleep very well and I got up early. There was only Rose (the cook, you know) about. She was very cross about Agnes not having come back. She said sheâd been before somewhere when a girl did a flit like that. I had some milk and bread and butter in the kitchenâand then suddenly Rose came in looking queer and she said that Agnesâs outdoor things were still in her room. Her best ones that she goes out in. And I began to wonder ifâif sheâd ever left the house, and I started looking round, and I opened the cupboard under the stairs andâand she was thereâ¦.â

âSomebodyâs rung up the police, I suppose?â

âYes, theyâre here now. My stepfather rang them up straightaway. And then IâI felt I couldnât bear it, and I rang you up. You donât mind?â

âNo,â I said. âI donât mind.â

I looked at her curiously.

âDid anybody give you some brandy, or some coffee, or some tea afterâafter you found her?â

Megan shook her head.

I cursed the whole Symmington mÃ©nage. That stuffed shirt, Symmington, thought of nothing but the police. Neither Elsie Holland nor the cook seemed to have thought of the effect on the sensitive child who had made that gruesome discovery.

âCome on, slabface,â I said. âWeâll go to the kitchen.â

We went round the house to the back door and into the kitchen. Rose, a plump pudding-faced woman of forty, was drinking strong tea by the kitchen fire. She greeted us with a flow of talk and her hand to her heart.

Sheâd come all over queer, she told me, awful the palpitations were! Just think of it, it might have been her, it might have been any of them, murdered in their beds they might have been.

âDish out a good strong cup of that tea for Miss Megan,â I said. âSheâs had a shock, you know. Remember it was she who found the body.â

The mere mention of a body nearly sent Rose off again, but I quelled her with a stern eye and she poured out a cup of inky fluid.

âThere you are, young woman,â I said to Megan. âYou drink that down. You havenât got any brandy, I suppose, Rose?â

Rose said rather doubtfully that there was a drop of cooking brandy left over from the Christmas puddings.

âThatâll do,â I said, and put a dollop of it into Meganâs cup. I saw by Roseâs eye that she thought it a good idea.

I told Megan to stay with Rose.

âI can trust you to look after Miss Megan?â I said, and Rose replied in a gratified way, âOh yes, sir.â

I went through into the house. If I knew Rose and her kind, she would soon find it necessary to keep her strength up with a little food, and that would be good for Megan too. Confound these people, why couldnât they look after the child?

Fuming inwardly I ran into Elsie Holland in the hall. She didnât seem surprised to see me. I suppose that the gruesome excitement of the discovery made one oblivious of who was coming and going. The constable, Bert Rundle, was by the front door.

Elsie Holland gasped out:

âOh, Mr. Burton, isnât it awful? Whoever can have done such a dreadful thing?â

âIt was murder, then?â

âOh, yes. She was struck on the back of the head. Itâs all blood and hairâoh! itâs awfulâand bundled into that cupboard. Who can have done such a wicked thing? And why? Poor Agnes, Iâm sure she never did anyone any harm.â

âNo,â I said. âSomebody saw to that pretty promptly.â

She stared at me. Not, I thought, a quick-witted girl. But she had good nerves. Her colour was, as usual, slightly heightened by excitement, and I even fancied that in a macabre kind of way, and in spite of a naturally kind heart, she was enjoying the drama.

She said apologetically: âI must go up to the boys. Mr. Symmington is so anxious that they shouldnât get a shock. He wants me to keep them right away.â

âMegan found the body, I hear,â I said. âI hope somebody is looking after her?â

I will say for Elsie Holland that she looked conscience stricken.

âOh dear,â she said. âI forgot all about her. I do hope sheâs all right. Iâve been so rushed, you know, and the police and everythingâbut it was remiss of me. Poor girl, she must be feeling bad. Iâll go and look for her at once.â

I relented.

âSheâs all right,â I said. âRose is looking after her. You get along to the kids.â

She thanked me with a flash of white tombstone teeth and hurried upstairs. After all, the boys were her job, and not Meganâ Megan was nobodyâs job. Elsie was paid to look after Symmingtonâs blinking brats. One could hardly blame her for doing so.

As she flashed round the corner of the stairs, I caught my breath. For a minute I caught a glimpse of a Winged Victory, deathless and incredibly beautiful, instead of a conscientious nursery governess.

Then a door opened and Superintendent Nash stepped out into the hall with Symmington behind him.

âOh, Mr. Burton,â he said. âI was just going to telephone you. Iâm glad you are here.â

He didnât ask meâthenâwhy I was here.

He turned his head and said to Symmington:

âIâll use this room if I may.â

It was a small morning room with a window on the front of the house.

âCertainly, certainly.â

Symmingtonâs poise was pretty good, but he looked desperately tired. Superintendent Nash said gently:

âI should have some breakfast if I were you, Mr. Symmington. You and Miss Holland and Miss Megan will feel much better after coffee and eggs and bacon. Murder is a nasty business on an empty stomach.â

He spoke in a comfortable family doctor kind of way.

Symmington gave a faint attempt at a smile and said:

âThank you, superintendent, Iâll take your advice.â

I followed Nash into the little morning room and he shut the door. He said then:

âYouâve got here very quickly? How did you hear?â

I told him that Megan had rung me up. I felt well-disposed towards Superintendent Nash. He, at any rate, had not forgotten that Megan, too, would be in need of breakfast.

âI hear that you telephoned last night, Mr. Burton, asking about this girl? Why was that?â

I suppose it did seem odd. I told him about Agnesâs telephone call to Partridge and her nonappearance. He said, âYes, I seeâ¦.â

He said it slowly and reflectively, rubbing his chin.

Then he sighed:

âWell,â he said. âItâs murder now, right enough. Direct physical action. The question is, what did the girl know? Did she say anything to this Partridge? Anything definite?â

âI donât think so. But you can ask her.â

âYes. I shall come up and see her when Iâve finished here.â

âWhat happened exactly?â I asked. âOr donât you know yet?â

âNear enough. It was the maidsâ day outââ

âBoth of them?â

âYes, it seems that there used to be two sisters here who liked to go out together, so Mrs. Symmington arranged it that way. Then when these two came, she kept to the same arrangement. They used to leave cold supper laid out in the dining room, and Miss Holland used to get tea.â

âI see.â

âItâs pretty clear up to a point. The cook, Rose, comes from Nether Mickford, and in order to get there on her day out she has to catch the half past two bus. So Agnes has to finish clearing up lunch always. Rose used to wash up the supper things in the evenings to even things up.

âThatâs what happened yesterday. Rose went off to catch the bus at two twenty-five, Symmington left for his office at five-and-twenty to three. Elsie Holland and the children went out at a quarter to three. Megan Hunter went out on her bicycle about five minutes later. Agnes would then be alone in the house. As far as I can make out, she normally left the house between three oâclock and half past three.â

âThe house being then left empty?â

âOh, they donât worry about that down here. Thereâs not much locking up done in these parts. As I say, at ten minutes to three Agnes was alone in the house. That she never left it is clear, for she was in her cap and apron still when we found her body.â

âI suppose you can tell roughly the time of death?â

âDoctor Griffith wonât commit himself. Between two oâclock and four thirty, is his official medical verdict.â

âHow was she killed?â

âShe was first stunned by a blow on the back of the head. Afterwards an ordinary kitchen skewer, sharpened to a fine point, was thrust in the base of the skull, causing instantaneous death.â

I lit a cigarette. It was not a nice picture.

âPretty cold-blooded,â I said.

âOh yes, yes, that was indicated.â

I inhaled deeply.

âWho did it?â I said. âAnd why?â

âI donât suppose,â said Nash slowly, âthat we shall ever know exactly why. But we can guess.â

âShe knew something?â

âShe knew something.â

âShe didnât give anyone here a hint?â

âAs far as I can make out, no. Sheâs been upset, so the cook says, ever since Mrs. Symmingtonâs death, and according to this Rose, sheâs been getting more and more worried, and kept saying she didnât know what she ought to do.â

He gave a short exasperated sigh.

âItâs always the way. They wonât come to us. Theyâve got that deep-seated prejudice against âbeing mixed up with the police.â If sheâd come along and told us what was worrying her, sheâd be alive today.â

âDidnât she give the other woman any hint?â

âNo, or so Rose says, and Iâm inclined to believe her. For if she had, Rose would have blurted it out at once with a good many fancy embellishments of her own.â

âItâs maddening,â I said, ânot to know.â

âWe can still guess, Mr. Burton. To begin with, it canât be anything very defionite. Itâs got to be the sort of thing that you think over, and as you think it over, your uneasiness grows. You see what I mean?â

âYes.â

âActually, I think I know what it was.â

I looked at him with respect.

âThatâs good work, superintendent.â

âWell, you see, Mr. Burton, I know something that you donât. On the afternoon that Mrs. Symmington committed suicide both maids were supposed to be out. It was their day out. But actually Agnes came back to the house.â

âYou know that?â

âYes. Agnes has a boyfriendâyoung Rendell from the fish shop. Wednesday is early closing and he comes along to meet Agnes and they go for a walk, or to the pictures if itâs wet. That Wednesday they had a row practically as soon as they met. Our letter writer had been active, suggesting that Agnes had other fish to fry, and young Fred Rendell was all worked up. They quarrelled violently and Agnes bolted back home and said she wasnât coming out unless Fred said he was sorry.â

âWell?â

âWell, Mr. Burton, the kitchen faces the back of the house but the pantry looks out where we are looking now. Thereâs only one entrance gate. You come through it and either up to the front door, or else along the path at the side of the house to the back door.â

He paused.

âNow Iâll tell you something. That letter that came to Mrs. Symmington that afternoon didnât come by post. It had a used stamp affixed to it, and the postmark faked quite convincingly in lampblack, so that it would seem to have been delivered by the postman with the afternoon letters. But actually it had not been through the post. You see what that means?â

I said slowly: âIt means that it was left by hand, pushed through the letter box some time before the afternoon post was delivered, so that it should be amongst the other letters.â

âExactly. The afternoon post comes round about a quarter to four. My theory is this. The girl was in the pantry looking through the window (itâs masked by shrubs but you can see through them quite well) watching out for her young man to turn up and apologize.â

I said: âAnd she saw whoever it was deliver that note?â

âThatâs my guess, Mr. Burton. I may be wrong, of course.â

âI donât think you areâ¦ Itâs simpleâand convincingâand it means that Agnes knew who the anonymous letter writer was.â

âYes.â

âBut then why didnât sheâ?â

I paused, frowning.

Nash said quickly:

âAs I see it, the girl didnât realize what she had seen. Not at first. Somebody had left a letter at the house, yesâbut that somebody was nobody she would dream of connecting with the anonymous letters. It was somebody, from that point of view, quite above suspicion.

âBut the more she thought about it, the more uneasy she grew. Ought she, perhaps, to tell someone about it? In her perplexity she thinks of Miss Bartonâs Partridge who, I gather, is a somewhat dominant personality and whose judgment Agnes would accept unhesitatingly. She decides to ask Partridge what she ought to do.â

âYes,â I said thoughtfully. âIt fits well enough. And somehow or other, Poison Pen found out. How did she find out, superintendent?â

âYouâre not used to living in the country, Mr. Burton. Itâs a kind of miracle how things get round. First of all thereâs the telephone call. Who overheard it your end?â I reflected.

âI answered the telephone originally. Then I called up the stairs to Partridge.â

âMentioning the girlâs name?â

âYesâyes, I did.â

âAnyone overhear you?â

âMy sister or Miss Griffith might have done so.â

âAh, Miss Griffith. What was she doing up there?â

I explained.

âWas she going back to the village?â

âShe was going to Mr. Pye first.â

Superintendent Nash sighed.

âThatâs two ways it could have gone all over the place.â

I was incredulous.

âDo you mean that either Miss Griffith or Mr. Pye would bother to repeat a meaningless little bit of information like that?â

âAnythingâs news in a place like this. Youâd be surprised. If the dressmakerâs mother has got a bad corn everybody hears about it! And then there is this end. Miss Holland, Roseâthey could have heard what Agnes said. And thereâs Fred Rendell. It may have gone round through him that Agnes went back to the house that afternoon.â

I gave a slight shiver. I was looking out of the window. In front of me was a neat square of grass and a path and the low prim gate.

Someone had opened the gate, had walked very correctly and quietly up to the house, and had pushed a letter through the letter box. I saw, hazily, in my mindâs eye, that vague womanâs shape. The face was blankâbut it must be a face that I knewâ¦.

Superintendent Nash was saying:

âAll the same, this narrows things down. Thatâs always the way we get âem in the end. Steady, patient elimination. There arenât so very many people it could be now.â

âYou meanâ?â

âIt knocks out any women clerks who were at their work all yesterday afternoon. It knocks out the schoolmistress. She was teaching. And the district nurse. I know where she was yesterday. Not that I ever thought it was any of them, but now weâre sure. You see, Mr. Burton, weâve got two definite times now on which to concentrateâyesterday afternoon, and the week before. On the day of Mrs. Symmingtonâs death from, say, a quarter past three (the earliest possible time at which Agnes could have been back in the house after her quarrel) and four oâclock when the post must have come (but I can get that fixed more accurately with the postman). And yesterday from ten minutes to three (when Miss Megan Hunter left the house) until half past three or more probably a quarter past three as Agnes hadnât begun to change.â

âWhat do you think happened yesterday?â

Nash made a grimace.

âWhat do I think? I think a certain lady walked up to the front door and rang the bell, quite calm and smiling, the afternoon callerâ¦ Maybe she asked for Miss Holland, or for Miss Megan, or perhaps she had brought a parcel. Anyway Agnes turns round to get a salver for cards, or to take the parcel in, and our ladylike caller bats her on the back of her unsuspecting head.â

âWhat with?â

Nash said:

âThe ladies round here usually carry large sizes in handbags. No saying what mightnât be inside it.â

âAnd then stabs her through the back of the neck and bundles her into the cupboard? Wouldnât that be a hefty job for a woman?â

Superintendent Nash looked at me with rather a queer expression.

âThe woman weâre after isnât normalânot by a long wayâand that type of mental instability goes with surprising strength. Agnes wasnât a big girl.â

He paused and then asked: âWhat made Miss Megan Hunter think of looking in that cupboard?â

âSheer instinct,â I said.

Then I asked: âWhy drag Agnes into the cupboard? What was the point?â

âThe longer it was before the body was found, the more difficult it would be to fix the time of death accurately. If Miss Holland, for instance, fell over the body as soon as she came in, a doctor might be able to fix it within ten minutes or soâwhich might be awkward for our lady friend.â

I said, frowning:

âBut if Agnes were suspicious of this personââ

Nash interrupted me.

âShe wasnât. Not to the pitch of definite suspicion. She just thought it âqueer.â She was a slow-witted girl, I imagine, and she was only vaguely suspicious with a feeling that something was wrong. She certainly didnât suspect that she was up against a woman who would do murder.â

âDid you suspect that?â I asked.

Nash shook his head. He said, with feeling:

âI ought to have known. That suicide business, you see, frightened Poison Pen. She got the wind up. Fear, Mr. Burton, is an incalculable thing.â

âYes, fear. That was the thing we ought to have foreseen. Fearâin a lunatic brainâ¦.

âYou see,â said Superintendent Nash, and somehow his words made the whole thing seem absolutely horrible. âWeâre up against someone whoâs respected and thought highly ofâsomeone, in fact, of good social position!â

III

Presently Nash said that he was going to interview Rose once more. I asked him, rather diffidently, if I might come too. Rather to my surprise he assented cordially.

âIâm very glad of your cooperation, Mr. Burton, if I may say so.â

âThat sounds suspicious,â I said. âIn books when a detective welcomes someoneâs assistance, that someone is usually the murderer.â

Nash laughed shortly. He said: âYouâre hardly the type to write anonymous letters, Mr. Burton.â

He added: âFrankly, you can be useful to us.â

âIâm glad, but I donât see how.â

âYouâre a stranger down here, thatâs why. Youâve got no preconceived ideas about the people here. But at the same time, youâve got the opportunity of getting to know things in what I may call a social way.â

âThe murderer is a person of good social position,â I murmured.

âExactly.â

âIâm to be the spy within the gates?â

âHave you any objection?â

I thought it over.

âNo,â I said, âfrankly I havenât. If thereâs a dangerous lunatic about driving inoffensive women to suicide and hitting miserable little maidservants on the head, then Iâm not averse to doing a bit of dirty work to put that lunatic under restraint.â

âThatâs sensible of you, sir. And let me tell you, the person weâre after is dangerous. Sheâs about as dangerous as a rattlesnake and a cobra and a black mamba rolled into one.â

I gave a slight shiver. I said:

âIn fact, weâve got to make haste?â

âThatâs right. Donât think weâre inactive in the force. Weâre not. Weâre working on several different lines.â

He said it grimly.

I had a vision of a fine far-flung spiderâs webâ¦.

Nash wanted to hear Roseâs story again, so he explained to me, because she had already told him two different versions, and the more versions he got from her, the more likely it was that a few grains of truth might be incorporated.

We found Rose washing up breakfast, and she stopped at once and rolled her eyes and clutched her heart and explained again how sheâd been coming over queer all the morning.

Nash was patient with her but firm. Heâd been soothing the first time, so he told me, and peremptory the second, and he now employed a mixture of the two.

Rose enlarged pleasurably on the details of the past week, of how Agnes had gone about in deadly fear, and had shivered and said, âDonât ask me,â when Rose had urged her to say what was the matter. âIt would be death if she told me,â thatâs what she said, finished Rose, rolling her eyes happily.

Had Agnes given no hint of what was troubling her?

No, except that she went in fear of her life.

Superintendent Nash sighed and abandoned the theme, contenting himself with extracting an exact account of Roseâs own activities the preceding afternoon.

This, put baldly, was that Rose had caught the 2:30 bus and had spent the afternoon and evening with her family, returning by the 8:40 bus from Nether Mickford. The recital was complicated by the extraordinary presentiments of evil Rose had had all the afternoon and how her sister had commented on it and how she hadnât been able to touch a morsel of seed cake.

From the kitchen we went in search of Elsie Holland, who was superintending the childrenâs lessons. As always, Elsie Holland was competent and obliging. She rose and said:

âNow, Colin, you and Brian will do these three sums and have the answers ready for me when I come back.â

She then led us into the night nursery. âWill this do? I thought it would be better not to talk before the children.â

âThank you, Miss Holland. Just tell me, once more, are you quite sure that Agnes never mentioned to you being worried over anythingâsince Mrs. Symmingtonâs death, I mean?â

âNo, she never said anything. She was a very quiet girl, you know, and didnât talk much.â

âA change from the other one, then!â

âYes, Rose talks much too much. I have to tell her not to be impertinent sometimes.â

âNow, will you tell me exactly what happened yesterday afternoon? Everything you can remember.â

âWell, we had lunch as usual. One oâclock, and we hurry just a little. I donât let the boys dawdle. Let me see. Mr. Symmington went back to the office, and I helped Agnes by laying the table for supperâthe boys ran out in the garden till I was ready to take them.â

âWhere did you go?â

âTowards Combeacre, by the field pathâthe boys wanted to fish. I forgot their bait and had to go back for it.â

âWhat time was that?â

âLet me see, we started about twenty to threeâor just after. Megan was coming but changed her mind. She was going out on her bicycle. Sheâs got quite a craze for bicycling.â

âI mean what time was it when you went back for the bait? Did you go into the house?â

âNo. Iâd left it in the conservatory at the back. I donât know what time it was thenâabout ten minutes to three, perhaps.â

âDid you see Megan or Agnes?â

âMegan must have started, I think. No, I didnât see Agnes. I didnât see anyone.â

âAnd after that you went fishing?â

âYes, we went along by the stream. We didnât catch anything. We hardly ever do, but the boys enjoy it. Brian got rather wet. I had to change his things when we got in.â

âYou attend to tea on Wednesdays?â

âYes. Itâs all ready in the drawing room for Mr. Symmington. I just make the tea when he comes in. The children and I have ours in the schoolroomâand Megan, of course. I have my own tea things and everything in the cupboard up there.â

âWhat time did you get in?â

âAt ten minutes to five. I took the boys up and started to lay tea. Then when Mr. Symmington came in at five I went down to make his but he said he would have it with us in the schoolroom. The boys were so pleased. We played Animal Grab afterwards. It seems so awful to think of nowâwith that poor girl in the cupboard all the time.â

âWould anybody go to that cupboard normally?â

âOh no, itâs only used for keeping junk. The hats and coats hang in the little cloakroom to the right of the front door as you come in. No one might have gone to the other cupboard for months.â

âI see. And you noticed nothing unusual, nothing abnormal at all when you came back?â

The blue eyes opened very wide.

âOh no, inspector, nothing at all. Everything was just the same as usual. Thatâs what was so awful about it.â

âAnd the week before?â

âYou mean the day Mrs. Symmingtonââ

âYes.â

âOh, that was terribleâterrible!â

âYes, yes, I know. You were out all that afternoon also?â

âOh yes, I always take the boys out in the afternoonâif itâs fine enough. We do lessons in the morning. We went up on the moor, I rememberâquite a long way. I was afraid I was late back because as I turned in at the gate I saw Mr. Symmington coming from his office at the other end of the road, and I hadnât even put the kettle on, but it was just ten minutes to five.â

âYou didnât go up to Mrs. Symmington?â

âOh no. I never did. She always rested after lunch. She had attacks of neuralgiaâand they used to come on after meals. Dr. Griffith had given her some cachets to take. She used to lie down and try to sleep.â

Nash said in a casual voice:

âSo no one would take her up the post?â

âThe afternoon post? No, Iâd look in the letter box and put the letters on the hall table when I came in. But very often Mrs. Symmington used to come down and get it herself. She didnât sleep all the afternoon. She was usually up again by four.â

âYou didnât think anything was wrong because she wasnât up that afternoon?â

âOh, no, I never dreamed of such a thing. Mr. Symmington was hanging up his coat in the hall and I said, âTeaâs not quite ready, but the kettleâs nearly boiling,â and he nodded and called out, âMona, Mona!ââand then as Mrs. Symmington didnât answer he went upstairs to her bedroom, and it must have been the most terrible shock to him. He called me and I came, and he said, âKeep the children away,â and then he phoned Dr. Griffith and we forgot all about the kettle and it burnt the bottom out! Oh dear, it was dreadful, and sheâd been so happy and cheerful at lunch.â

Nash said abruptly: âWhat is your own opinion of that letter she received, Miss Holland?â

Elsie Holland said indignantly:

âOh, I think it was wickedâwicked!â

âYes, yes, I donât mean that. Did you think it was true?â

Elsie Holland said firmly:

âNo, indeed I donât. Mrs. Symmington was very sensitiveâvery sensitive indeed. She had to take all sorts of things for her nerves. And she was veryâwell, particular.â Elsie flushed. âAnything of that sortânasty, I meanâwould have given her a great shock.â

Nash was silent for a moment, then he asked:

âHave you had any of these letters, Miss Holland?â

âNo. No, I havenât had any.â

âAre you sure? Pleaseââhe lifted a handââdonât answer in a hurry. Theyâre not pleasant things to get, I know. And sometimes people donât like to admit theyâve had them. But itâs very important in this case that we should know. Weâre quite aware that the statements in them are just a tissue of lies, so you neednât feel embarrassed.â

âBut I havenât, superintendent. Really I havenât. Not anything of the kind.â

She was indignant, almost tearful, and her denials seemed genuine enough.

When she went back to the children, Nash stood looking out of the window.

âWell,â he said, âthatâs that! She says she hasnât received any of these letters. And she sounds as though sheâs speaking the truth.â

âShe did certainly. Iâm sure she was.â

âHâm,â said Nash. âThen what I want to know is, why the devil hasnât she?â

He went on rather impatiently, as I stared at him.

âSheâs a pretty girl, isnât she?â

âRather more than pretty.â

âExactly. As a matter of fact, sheâs uncommonly good-looking. And sheâs young. In fact sheâs just the meat an anonymous letter writer would like. Then why has she been left out?â

I shook my head.

âItâs interesting, you know. I must mention it to Graves. He asked if we could tell him definitely of anyone who hadnât had one.â

âSheâs the second person,â I said. âThereâs Emily Barton, remember.â

Nash gave a faint chuckle.

âYou shouldnât believe everything youâre told, Mr. Burton. Miss Barton had one all rightâmore than one.â

âHow do you know?â

âThat devoted dragon sheâs lodging with told meâher late parlourmaid or cook. Florence Elford. Very indignant she was about it. Would like to have the writerâs blood.â

âWhy did Miss Emily say she hadnât had any?â

âDelicacy. Their language isnât nice. Little Miss Barton has spent her life avoiding the coarse and unrefined.â

âWhat did the letters say?â

âThe usual. Quite ludicrous in her case. And incidentally insinuated that she poisoned off her old mother and most of her sisters!â

I said incredulously:

âDo you mean to say thereâs really this dangerous lunatic going about and we canât spot her right away?â

âWeâll spot her,â said Nash, and his voice was grim. âSheâll write just one letter too many.â

âBut, my goodness, man, she wonât go on writing these thingsânot now.â

He looked at me.

âOh yes she will. You see, she canât stop now. Itâs a morbid craving. The letters will go on, make no mistake about that.â

Nine

I

I went and found Megan before leaving the house. She was in the garden and seemed almost back to her usual self. She greeted me quite cheerfully.

I suggested that she should come back to us again for a while, but after a momentary hesitation she shook her head.

âItâs nice of youâbut I think Iâll stay here. After all, it isâwell, I suppose, itâs my home. And I dare say I can help with the boys a bit.â

âWell,â I said, âitâs as you like.â

âThen I think Iâll stay. I couldâ I couldââ

âYes?â I prompted.

âIfâif anything awful happened, I could ring you up, couldnât I, and youâd come.â

I was touched. âOf course. But what awful thing do you think might happen?â

âOh, I donât know.â She looked vague. âThings seem rather like that just now, donât they?â

âFor Godâs sake,â I said. âDonât go nosing out anymore bodies! Itâs not good for you.â

She gave me a brief flash of a smile.

âNo, it isnât. It made me feel awfully sick.â

I didnât much like leaving her there, but after all, as she had said, it was her home. And I fancied that now Elsie Holland would feel more responsible for her.

Nash and I went up together to Little Furze. Whilst I gave Joanna an account of the morningâs doings, Nash tackled Partridge. He rejoined us looking discouraged.

âNot much help there. According to this woman, the girl only said she was worried about something and didnât know what to do and that sheâd like Miss Partridgeâs advice.â

âDid Partridge mention the fact to anyone?â asked Joanna.

Nash nodded, looking grim.

âYes, she told Mrs. Emoryâyour daily womanâon the lines, as far as I can gather, that there were some young women who were willing to take advice from their elders and didnât think they could settle everything for themselves offhand! Agnes mightnât be very bright, but she was a nice respectful girl and knew her manners.â

âPartridge preening herself, in fact,â murmured Joanna. âAnd Mrs. Emory could have passed it round the town?â

âThatâs right, Miss Burton.â

âThereâs one thing rather surprises me,â I said. âWhy were my sister and I included among the recipients of the anonymous letters? We were strangers down hereânobody could have had a grudge against us.â

âYouâre failing to allow for the mentality of a Poison Penâall is grist that comes to their mill. Their grudge, you might say, is against humanity.â

âI suppose,â said Joanna thoughtfully, âthat that is what Mrs. Dane Calthrop meant.â

Nash looked at her inquiringly, but she did not enlighten him. The superintendent said:

âI donât know if you happened to look closely at the envelope of the letter you got, Miss Burton. If so, you may have noticed that it was actually addressed to Miss Barton, and the a altered to a u afterwards.â

That remark, properly interpreted, ought to have given us a clue to the whole business. As it was, none of us saw any significance in it.

Nash went off, and I was left with Joanna. She actually said: âYou donât think that letter can really have been meant for Miss Emily, do you?â

âIt would hardly have begun âYou painted trollop,ââ I pointed out, and Joanna agreed.

Then she suggested that I should go down to the town. âYou ought to hear what everyone is saying. It will be the topic this morning!â

I suggested that she should come too, but rather to my surprise Joanna refused. She said she was going to mess about in the garden.

I paused in the doorway and said, lowering my voice:

âI suppose Partridge is all right?â

âPartridge!â

The amazement in Joannaâs voice made me feel ashamed of my idea. I said apologetically: âI just wondered. Sheâs rather âqueerâ in some waysâa grim spinsterâthe sort of person who might have religious mania.â

âThis isnât religious maniaâor so you told me Graves said.â

âWell, sex mania. Theyâre very closely tied up together, I understand. Sheâs repressed and respectable, and has been shut up here with a lot of elderly women for years.â

âWhat put the idea into your head?â

I said slowly:

âWell, weâve only her word for it, havenât we, as to what the girl Agnes said to her? Suppose Agnes asked Partridge to tell her why Partridge came and left a note that dayâand Partridge said sheâd call round that afternoon and explain.â

âAnd then camouflaged it by coming to us and asking if the girl could come here?â

âYes.â

âBut Partridge never went out that afternoon.â

âWe donât know that. We were out ourselves, remember.â

âYes, thatâs true. Itâs possible, I suppose.â Joanna turned it over in her mind. âBut I donât think so, all the same. I donât think Partridge has the mentality to cover her tracks over the letters. To wipe off fingerprints, and all that. It isnât only cunning you wantâitâs knowledge. I donât think sheâs got that. I supposeââ Joanna hesitated, then said slowly, âthey are sure it is a woman, arenât they?â

âYou donât think itâs a man?â I exclaimed incredulously.

âNotânot an ordinary manâbut a certain kind of man. Iâm thinking, really, of Mr. Pye.â

âSo Pye is your selection?â

âDonât you feel yourself that heâs a possibility? Heâs the sort of person who might be lonelyâand unhappyâand spiteful. Everyone, you see, rather laughs at him. Canât you see him secretly hating all the normal happy people, and taking a queer perverse artistic pleasure in what he was doing?â

âGraves said a middle-aged spinster.â

âMr. Pye,â said Joanna, âis a middle-aged spinster.â

âA misfit,â I said slowly.

âVery much so. Heâs rich, but money doesnât help. And I do feel he might be unbalanced. He is, really, rather a frightening little man.â

âHe got a letter himself, remember.â

âWe donât know that,â Joanna pointed out. âWe only thought so. And anyway, he might have been putting on an act.â

âFor our benefit?â

âYes. Heâs clever enough to think of thatâand not to overdo it.â

âHe must be a first-class actor.â

âBut of course, Jerry, whoever is doing this must be a first-class actor. Thatâs partly where the pleasure comes in.â

âFor Godâs sake, Joanna, donât speak so understandingly! You make me feel that youâthat you understand the mentality.â

âI think I do. I canâjustâget into the mood. If I werenât Joanna Burton, if I werenât young and reasonably attractive and able to have a good time, if I wereâhow shall I put it?âbehind bars, watching other people enjoy life, would a black evil tide rise in me, making me want to hurt, to tortureâeven to destroy?â

âJoanna!â I took her by the shoulders and shook her. She gave a little sigh and shiver, and smiled at me.

âI frightened you, didnât I, Jerry? But I have a feeling that thatâs the right way to solve this problem. Youâve got to be the person, knowing how they feel and what makes them act, and thenâand then perhaps youâll know what theyâre going to do next.â

âOh, hell!â I said. âAnd I came down here to be a vegetable and get interested in all the dear little local scandals. Dear little local scandals! Libel, vilification, obscene language and murder!â

II

Joanna was quite right. The High Street was full of interested groups. I was determined to get everyoneâs reactions in turn.

I met Griffith first. He looked terribly ill and tired. So much so that I wondered. Murder is not, certainly, all in the dayâs work to a doctor, but his profession does equip him to face most things including suffering, the ugly side of human nature, and the fact of death.

âYou look all in,â I said.

âDo I?â He was vague. âOh! Iâve had some worrying cases lately.â

âIncluding our lunatic at large?â

âThat, certainly.â He looked away from me across the street. I saw a fine nerve twitching in his eyelid.

âYouâve no suspicions as toâwho?â

âNo. No. I wish to God I had.â

He asked abruptly after Joanna, and said, hesitatingly, that he had some photographs sheâd wanted to see.

I offered to take them to her.

âOh, it doesnât matter. I shall be passing that way actually later in the morning.â

I began to be afraid that Griffith had got it badly. Curse Joanna! Griffith was too good a man to be dangled as a scalp.

I let him go, for I saw his sister coming and I wanted, for once, to talk to her.

AimÃ©e Griffith began, as it were, in the middle of a conversation.

âAbsolutely shocking!â she boomed. âI hear you were thereâquite early?â

There was a question in the words, and her eyes glinted as she stressed the word âearly.â I wasnât going to tell her that Megan had rung me up. I said instead:

âYou see, I was a bit uneasy last night. The girl was due to tea at our house and didnât turn up.â

âAnd so you feared the worst? Damned smart of you!â

âYes,â I said. âIâm quite the human bloodhound.â

âItâs the first murder weâve ever had in Lymstock. Excitement is terrific. Hope the police can handle it all right.â

âI shouldnât worry,â I said. âTheyâre an efficient body of men.â

âCanât even remember what the girl looked like, although I suppose sheâs opened the door to me dozens of times. Quiet, insignificant little thing. Knocked on the head and then stabbed through the back of the neck, so Owen tells me. Looks like a boyfriend to me. What do you think?â

âThatâs your solution?â

âSeems the most likely one. Had a quarrel, I expect. Theyâre very inbred round hereâbad heredity, a lot of them.â She paused, and then went on, âI hear Megan Hunter found the body? Must have given her a bit of a shock.â

I said shortly:

âIt did.â

âNot too good for her, I should imagine. In my opinion sheâs not too strong in the headâand a thing like this might send her completely off her onion.â

I took a sudden resolution. I had to know something.

âTell me, Miss Griffith, was it you who persuaded Megan to return home yesterday?â

âWell, I wouldnât say exactly persuaded.â

I stuck to my guns.

âBut you did say something to her?â

AimÃ©e Griffith planted her feet firmly and stared me in the eyes. She was, just slightly, on the defensive. She said:

âItâs no good that young woman shirking her responsibilities. Sheâs young and she doesnât know how tongues wag, so I felt it my duty to give her a hint.â

âTonguesâ?â I broke off because I was too angry to go on.

AimÃ©e Griffith continued with that maddeningly complacent confidence in herself which was her chief characteristic:

âOh, I dare say you donât hear all the gossip that goes round. I do! I know what people are saying. Mind you, I donât for a minute think thereâs anything in itânot for a minute! But you know what people areâif they can say something ill-natured, they do! And itâs rather hard lines on the girl when sheâs got her living to earn.â

âHer living to earn?â I said, puzzled.

AimÃ©e went on:

âItâs a difficult position for her, naturally. And I think she did the right thing. I mean, she couldnât go off at a momentâs notice and leave the children with no one to look after them. Sheâs been splendidâabsolutely splendid. I say so to everybody! But there it is, itâs an invidious position, and people will talk.â

âWho are you talking about?â I asked.

âElsie Holland, of course,â said AimÃ©e Griffith impatiently. âIn my opinion, sheâs a thoroughly nice girl, and has only been doing her duty.â

âAnd what are people saying?â

AimÃ©e Griffith laughed. It was, I thought, rather an unpleasant laugh.

âTheyâre saying that sheâs already considering the possibility of becoming Mrs. Symmington No. 2âthat sheâs all out to console the widower and make herself indispensable.â

âBut, good God,â I said, shocked, âMrs. Symmingtonâs only been dead a week!â

AimÃ©e Griffith shrugged her shoulders.

âOf course. Itâs absurd! But you know what people are! The Holland girl is young and sheâs good-lookingâthatâs enough. And mind you, being a nursery governess isnât much of a prospect for a girl. I wouldnât blame her if she wanted a settled home and a husband and was playing her cards accordingly.

âOf course,â she went on, âpoor Dick Symmington hasnât the least idea of all this! Heâs still completely knocked out by Mona Symmingtonâs death. But you know what men are! If the girl is always there, making him comfortable, looking after him, being obviously devoted to the childrenâwell, he gets to be dependent on her.â

I said quietly:

âSo you do think that Elsie Holland is a designing hussy?â

AimÃ©e Griffith flushed.

âNot at all. Iâm sorry for the girlâwith people saying nasty things! Thatâs why I more or less told Megan that she ought to go home. It looks better than having Dick Symmington and the girl alone in the house.â

I began to understand things.

AimÃ©e Griffith gave her jolly laugh.

âYouâre shocked, Mr. Burton, at hearing what our gossiping little town thinks. I can tell you thisâthey always think the worst!â

She laughed and nodded and strode away.

III

I came upon Mr. Pye by the church. He was talking to Emily Barton, who looked pink and excited.

Mr. Pye greeted me with every evidence of delight.

âAh, Burton, good morning, good morning! How is your charming sister?â

I told him that Joanna was well.

âBut not joining our village parliament? Weâre all agog over the news. Murder! Real Sunday newspaper murder in our midst! Not the most interesting of crimes, I fear. Somewhat sordid. The brutal murder of a little serving maid. No finer points about the crime, but still undeniably, news.â

Miss Barton said tremulously:

âIt is shockingâquite shocking.â

Mr. Pye turned to her.

âBut you enjoy it, dear lady, you enjoy it. Confess it now. You disapprove, you deplore, but there is the thrill. I insist, there is the thrill!â

âSuch a nice girl,â said Emily Barton. âShe came to me from St. Clotildeâs Home. Quite a raw girl. But most teachable. She turned into such a nice little maid. Partridge was very pleased with her.â

I said quickly:

âShe was coming to tea with Partridge yesterday afternoon.â I turned to Pye. âI expect AimÃ©e Griffith told you.â

My tone was quite casual. Pye responded apparently quite unsuspiciously: âShe did mention it, yes. She said, I remember, that it was something quite new for servants to ring up on their employersâ telephones.â

âPartridge would never dream of doing such a thing,â said Miss Emily, âand I am really surprised at Agnes doing so.â

âYou are behind the times, dear lady,â said Mr. Pye. âMy two terrors use the telephone constantly and smoked all over the house until I objected. But one darenât say too much. Prescott is a divine cook, though temperamental, and Mrs. Prescott is an admirable house-parlourmaid.â

âYes, indeed, we all think youâre very lucky.â

I intervened, since I did not want the conversation to become purely domestic.

âThe news of the murder has got round very quickly,â I said.

âOf course, of course,â said Mr. Pye. âThe butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker. Enter Rumour, painted full of tongues! Lymstock, alas! is going to the dogs. Anonymous letters, murders, any amount of criminal tendencies.â

Emily Barton said nervously: âThey donât thinkâthereâs no ideaâthatâthat the two are connected.â

Mr. Pye pounced on the idea.

âAn interesting speculation. The girl knew something, therefore she was murdered. Yes, yes, most promising. How clever of you to think of it.â

âIâ I canât bear it.â

Emily Barton spoke abruptly and turned away, walking very fast.

Pye looked after her. His cherubic face was pursed up quizzically.

He turned back to me and shook his head gently.

âA sensitive soul. A charming creature, donât you think? Absolutely a period piece. Sheâs not, you know, of her own generation, sheâs of the generation before that. The mother must have been a woman of a very strong character. She kept the family time ticking at about 1870, I should say. The whole family preserved under a glass case. I do like to come across that sort of thing.â

I did not want to talk about period pieces.

âWhat do you really think about all this business?â I asked.

âMeaning by that?â

âAnonymous letters, murderâ¦.â

âOur local crime wave? What do you?â

âI asked you first,â I said pleasantly.

Mr. Pye said gently:

âIâm a student, you know, of abnormalities. They interest me. Such apparently unlikely people do the most fantastic things. Take the case of Lizzie Borden. Thereâs not really a reasonable explanation of that. In this case, my advice to the police would beâstudy character. Leave your fingerprints and your measuring of handwriting and your microscopes. Notice instead what people do with their hands, and their little tricks of manner, and the way they eat their food, and if they laugh sometimes for no apparent reason.â

I raised my eyebrows. âMad?â I said.

âQuite, quite mad,â said Mr. Pye, and added, âbut youâd never know it!â

âWho?â

His eyes met mine. He smiled.

âNo, no, Burton, that would be slander. We canât add slander to all the rest of it.â

He fairly skipped off down the street.

IV

As I stood staring after him the church door opened and the Rev. Caleb Dane Calthrop came out.

He smiled vaguely at me.

âGoodâgood morning, Mrâerâerââ

I helped him. âBurton.â

âOf course, of course, you mustnât think I donât remember you. Your name had just slipped my memory for the moment. A beautiful day.â

âYes,â I said rather shortly.

He peered at me.

âBut somethingâsomethingâah, yes, that poor unfortunate child who was in service at the Symmingtons.â I find it hard to believe, I must confess, that we have a murderer in our midst, MrâerâBurton.â

âIt does seem a bit fantastic,â I said.

âSomething else has just reached my ears.â He leaned towards me. âI learn that there have been anonymous letters going about. Have you heard any rumour of such things?â

âI have heard,â I said.

âCowardly and dastardly things.â He paused and quoted an enormous stream of Latin. âThose words of Horace are very applicable, donât you think?â he said.

âAbsolutely,â I said.

V

There didnât seem anyone more I could profitably talk to, so I went home, dropping in for some tobacco and for a bottle of sherry, so as to get some of the humbler opinions on the crime.

âA narsty tramp,â seemed to be the verdict.

âCome to the door, they do, and whine and ask for money, and then if itâs a girl alone in the house, they turn narsty. My sister Dora, over to Combeacre, she had a narsty experience one dayâDrunk, he was, and selling those little printed poemsâ¦.â

The story went on, ending with the intrepid Dora courageously banging the door in the manâs face and taking refuge and barricading herself in some vague retreat, which I gathered from the delicacy in mentioning it must be the lavatory. âAnd there she stayed till her lady came home!â

I reached Little Furze just a few minutes before lunchtime. Joanna was standing in the drawing room window doing nothing at all and looking as though her thoughts were miles away.

âWhat have you been doing with yourself?â I asked.

âOh, I donât know. Nothing particular.â

I went out on the veranda. Two chairs were drawn up to an iron table and there were two empty sherry glasses. On another chair was an object at which I looked with bewilderment for some time.

âWhat on earth is this?â

âOh,â said Joanna, âI think itâs a photograph of a diseased spleen or something. Dr. Griffith seemed to think Iâd be interested to see it.â

I looked at the photograph with some interest. Every man has his own ways of courting the female sex. I should not, myself, choose to do it with photographs of spleens, diseased or otherwise. Still no doubt Joanna had asked for it!

âIt looks most unpleasant,â I said.

Joanna said it did, rather.

âHow was Griffith?â I asked.

âHe looked tired and very unhappy. I think heâs got something on his mind.â

âA spleen that wonât yield to treatment?â

âDonât be silly. I mean something real.â

âI should say the manâs got you on his mind. I wish youâd lay off him, Joanna.â

âOh, do shut up. I havenât done anything.â

âWomen always say that.â

Joanna whirled angrily out of the room.

The diseased spleen was beginning to curl up in the sun. I took it by one corner and brought it into the drawing room. I had no affection for it myself, but I presumed it was one of Griffithâs treasures.

I stooped down and pulled out a heavy book from the bottom shelf of the bookcase in order to press the photograph flat again between its leaves. It was a ponderous volume of somebodyâs sermons.

The book came open in my hand in rather a surprising way. In another minute I saw why. From the middle of it a number of pages had been neatly cut out.

VI

I stood staring at it. I looked at the title page. It had been published in 1840.

There could be no doubt at all. I was looking at the book from the pages of which the anonymous letters had been put together. Who had cut them out?

Well, to begin with, it could be Emily Barton herself. She was, perhaps, the obvious person to think of. Or it could have been Partridge.

But there were other possibilities. The pages could have been cut out by anyone who had been alone in this room, any visitor, for instance, who had sat there waiting for Miss Emily. Or even anyone who called on business.

No, that wasnât so likely. I had noticed that when, one day, a clerk from the bank had come to see me, Partridge had shown him into the little study at the back of the house. That was clearly the house routine.

A visitor, then? Someone âof good social position.â Mr. Pye? AimÃ©e Griffith? Mrs. Dane Calthrop?

VII

The gong sounded and I went in to lunch. Afterwards, in the drawing room I showed Joanna my find.

We discussed it from every aspect. Then I took it down to the police station.

They were elated at the find, and I was patted on the back for what was, after all, the sheerest piece of luck.

Graves was not there, but Nash was, and rang up the other man. They would test the book for fingerprints, though Nash was not hopeful of finding anything. I may say that he did not. There were mine, Partridgeâs and nobody elseâs, merely showing that Partridge dusted conscientiously.

Nash walked back with me up the hill. I asked how he was getting on. âWeâre narrowing it down, Mr. Burton. Weâve eliminated the people it couldnât be.â

âAh,â I said. âAnd who remains?â

âMiss Ginch. She was to meet a client at a house yesterday afternoon by appointment. The house was situated not far along the Combeacre Road, thatâs the road that goes past the Symmingtons.â She would have to pass the house both going and comingâ¦the week before, the day the anonymous letter was delivered, and Mrs. Symmington committed suicide, was her last day at Symmingtonâs office. Mr. Symmington thought at first she had not left the office at all that afternoon. He had Sir Henry Lushington with him all the afternoon and rang several times for Miss Ginch. I find, however, that she did leave the office between three and four. She went out to get some high denomination of stamp of which they had run short. The office boy could have gone, but Miss Ginch elected to go, saying she had a headache and would like the air. She was not gone long.â

âBut long enough?â

âYes, long enough to hurry along to the other end of the village, slip the letter in the box and hurry back. I must say, however, that I cannot find anybody who saw her near the Symmingtonsâ house.â

âWould they notice?â

âThey might and they might not.â

âWho else is in your bag?â

Nash looked very straight ahead of him.

âYouâll understand that we canât exclude anybodyâanybody at all.â

âNo,â I said. âI see that.â

He said gravely: âMiss Griffith went to Brenton for a meeting of Girl Guides yesterday. She arrived rather late.â

âYou donât thinkââ

âNo, I donât think. But I donât know. Miss Griffith seems an eminently sane healthy-minded womanâbut I say, I donât know.â

âWhat about the previous week? Could she have slipped the letter in the box?â

âItâs possible. She was shopping in the town that afternoon.â He paused. âThe same applies to Miss Emily Barton. She was out shopping early yesterday afternoon and she went for a walk to see some friends on the road past the Symmingtonsâ house the week before.â

I shook my head unbelievingly. Finding the cut book in Little Furze was bound, I knew, to direct attention to the owner of that house, but when I remembered Miss Emily coming in yesterday so bright and happy and excitedâ¦.

Damn it allâexcitedâ¦ Yes, excitedâpink cheeksâshining eyesâsurely not becauseânot becauseâ

I said thickly: âThis business is bad for one! One sees thingsâone imagines thingsââ

âYes, it isnât very pleasant to look upon the fellow creatures one meets as possible criminal lunatics.â

He paused for a moment, then went on:

âAnd thereâs Mr. Pyeââ

I said sharply: âSo you have considered him?â

Nash smiled.

âOh, yes, weâve considered him all right. A very curious characterânot, I should say, a very nice character. Heâs got no alibi. He was in his garden, alone, on both occasions.â

âSo youâre not only suspecting women?â

âI donât think a man wrote the lettersâin fact Iâm sure of itâand so is Gravesâalways excepting our Mr. Pye, that is to say, whoâs got an abnormally female streak in his character. But weâve checked up on everybody for yesterday afternoon. Thatâs a murder case, you see. Youâre all right,â he grinned, âand soâs your sister, and Mr. Symmington didnât leave his office after he got there and Dr. Griffith was on a round in the other direction, and Iâve checked upon his visits.â

He paused, smiled again, and said, âYou see, we are thorough.â

I said slowly, âSo your case is eliminated down to those fourâ Miss Ginch, Mr. Pye, Miss Griffith and little Miss Barton?â

âOh, no, no, weâve got a couple moreâbesides the vicarâs lady.â

âYouâve thought of her?â

âWeâve thought of everybody, but Mrs. Dane Calthrop is a little too openly mad, if you know what I mean. Still, she could have done it. She was in a wood watching birds yesterday afternoonâand the birds canât speak for her.â

He turned sharply as Owen Griffith came into the police station.

âHallo, Nash. I heard you were round asking for me this morning. Anything important?â

âInquest on Friday, if that suits you, Dr. Griffith.â

âRight. Moresby and I are doing the P.M. tonight.â

Nash said:

âThereâs just one other thing, Dr. Griffith. Mrs. Symmington was taking some cachets, powders or something, that you prescribed for herââ

He paused. Owen Griffith said interrogatively:

âYes?â

âWould an overdose of those cachets have been fatal?â

Griffith said dryly:

âCertainly not. Not unless sheâd taken about twenty-five of them!â

âBut you once warned her about exceeding the dose, so Miss Holland tells me.â

âOh that, yes. Mrs. Symmington was the sort of woman who would go and overdo anything she was givenâfancy that to take twice as much would do her twice as much good, and you donât want anyone to overdo even phenacetin or aspirinâbad for the heart. And anyway thereâs absolutely no doubt about the cause of death. It was cyanide.â

âOh, I know thatâyou donât get my meaning. I only thought that when committing suicide youâd prefer to take an overdose of a soporific rather than to feed yourself prussic acid.â

âOh quite. On the other hand, prussic acid is more dramatic and is pretty certain to do the trick. With barbiturates, for instance, you can bring the victim round if only a short time has elapsed.â

âI see, thank you, Dr. Griffith.â

Griffith departed, and I said goodbye to Nash. I went slowly up the hill home. Joanna was outâat least there was no sign of her, and there was an enigmatical memorandum scribbled on the telephone block presumably for the guidance of either Partridge or myself.

âIf Dr. Griffith rings up, I canât go on Tuesday, but could manage Wednesday or Thursday.â

I raised my eyebrows and went into the drawing room. I sat down in the most comfortable armchairâ(none of them were very comfortable, they tended to have straight backs and were reminiscent of the late Mrs. Barton)âstretched out my legs and tried to think the whole thing out.

With sudden annoyance I remembered that Owenâs arrival had interrupted my conversation with the inspector, and that he had just mentioned two other people as being possibilities.

I wondered who they were.

Partridge, perhaps, for one? After all, the cut book had been found in this house. And Agnes could have been struck down quite unsuspecting by her guide and mentor. No, you couldnât eliminate Partridge.

But who was the other?

Somebody, perhaps, that I didnât know? Mrs. Cleat? The original local suspect?

I closed my eyes. I considered four people, strangely unlikely people, in turn. Gentle, frail little Emily Barton? What points were there actually against her? A starved life? Dominated and repressed from early childhood? Too many sacrifices asked of her? Her curious horror of discussing anything ânot quite niceâ? Was that actually a sign of inner preoccupation with just these themes? Was I getting too horribly Freudian? I remembered a doctor once telling me that the mutterings of gentle maiden ladies when going off under an anaesthetic were a revelation. âYou wouldnât think they knew such words!â

AimÃ©e Griffith?

Surely nothing repressed or âinhibitedâ about her. Cheery, mannish, successful. A full, busy life. Yet Mrs. Dane Calthrop had said, âPoor thing!â

And there was somethingâsomethingâsome remembranceâ¦ Ah! Iâd got it. Owen Griffith saying something like, âWe had an outbreak of anonymous letters up North where I had a practice.â

Had that been AimÃ©e Griffithâs work too? Surely rather a coincidence. Two outbreaks of the same thing. Stop a minute, theyâd tracked down the author of those. Griffith had said so. A schoolgirl.

Cold it was suddenlyâmust be a draught, from the window. I turned uncomfortably in my chair. Why did I suddenly feel so queer and upset?

Go on thinkingâ¦ AimÃ©e Griffith? Perhaps it was AimÃ©e Griffith, not that other girl? And AimÃ©e had come down here and started her tricks again. And that was why Owen Griffith was looking so unhappy and hag ridden. He suspected. Yes, he suspectedâ¦.

Mr. Pye? Not, somehow, a very nice little man. I could imagine him staging the whole businessâ¦laughingâ¦.

That telephone message on the telephone pad in the hallâ¦why did I keep thinking of it? Griffith and Joannaâhe was falling for herâ¦ No, that wasnât why the message worried me. It was something elseâ¦.

My senses were swimming, sleep was very near. I repeated idiotically to myself, âNo smoke without fire. No smoke without fireâ¦ Thatâs itâ¦it all links up togetherâ¦.â

And then I was walking down the street with Megan and Elsie Holland passed. She was dressed as a bride, and people were murmuring:

âSheâs going to marry Dr. Griffith at last. Of course theyâve been engaged secretly for yearsâ¦.â

There we were, in the church, and Dane Calthrop was reading the service in Latin.

And in the middle of it Mrs. Dane Calthrop jumped up and cried energetically:

âItâs got to be stopped, I tell you. Itâs got to be stopped!â

For a minute or two I didnât know whether I was asleep or awake. Then my brain cleared, and I realized I was in the drawing room of Little Furze and that Mrs. Dane Calthrop had just come through the window and was standing in front of me saying with nervous violence:

âIt has got to be stopped, I tell you.â

I jumped up. I said: âI beg your pardon. Iâm afraid I was asleep. What did you say?â

Mrs. Dane Calthrop beat one fist fiercely on the palm of her other hand.

âItâs got to be stopped. These letters! Murder! You canât go on having poor innocent children like Agnes Woddell killed!â

âYouâre quite right,â I said. âBut how do you propose to set about it?â

Mrs. Dane Calthrop said:

âWeâve got to do something!â

I smiled, perhaps in rather a superior fashion.

âAnd what do you suggest that we should do?â

âGet the whole thing cleared up! I said this wasnât a wicked place. I was wrong. It is.â

I felt annoyed. I said, not too politely:

âYes, my dear woman, but what are you going to do?â

Mrs. Dane Calthrop said: âPut a stop to it all, of course.â

âThe police are doing their best.â

âIf Agnes could be killed yesterday, their best isnât good enough.â

âSo you know better than they do?â

âNot at all. I donât know anything at all. Thatâs why Iâm going to call in an expert.â

I shook my head.

âYou canât do that. Scotland Yard will only take over on a demand from the chief constable of the county. Actually they have sent Graves.â

âI donât mean that kind of an expert. I donât mean someone who knows about anonymous letters or even about murder. I mean someone who knows people. Donât you see? We want someone who knows a great deal about wickedness!â

It was a queer point of view. But it was, somehow, stimulating.

Before I could say anything more, Mrs. Dane Calthrop nodded her head at me and said in a quick, confident tone:

âIâm going to see about it right away.â

And she went out of the window again.

Ten

I

The next week, I think, was one of the queerest times I have ever passed through. It had an odd dream quality. Nothing seemed real.

The inquest on Agnes Woddell was held and the curious of Lymstock attended en masse. No new facts came to light and the only possible verdict was returned, âMurder by person or persons unknown.â

So poor little Agnes Woddell, having had her hour of limelight, was duly buried in the quiet old churchyard and life in Lymstock went on as before.

No, that last statement is untrue. Not as beforeâ¦.

There was a half-scared, half-avid gleam in almost everybodyâs eye. Neighbour looked at neighbour. One thing had been brought out clearly at the inquestâit was most unlikely that any stranger had killed Agnes Woddell. No tramps nor unknown men had been noticed or reported in the district. Somewhere, then, in Lymstock, walking down the High Street, shopping, passing the time of day, was a person who had cracked a defenceless girlâs skull and driven a sharp skewer home to her brain.

And no one knew who that person was.

As I say, the days went by in a kind of dream. I looked at everyone I met in a new light, the light of a possible murderer. It was not an agreeable sensation!

And in the evenings, with the curtain drawn, Joanna and I sat talking, talking, arguing, going over in turn all the various possibilities that still seemed so fantastic and incredible.

Joanna held firm to her theory of Mr. Pye. I, after wavering a little, had gone back to my original suspect, Miss Ginch. But we went over the possible names again and again.

Mr. Pye?

Miss Ginch?

Mrs. Dane Calthrop?

AimÃ©e Griffith?

Emily Barton?

Partridge?

And all the time, nervously, apprehensively, we waited for something to happen.

But nothing did happen. Nobody, so far as we knew, received anymore letters. Nash made periodic appearances in the town but what he was doing and what traps the police were setting, I had no idea. Graves had gone again.

Emily Barton came to tea. Megan came to lunch. Owen Griffith went about his practice. We went and drank sherry with Mr. Pye. And we went to tea at the vicarage.

I was glad to find Mrs. Dane Calthrop displayed none of the militant ferocity she had shown on the occasion of our last meeting. I think she had forgotten all about it.

She seemed now principally concerned with the destruction of white butterflies so as to preserve cauliflower and cabbage plants.

Our afternoon at the vicarage was really one of the most peaceful we had spent. It was an attractive old house and had a big shabby comfortable drawing room with faded rose cretonne. The Dane Calthrops had a guest staying with them, an amiable elderly lady who was knitting something with white fleecy wool. We had very good hot scones for tea, the vicar came in, and beamed placidly on us whilst he pursued his gentle erudite conversation. It was very pleasant.

I donât mean that we got away from the topic of the murder, because we didnât.

Miss Marple, the guest, was naturally thrilled by the subject. As she said apologetically: âWe have so little to talk about in the country!â She had made-up her mind that the dead girl must have been just like her Edith.

âSuch a nice little maid, and so willing, but sometimes just a little slow to take in things.â

Miss Marple also had a cousin whose nieceâs sister-in-law had had a great deal of annoyance and trouble over some anonymous letters, so the letters, also, were very interesting to the charming old lady.

âBut tell me, dear,â she said to Mrs. Dane Calthrop, âwhat do the village peopleâI mean the townspeopleâsay? What do they think?â

âMrs. Cleat still, I suppose,â said Joanna.

âOh no,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop. âNot now.â

Miss Marple asked who Mrs. Cleat was.

Joanna said she was the village witch.

âThatâs right, isnât it, Mrs. Dane Calthrop?â

The vicar murmured a long Latin quotation about, I think, the evil power of witches, to which we all listened in respectful and uncomprehending silence.

âSheâs a very silly woman,â said his wife. âLikes to show off. Goes out to gather herbs and things at the full of the moon and takes care that everybody in the place knows about it.â

âAnd silly girls go and consult her, I suppose?â said Miss Marple.

I saw the vicar getting ready to unload more Latin on us and I asked hastily: âBut why shouldnât people suspect her of the murder now? They thought the letters were her doing.â

Miss Marple said: âOh! But the girl was killed with a skewer, so I hearâ(very unpleasant!). Well, naturally, that takes all suspicion away from this Mrs. Cleat. Because, you see, she could ill-wish her, so that the girl would waste away and die from natural causes.â

âStrange how the old beliefs linger,â said the vicar. âIn early Christian times, local superstitions were wisely incorporated with Christian doctrines and their more unpleasant attributes gradually eliminated.â

âIt isnât superstition weâve got to deal with here,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop, âbut facts.â

âAnd very unpleasant facts,â I said.

âAs you say, Mr. Burton,â said Miss Marple. âNow youâexcuse me if I am being too personalâare a stranger here, and have a knowledge of the world and of various aspects of life. It seems to me that you ought to be able to find a solution to this distasteful problem.â

I smiled. âThe best solution I have had was a dream. In my dream it all fitted in and panned out beautifully. Unfortunately when I woke up the whole thing was nonsense!â

âHow interesting, though. Do tell me how the nonsense went!â

âOh, it all started with the silly phrase âNo smoke without fire.â People have been saying that ad nauseam. And then I got it mixed up with war terms. Smoke screens, scrap of paper, telephone messagesâ No, that was another dream.â

âAnd what was that dream?â

The old lady was so eager about it, that I felt sure she was a secret reader of Napoleonâs Book of Dreams, which had been the great standby of my old nurse.

âOh! only Elsie Hollandâthe Symmingtonsâ nursery governess, you know, was getting married to Dr. Griffith and the vicar here was reading the service in Latinâ(âVery appropriate, dear,â murmured Mrs. Dane Calthrop to her spouse) and then Mrs. Dane Calthrop got up and forbade the banns and said it had got to be stopped!

âBut that part,â I added with a smile, âwas true. I woke up and found you standing over me saying it.â

âAnd I was quite right,â said Mrs. Dane Calthropâbut quite mildly, I was glad to note.

âBut where did a telephone message come in?â asked Miss Marple, crinkling her brows.

âIâm afraid Iâm being rather stupid. That wasnât in the dream. It was just before it. I came through the hall and noticed Joanna had written down a message to be given to someone if they rang upâ¦.â

Miss Marple leaned forward. There was a pink spot in each cheek. âWill you think me very inquisitive and very rude if I ask just what that message was?â She cast a glance at Joanna. âI do apologize, my dear.â

Joanna, however, was highly entertained.

âOh, I donât mind,â she assured the old lady. âI canât remember anything about it myself, but perhaps Jerry can. It must have been something quite trivial.â

Solemnly I repeated the message as best I could remember it, enormously tickled at the old ladyâs rapt attention.

I was afraid the actual words were going to disappoint her, but perhaps she had some sentimental idea of a romance, for she nodded her head and smiled and seemed pleased.

âI see,â she said. âI thought it might be something like that.â

Mrs. Dane Calthrop said sharply: âLike what, Jane?â

âSomething quite ordinary,â said Miss Marple.

She looked at me thoughtfully for a moment or two, then she said unexpectedly:

âI can see you are a very clever young manâbut not quite enough confidence in yourself. You ought to have!â

Joanna gave a loud hoot.

âFor goodnessâ sake donât encourage him to feel like that. He thinks quite enough of himself as it is.â

âBe quiet, Joanna,â I said. âMiss Marple understands me.â

Miss Marple had resumed her fleecy knitting. âYou know,â she observed pensively. âTo commit a successful murder must be very much like bringing off a conjuring trick.â

âThe quickness of the hand deceives the eye?â

âNot only that. Youâve got to make people look at the wrong thing and in the wrong placeâMisdirection, they call it, I believe.â

âWell,â I remarked. âSo far everybody seems to have looked in the wrong place for our lunatic at large.â

âI should be inclined, myself,â said Miss Marple, âto look for somebody very sane.â

âYes,â I said thoughtfully. âThatâs what Nash said. I remember he stressed respectability too.â

âYes,â agreed Miss Marple. âThatâs very important.â

Well, we all seemed agreed.

I addressed Mrs. Calthrop. âNash thinks,â I said, âthat there will be more anonymous letters. What do you think?â

She said slowly: âThere may be, I suppose.â

âIf the police think that, there will have to be, no doubt,â said Miss Marple.

I went on doggedly to Mrs. Dane Calthrop.

âAre you still sorry for the writer?â

She flushed. âWhy not?â

âI donât think I agree with you, dear,â said Miss Marple. âNot in this case.â

I said hotly: âTheyâve driven one woman to suicide, and caused untold misery and heartburnings!â

âHave you had one, Miss Burton?â asked Miss Marple of Joanna.

Joanna gurgled, âOh yes! It said the most frightful things.â

âIâm afraid,â said Miss Marple, âthat the people who are young and pretty are apt to be singled out by the writer.â

âThatâs why I certainly think itâs odd that Elsie Holland hasnât had any,â I said.

âLet me see,â said Miss Marple. âIs that the Symmingtonsâ nursery governessâthe one you dreamt about, Mr. Burton?â

âYes.â

âSheâs probably had one and wonât say so,â said Joanna.

âNo,â I said, âI believe her. So does Nash.â

âDear me,â said Miss Marple. âNow thatâs very interesting. Thatâs the most interesting thing Iâve heard yet.â

II

As we were going home Joanna told me that I ought not to have repeated what Nash said about letters coming.

âWhy not?â

âBecause Mrs. Dane Calthrop might be It.â

âYou donât really believe that!â

âIâm not sure. Sheâs a queer woman.â

We began our discussion of probables all over again.

It was two nights later that I was coming back in the car from Exhampton. I had had dinner there and then started back and it was already dark before I got into Lymstock.

Something was wrong with the car lights, and after slowing up and switching on and off, I finally got out to see what I could do. I was some time fiddling, but I managed to fix them up finally.

The road was quite deserted. Nobody in Lymstock is about after dark. The first few houses were just ahead, amongst them the ugly gabled building of the Womenâs Institute. It loomed up in the dim starlight and something impelled me to go and have a look at it. I donât know whether I had caught a faint glimpse of a stealthy figure flitting through the gateâif so, it must have been so indeterminate that it did not register in my conscious mind, but I did suddenly feel a kind of overweening curiosity about the place.

The gate was slightly ajar, and I pushed it open and walked in. A short path and four steps led up to the door.

I stood there a moment hesitating. What was I really doing there? I didnât know, and then, suddenly, just near at hand, I caught the sound of a rustle. It sounded like a womanâs dress. I took a sharp turn and went round the corner of the building towards where the sound had come from.

I couldnât see anybody. I went on and again turned a corner. I was at the back of the house now and suddenly I saw, only two feet away from me, an open window.

I crept up to it and listened. I could hear nothing, but somehow or other I felt convinced that there was someone inside.

My back wasnât too good for acrobatics as yet, but I managed to hoist myself up and drop over the sill inside. I made rather a noise unfortunately.

I stood just inside the window listening. Then I walked forward, my hands outstretched. I heard then the faintest sound ahead of me to my right.

I had a torch in my pocket and I switched it on.

Immediately a low, sharp voice said: âPut that out.â

I obeyed instantly, for in that brief second I had recognized Superintendent Nash.

I felt him take my arm and propel me through a door and into a passage. Here, where there was no window to betray our presence to anyone outside, he switched on a lamp and looked at me more in sorrow than in anger.

âYou would have to butt in just that minute, Mr. Burton.â

âSorry,â I apologized. âBut I got a hunch that I was on to something.â

âAnd so you were probably. Did you see anyone?â

I hesitated. âIâm not sure,â I said slowly. âIâve got a vague feeling I saw someone sneak in through the front gate but I didnât really see anyone. Then I heard a rustle round the side of the house.â

Nash nodded.

âThatâs right. Somebody came round the house before you. They hesitated by the window, then went on quicklyâheard you, I expect.â

I apologized again. âWhatâs the big idea?â I asked.

Nash said:

âIâm banking on the fact that an anonymous letter writer canât stop writing letters. She may know itâs dangerous, but sheâll have to do it. Itâs like a craving for drink or drugs.â

I nodded.

âNow you see, Mr. Burton, I fancy whoever it is will want to keep the letters looking the same as much as possible. Sheâs got the cut-out pages of that book, and can go on using letters and words cut out of them. But the envelopes present a difficulty. Sheâll want to type them on the same machine. She canât risk using another typewriter or her own handwriting.â

âDo you really think sheâll go on with the game?â I asked incredulously.

âYes, I do. And Iâll bet you anything you like sheâs full of confidence. Theyâre always vain as hell, these people! Well, then, I figured out that whoever it was would come to the Institute after dark so as to get at the typewriter.â

âMiss Ginch,â I said.

âMaybe.â

âYou donât know yet?â

âI donât know.â

âBut you suspect?â

âYes. But somebodyâs very cunning, Mr. Burton. Somebody knows all the tricks of the game.â

I could imagine some of the network that Nash had spread abroad. I had no doubt that every letter written by a suspect and posted or left by hand was immediately inspected. Sooner or later the criminal would slip up, would grow careless.

For the third time I apologized for my zealous and unwanted presence.

âOh well,â said Nash philosophically. âIt canât be helped. Better luck next time.â

I went out into the night. A dim figure was standing beside my car. To my astonishment I recognized Megan.

âHallo!â she said. âI thought this was your car. What have you been doing?â

âWhat are you doing is much more to the point?â I said.

âIâm out for a walk. I like walking at night. Nobody stops you and says silly things, and I like the stars, and things smell better, and everyday things look all mysterious.â

âAll of that I grant you freely,â I said. âBut only cats and witches walk in the dark. Theyâll wonder about you at home.â

âNo, they wonât. They never wonder where I am or what Iâm doing.â

âHow are you getting on?â I asked.

âAll right, I suppose.â

âMiss Holland look after you and all that?â

âElsieâs all right. She canât help being a perfect fool.â

âUnkindâbut probably true,â I said. âHop in and Iâll drive you home.â

It was not quite true that Megan was never missed.

Symmington was standing on the doorstep as we drove up.

He peered towards us. âHallo, is Megan there?â

âYes,â I said. âIâve brought her home.â

Symmington said sharply:

âYou mustnât go off like this without telling us, Megan. Miss Holland has been quite worried about you.â

Megan muttered something and went past him into the house. Symmington sighed.

âA grown-up girl is a great responsibility with no mother to look after her. Sheâs too old for school, I suppose.â

He looked towards me rather suspiciously.

âI suppose you took her for a drive?â

I thought it best to leave it like that.

Eleven

I

On the following day I went mad. Looking back on it, that is really the only explanation I can find.

I was due for my monthly visit to Marcus Kentâ¦ I went up by train. To my intense surprise Joanna elected to stay behind. As a rule she was eager to come and we usually stayed up for a couple of days.

This time, however, I proposed to return the same day by the evening train, but even so I was astonished at Joanna. She merely said enigmatically that sheâd got plenty to do, and why spend hours in a nasty stuffy train when it was a lovely day in the country?

That, of course, was undeniable, but sounded very unlike Joanna.

She said she didnât want the car, so I was to drive it to the station and leave it parked there against my return.

The station of Lymstock is situated, for some obscure reason known to railway companies only, quite half a mile from Lymstock itself. Halfway along the road I overtook Megan shuffling along in an aimless manner. I pulled up.

âHallo, what are you doing?â

âJust out for a walk.â

âBut not what is called a good brisk walk, I gather. You were crawling along like a dispirited crab.â

âWell, I wasnât going anywhere particular.â

âThen youâd better come and see me off at the station.â I opened the door of the car and Megan jumped in.

âWhere are you going?â she asked.

âLondon. To see my doctor.â

âYour backâs not worse, is it?â

âNo, itâs practically all right again. Iâm expecting him to be very pleased about it.â

Megan nodded.

We drew up at the station. I parked the car and went in and bought my ticket at the booking office. There were very few people on the platform and nobody I knew.

âYou wouldnât like to lend me a penny, would you?â said Megan. âThen Iâd get a bit of chocolate out of the slot machine.â

âHere you are, baby,â I said, handing her the coin in question. âSure you wouldnât like some clear gums or some throat pastilles as well?â

âI like chocolate best,â said Megan without suspecting sarcasm.

She went off to the chocolate machine, and I looked after her with a feeling of mounting irritation.

She was wearing trodden over shoes, and coarse unattractive stockings and a particularly shapeless jumper and skirt. I donât know why all this should have infuriated me, but it did.

I said angrily as she came back:

âWhy do you wear those disgusting stockings?â

Megan looked down at them, surprised.

âWhatâs the matter with them?â

âEverythingâs the matter with them. Theyâre loathsome. And why wear a pullover like a decayed cabbage?â

âItâs all right, isnât it? Iâve had it for years.â

âSo I should imagine. And why do youââ

At this minute the train came in and interrupted my angry lecture.

I got into an empty first-class carriage, let down the window and leaned out to continue the conversation.

Megan stood below me, her face upturned. She asked me why I was so cross.

âIâm not cross.â I said untruly. âIt just infuriates me to see you so slack, and not caring how you look.â

âI couldnât look nice, anyway, so what does it matter?â

âMy God,â I said. âIâd like to see you turned out properly. Iâd like to take you to London and outfit you from tip to toe.â

âI wish you could,â said Megan.

The train began to move. I looked down into Meganâs upturned, wistful face.

And then, as I have said, madness came upon me.

I opened the door, grabbed Megan with one arm and fairly hauled her into the carriage.

There was an outraged shout from a porter, but all he could do was dexterously to bang shut the door again. I pulled Megan up from the floor where my impetuous action had landed her.

âWhat on earth did you do that for?â she demanded, rubbing one knee.

âShut up,â I said. âYouâre coming to London with me and when Iâve done with you you wonât know yourself. Iâll show you what you can look like if you try. Iâm tired of seeing you mooch about down at heel and all anyhow.â

âOh!â said Megan in an ecstatic whisper.

The ticket collector came along and I bought Megan a return ticket. She sat in her corner looking at me in a kind of awed respect.

âI say,â she said when the man had gone. âYou are sudden, arenât you?â

âVery,â I said. âIt runs in our family.â

How to explain to Megan the impulse that had come over me? She had looked like a wistful dog being left behind. She now had on her face the incredulous pleasure of the dog who has been taken on the walk after all.

âI suppose you donât know London very well?â I said to Megan.

âYes, I do,â said Megan. âI always went through it to school. And Iâve been to the dentist there and to a pantomime.â

âThis,â I said darkly, âwill be a different London.â

We arrived with half an hour to spare before my appointment in Harley Street.

I took a taxi and we drove straight to Mirotin, Joannaâs dressmaker. Mirotin is, in the flesh, an unconventional and breezy woman of forty-five, Mary Grey. She is a clever woman and very good company. I have always liked her.

I said to Megan. âYouâre my cousin.â

âWhy?â

âDonât argue,â I said.

Mary Grey was being firm with a stout Jewess who was enamoured of a skintight powder-blue evening dress. I detached her and took her aside.

âListen,â I said. âIâve brought a little cousin of mine along. Joanna was coming up but was prevented. But she said I could leave it all to you. You see what the girl looks like now?â

âMy God, I do,â said Mary Grey with feeling.

âWell, I want her turned out right in every particular from head to foot. Carte blanche. Stockings, shoes, undies, everything! By the way, the man who does Joannaâs hair is close round here, isnât he?â

âAntoine? Round the corner. Iâll see to that too.â

âYouâre a woman in a thousand.â

âOh, I shall enjoy itâapart from the moneyâand thatâs not to be sneezed at in these daysâhalf my damned brutes of women never pay their bills. But as I say, I shall enjoy it.â She shot a quick professional glance at Megan standing a little way away. âSheâs got a lovely figure.â

âYou must have X-ray eyes,â I said. âShe looks completely shapeless to me.â

Mary Grey laughed.

âItâs these schools,â she said. âThey seem to take a pride in turning out girls who preen themselves on looking like nothing on earth. They call it being sweet and unsophisticated. Sometimes it takes a whole season before a girl can pull herself together and look human. Donât worry, leave it all to me.â

âRight,â I said. âIâll come back and fetch her about six.â

II

Marcus Kent was pleased with me. He told me that I surpassed his wildest expectations.

âYou must have the constitution of an elephant,â he said, âto make a comeback like this. Oh well, wonderful what country air and no late hours or excitements will do for a man if he can only stick it.â

âI grant you your first two,â I said. âBut donât think that the country is free from excitements. Weâve had a good deal in my part.â

âWhat sort of excitement?â

âMurder,â I said.

Marcus Kent pursed up his mouth and whistled.

âSome bucolic love tragedy? Farmer lad kills his lass?â

âNot at all. A crafty, determined lunatic killer.â

âI havenât read anything about it. When did they lay him by the heels?â

âThey havenât, and itâs a she!â

âWhew! Iâm not sure that Lymstockâs quite the right place for you, old boy.â

I said firmly:

âYes, it is. And youâre not going to get me out of it.â

Marcus Kent has a low mind. He said at once:

âSo thatâs it! Found a blonde?â

âNot at all,â I said, with a guilty thought of Elsie Holland. âItâs merely that the psychology of crime interests me a good deal.â

âOh, all right. It certainly hasnât done you any harm so far, but just make sure that your lunatic killer doesnât obliterate you.â

âNo fear of that,â I said.

âWhat about dining with me this evening? You can tell me all about your revolting murder.â

âSorry. Iâm booked.â

âDate with a ladyâeh? Yes, youâre definitely on the mend.â

âI suppose you could call it that,â I said, rather tickled at the idea of Megan in the role.

I was at Mirotinâs at six oâclock when the establishment was officially closing. Mary Grey came to meet me at the top of the stairs outside the showroom. She had a finger to her lips.

âYouâre going to have a shock! If I say it myself, Iâve put in a good bit of work.â

I went into the big showroom. Megan was standing looking at herself in a long mirror. I give you my word I hardly recognized her! For the minute it took my breath away. Tall and slim as a willow with delicate ankles and feet shown off by sheer silk stockings and well-cut shoes. Yes, lovely feet and hands, small bonesâquality and distinction in every line of her. Her hair had been trimmed and shaped to her head and it was glowing like a glossy chestnut. Theyâd had the sense to leave her face alone. She was not made-up, or if she was it was so light and delicate that it did not show. Her mouth needed no lipstick.

Moreover there was about her something that I had never seen before, a new innocent pride in the arch of her neck. She looked at me gravely with a small shy smile.

âI do lookârather nice, donât I?â said Megan.

âNice?â I said. âNice isnât the word! Come on out to dinner and if every second man doesnât turn round to look at you Iâll be surprised. Youâll knock all the other girls into a cocked hat.â

Megan was not beautiful, but she was unusual and striking looking. She had personality. She walked into the restaurant ahead of me and, as the head waiter hurried towards us, I felt the thrill of idiotic pride that a man feels when he has got something out of the ordinary with him.

We had cocktails first and lingered over them. Then we dined. And later we danced. Megan was keen to dance and I didnât want to disappoint her, but for some reason or other I hadnât thought she would dance well. But she did. She was light as a feather in my arms, and her body and feet followed the rhythm perfectly.

âGosh!â I said. âYou can dance!â

She seemed a little surprised. âWell, of course I can. We had dancing class every week at school.â

âIt takes more than dancing class to make a dancer,â I said.

We went back to our table.

âIsnât this food lovely?â said Megan. âAnd everything!â

She heaved a delighted sigh.

âExactly my sentiments,â I said.

It was a delirious evening. I was still mad. Megan brought me down to earth when she said doubtfully:

âOughtnât we to be going home?â

My jaw dropped. Yes, definitely I was mad. I had forgotten everything! I was in a world divorced from reality, existing in it with the creature I had created.

âGood Lord!â I said.

I realized that the last train had gone.

âStay there,â I said. âIâm going to telephone.â

I rang up the Llewellyn Hire people and ordered their biggest and fastest car to come round as soon as possible.

I came back to Megan. âThe last train has gone,â I said. âSo weâre going home by car.â

âAre we? What fun!â

What a nice child she was, I thought. So pleased with everything, so unquestioning, accepting all my suggestions without fuss or bother.

The car came, and it was large and fast, but all the same it was very late when we came into Lymstock.

Suddenly conscience-stricken, I said, âTheyâll have been sending out search parties for you!â

But Megan seemed in an equable mood. She said vaguely:

âOh, I donât think so. I often go out and donât come home for lunch.â

âYes, my dear child, but youâve been out for tea and dinner too.â

However, Meganâs lucky star was in the ascendant. The house was dark and silent. On Meganâs advice, we went round to the back and threw stones at Roseâs window.

In due course Rose looked out and with many suppressed exclamations and palpitations came down to let us in.

âWell now, and I saying you were asleep in your bed. The master and Miss Hollandââ(slight sniff after Miss Hollandâs name)ââhad early supper and went for a drive. I said Iâd keep an eye to the boys. I thought I heard you come in when I was up in the nursery trying to quiet Colin, who was playing up, but you werenât about when I came down so I thought youâd gone to bed. And thatâs what I said when the master came in and asked for you.â

I cut short the conversation by remarking that that was where Megan had better go now.

âGood night,â said Megan, âand thank you awfully. Itâs been the loveliest day Iâve ever had.â

I drove home slightly light-headed still, and tipped the chauffeur handsomely, offering him a bed if he liked. But he preferred to drive back through the night.

The hall door had opened during our colloquy and as he drove away it was flung wide open and Joanna said:

âSo itâs you at last, is it?â

âWere you worried about me?â I asked, coming in and shutting the door.

Joanna went into the drawing room and I followed her. There was a coffee pot on the trivet and Joanna made herself coffee whilst I helped myself to a whisky and soda.

âWorried about you? No, of course not. I thought youâd decided to stay in town and have a binge.â

âIâve had a bingeâof a kind.â

I grinned and then began to laugh.

Joanna asked what I was laughing at and I told her.

âBut Jerry, you must have been madâquite mad!â

âI suppose I was.â

âBut, my dear boy, you canât do things like thatânot in a place like this. It will be all round Lymstock tomorrow.â

âI suppose it will. But, after all, Meganâs only a child.â

âShe isnât. Sheâs twenty. You canât take a girl of twenty to London and buy her clothes without a most frightful scandal. Good gracious, Jerry, youâll probably have to marry the girl.â

Joanna was half serious, half laughing.

It was at that moment that I made a very important discovery. âDamn it all,â I said. âI donât mind if I do. In factâ I should like it.â

A very funny expression came over Joannaâs face. She got up and said dryly, as she went towards the door:

âYes, Iâve known that for some timeâ¦.â

She left me standing, glass in hand, aghast at my new discovery.

Twelve

I

I donât know what the usual reactions are of a man who goes to propose marriage.

In fiction his throat is dry and his collar feels too tight and he is in a pitiable state of nervousness. I didnât feel at all like that. Having thought of a good idea I just wanted to get it all settled as soon as possible. I didnât see any particular need for embarrassment.

I went along to the Symmingtonsâ house about eleven oâclock. I rang the bell and when Rose came, I asked for Miss Megan. It was the knowing look that Rose gave me that first made me feel slightly shy.

She put me in the little morning room and whilst waiting there I hoped uneasily that they hadnât been upsetting Megan.

When the door opened and I wheeled round, I was instantly relieved. Megan was not looking shy or upset at all. Her head was still like a glossy chestnut, and she wore that air of pride and self-respect that she had acquired yesterday. She was in her old clothes again but she had managed to make them look different. Itâs wonderful what knowledge of her own attractiveness will do for a girl. Megan, I realized suddenly, had grown up.

I suppose I must really have been rather nervous, otherwise I should not have opened the conversation by saying affectionately, âHallo, catfish!â It was hardly, in the circumstances, a lover-like greeting.

It seemed to suit Megan. She grinned and said, âHallo!â

âLook here,â I said. âYou didnât get into a row about yesterday, I hope?â

Megan said with assurance, âOh, no,â and then blinked, and said vaguely, âYes, I believe I did. I mean, they said a lot of things and seemed to think it had been very oddâbut then you know what people are and what fusses they make all about nothing.â

I was relieved to find that shocked disapproval had slipped off Megan like water off a duckâs back.

âI came round this morning,â I said, âbecause Iâve a suggestion to make. You see I like you a lot, and I think you like meââ

âFrightfully,â said Megan with rather disquieting enthusiasm.

âAnd we get on awfully well together, so I think it would be a good idea if we got married.â

âOh,â said Megan.

She looked surprised. Just that. Not startled. Not shocked. Just mildly surprised.

âYou mean you really want to marry me?â she asked with the air of one getting a thing perfectly clear.

âMore than anything in the world,â I saidâand I meant it.

âYou mean, youâre in love with me?â

âIâm in love with you.â

Her eyes were steady and grave. She said:

âI think youâre the nicest person in the worldâbut Iâm not in love with you.â

âIâll make you love me.â

âThat wouldnât do. I donât want to be made.â

She paused and then said gravely: âIâm not the sort of wife for you. Iâm better at hating than at loving.â

She said it with a queer intensity.

I said, âHate doesnât last. Love does.â

âIs that true?â

âItâs what I believe.â

Again there was a silence. Then I said:

âSo itâs âNo,â is it?â

âYes, itâs no.â

âAnd you donât encourage me to hope?â

âWhat would be the good of that?â

âNone whatever,â I agreed, âquite redundant, in factâbecause Iâm going to hope whether you tell me to or not.â

II

Well, that was that. I walked away from the house feeling slightly dazed but irritatingly conscious of Roseâs passionately interested gaze following me.

Rose had had a good deal to say before I could escape.

That sheâd never felt the same since that awful day! That she wouldnât have stayed except for the children and being sorry for poor Mr. Symmington. That she wasnât going to stay unless they got another maid quickâand they wouldnât be likely to do that when there had been a murder in the house! That it was all very well for that Miss Holland to say sheâd do the housework in the meantime. Very sweet and obliging she wasâOh yes, but it was mistress of the house that she was fancying herself going to be one fine day! Mr. Symmington, poor man, never saw anythingâbut one knew what a widower was, a poor helpless creature made to be the prey of a designing woman. And that it wouldnât be for want of trying if Miss Holland didnât step into the dead mistressâs shoes!

I assented mechanically to everything, yearning to get away and unable to do so because Rose was holding firmly on to my hat whilst she indulged in her flood of spite.

I wondered if there was any truth in what she said. Had Elsie Holland envisaged the possibility of becoming the second Mrs. Symmington? Or was she just a decent kindhearted girl doing her best to look after a bereaved household?

The result would quite likely be the same in either case. And why not? Symmingtonâs young children needed a motherâElsie was a decent soulâbeside being quite indecently beautifulâa point which a man might appreciateâeven such a stuffed fish as Symmington!

I thought all this, I know, because I was trying to put off thinking about Megan.

You may say that I had gone to ask Megan to marry me in an absurdly complacent frame of mind and that I deserved what I gotâbut it was not really like that. It was because I felt so assured, so certain, that Megan belonged to meâthat she was my business, that to look after her and make her happy and keep her from harm was the only natural right way of life for me, that I had expected her to feel, too, that she and I belonged to each other.

But I was not giving up. Oh no! Megan was my woman and I was going to have her.

After a momentâs thought, I went to Symmingtonâs office. Megan might pay no attention to strictures on her conduct, but I would like to get things straight.

Mr. Symmington was disengaged, I was told, and I was shown into his room. By a pinching of the lips, and an additional stiffness of manner, I gathered that I was not exactly popular at the moment.

âGood morning,â I said. âIâm afraid this isnât a professional call, but a personal one. Iâll put it plainly. I dare say youâll have realized that Iâm in love with Megan. Iâve asked her to marry me and she has refused. But Iâm not taking that as final.â

I saw Symmingtonâs expression change, and I read his mind with ludicrous ease. Megan was a disharmonious element in his house. He was, I felt sure, a just and kindly man, and he would never have dreamed of not providing a home for his dead wifeâs daughter. But her marriage to me would certainly be a relief. The frozen halibut thawed. He gave me a pale cautious smile.

âFrankly, do you know, Burton, I had no idea of such a thing. I know youâve taken a lot of notice of her, but weâve always regarded her as such a child.â

âSheâs not a child,â I said shortly.

âNo, no, not in years.â

âShe can be her age anytime sheâs allowed to be,â I said, still slightly angry. âSheâs not twenty-one, I know, but she will be in a month or two. Iâll let you have all the information about myself you want. Iâm well off and have led quite a decent life. Iâll look after her and do all I can to make her happy.â

âQuiteâquite. Still, itâs up to Megan herself.â

âSheâll come round in time,â I said. âBut I just thought Iâd like to get straight with you about it.â

He said he appreciated that, and we parted amicably.

III

I ran into Miss Emily Barton outside. She had a shopping basket on her arm.

âGood morning, Mr. Burton, I hear you went to London yesterday.â

Yes, she had heard all right. Her eyes were, I thought, kindly, but full of curiosity, too.

âI went to see my doctor,â I said.

Miss Emily smiled.

That smile made little of Marcus Kent. She murmured:

âI hear Megan nearly missed the train. She jumped in when it was going.â

âHelped by me,â I said. âI hauled her in.â

âHow lucky you were there. Otherwise there might have been an accident.â

It is extraordinary how much of a fool one gentle inquisitive old maiden lady can make a man feel!

I was saved further suffering by the onslaught of Mrs. Dane Calthrop. She had her own tame elderly maiden lady in tow, but she herself was full of direct speech.

âGood morning,â she said. âI heard youâve made Megan buy herself some decent clothes? Very sensible of you. It takes a man to think of something really practical like that. Iâve been worried about that girl for a long time. Girls with brains are so liable to turn into morons, arenât they?â

With which remarkable statement, she shot into the fish shop.

Miss Marple, left standing by me, twinkled a little and said:

âMrs. Dane Calthrop is a very remarkable woman, you know. Sheâs nearly always right.â

âIt makes her rather alarming,â I said.

âSincerity has that effect,â said Miss Marple.

Mrs. Dane Calthrop shot out of the fish shop again and rejoined us. She was holding a large red lobster.

âHave you ever seen anything so unlike Mr. Pye?â she saidââvery virile and handsome, isnât it?â

IV

I was a little nervous of meeting Joanna but I found when I got home that I neednât have worried. She was out and she did not return for lunch. This aggrieved Partridge a good deal, who said sourly as she proffered two loin chops in an entrÃ©e dish: âMiss Burton said specially as she was going to be in.â

I ate both chops in an attempt to atone for Joannaâs lapse. All the same, I wondered where my sister was. She had taken to be very mysterious about her doings of late.

It was half past three when Joanna burst into the drawing room. I had heard a car stop outside and I half expected to see Griffith, but the car drove on and Joanna came in alone.

Her face was very red and she seemed upset. I perceived that something had happened.

âWhatâs the matter?â I asked.

Joanna opened her mouth, closed it again, sighed, plumped herself down in a chair and stared in front of her.

She said:

âIâve had the most awful day.â

âWhatâs happened?â

âIâve done the most incredible thing. It was awfulââ

âBut whatââ

âI just started out for a walk, an ordinary walkâI went up over the hill and on to the moor. I walked milesâI felt like it. Then I dropped down into a hollow. Thereâs a farm thereâA God-forsaken lonely sort of spot. I was thirsty and I wondered if theyâd got any milk or something. So I wandered into the farmyard and then the door opened and Owen came out.â

âYes?â

âHe thought it might be the district nurse. There was a woman in there having a baby. He was expecting the nurse and heâd sent word to her to get hold of another doctor. Itâthings were going wrong.â

âYes?â

âSo he saidâto me. âCome on, youâll doâbetter than nobody.â I said I couldnât, and he said what did I mean? I said Iâd never done anything like that, that I didnât know anythingâ

âHe said what the hell did that matter? And then he was awful. He turned on me. He said, âYouâre a woman, arenât you? I suppose you can do your durnedest to help another woman?â And he went on at meâsaid Iâd talked as though I was interested in doctoring and had said I wished I was a nurse. âAll pretty talk, I suppose! You didnât mean anything real by it, but this is real and youâre going to behave like a decent human being and not like a useless ornamental nitwit!â

âIâve done the most incredible things, Jerry. Held instruments and boiled them and handed things. Iâm so tired I can hardly stand up. It was dreadful. But he saved herâand the baby. It was born alive. He didnât think at one time he could save it. Oh dear!â

Joanna covered her face with her hands.

I contemplated her with a certain amount of pleasure and mentally took my hat off to Owen Griffith. Heâd brought Joanna slap up against reality for once.

I said, âThereâs a letter for you in the hall. From Paul, I think.â

âEh?â She paused for a minute and then said, âIâd no idea, Jerry, what doctors had to do. The nerve theyâve got to have!â

I went out into the hall and brought Joanna her letter. She opened it, glanced vaguely at its contents, and let it drop.

âHe wasâreallyârather wonderful. The way he foughtâthe way he wouldnât be beaten! He was rude and horrible to meâbut he was wonderful.â

I observed Paulâs disregarded letter with some pleasure. Plainly, Joanna was cured of Paul.

Thirteen

I

Things never come when they are expected.

I was full of Joannaâs and my personal affairs and was quite taken aback the next morning when Nashâs voice said over the telephone: âWeâve got her, Mr. Burton!â

I was so startled I nearly dropped the receiver.

âYou mean theââ

He interrupted.

âCan you be overheard where you are?â

âNo, I donât think soâwell, perhapsââ

It seemed to me that the baize door to the kitchen had swung open a trifle.

âPerhaps youâd care to come down to the station?â

âI will. Right away.â

I was at the police station in next to no time. In an inner room Nash and Sergeant Parkins were together. Nash was wreathed in smiles.

âItâs been a long chase,â he said. âBut weâre there at last.â

He flicked a letter across the table. This time it was all typewritten. It was, of its kind, fairly mild.

âItâs no use thinking youâre going to step into a dead womanâs shoes. The whole town is laughing at you. Get out now. Soon it will be too late. This is a warning. Remember what happened to that other girl. Get out and stay out.â

It finished with some mildly obscene language.

âThat reached Miss Holland this morning,â said Nash.

âThought it was funny she hadnât had one before,â said Sergeant Parkins.

âWho wrote it?â I asked.

Some of the exultation faded out of Nashâs face.

He looked tired and concerned. He said soberly:

âIâm sorry about it, because it will hit a decent man hard, but there it is. Perhaps heâs had his suspicions already.â

âWho wrote it?â I reiterated.

âMiss AimÃ©e Griffith.â

II

Nash and Parkins went to the Griffithsâ house that afternoon with a warrant.

By Nashâs invitation I went with them.

âThe doctor,â he said, âis very fond of you. He hasnât many friends in this place. I think if it is not too painful to you, Mr. Burton, that you might help him to bear up under the shock.â

I said I would come. I didnât relish the job, but I thought I might be some good.

We rang the bell and asked for Miss Griffith and we were shown into the drawing room. Elsie Holland, Megan and Symmington were there having tea.

Nash behaved very circumspectly.

He asked AimÃ©e if he might have a few words with her privately.

She got up and came towards us. I thought I saw just a faint hunted look in her eye. If so, it went again. She was perfectly normal and hearty.

âWant me? Not in trouble over my car lights again, I hope?â

She led the way out of the drawing room and across the hall into a small study.

As I closed the drawing room door, I saw Symmingtonâs head jerk up sharply. I supposed his legal training had brought him in contact with police cases, and he had recognized something in Nashâs manner. He half rose.

That is all I saw before I shut the door and followed the others.

Nash was saying his piece. He was very quiet and correct. He cautioned her and then told her that he must ask her to accompany him. He had a warrant for her arrest and he read out the chargeâ

I forget now the exact legal term. It was the letters, not murder yet.

AimÃ©e Griffith flung up her head and bayed with laughter. She boomed out: âWhat ridiculous nonsense! As though Iâd write a packet of indecent stuff like that. You must be mad. Iâve never written a word of the kind.â

Nash had produced the letter to Elsie Holland. He said:

âDo you deny having written this, Miss Griffith?â

If she hesitated it was only for a split second.

âOf course I do. Iâve never seen it before.â

Nash said quietly: âI must tell you, Miss Griffith, that you were observed to type that letter on the machine at the Womenâs Institute between eleven and eleven thirty p.m. on the night before last. Yesterday you entered the post office with a bunch of letters in your handââ

âI never posted this.â

âNo, you did not. Whilst waiting for stamps, you dropped it inconspicuously on the floor, so that somebody should come along unsuspectingly and pick it up and post it.â

âI neverââ

The door opened and Symmington came in. He said sharply: âWhatâs going on? AimÃ©e, if there is anything wrong, you ought to be legally represented. If you wish meââ

She broke then. Covered her face with her hands and staggered to a chair. She said:

âGo away, Dick, go away. Not you! Not you!â

âYou need a solicitor, my dear girl.â

âNot you. IâIâcouldnât bear it. I donât want you to knowâall this.â

He understood then, perhaps. He said quietly:

âIâll get hold of Mildmay, of Exhampton. Will that do?â

She nodded. She was sobbing now.

Symmington went out of the room. In the doorway he collided with Owen Griffith.

âWhatâs this?â said Owen violently. âMy sisterââ

âIâm sorry, Dr. Griffith. Very sorry. But we have no alternative.â

âYou think sheâwas responsible for those letters?â

âIâm afraid there is no doubt of it, sir,â said Nashâhe turned to AimÃ©e, âYou must come with us now, please, Miss Griffithâyou shall have every facility for seeing a solicitor, you know.â

Owen cried: âAimÃ©e?â

She brushed past him without looking at him.

She said: âDonât talk to me. Donât say anything. And for Godâs sake donât look at me!â

They went out. Owen stood like a man in a trance.

I waited a bit, then I came up to him. âIf thereâs anything I can do, Griffith, tell me.â

He said like a man in a dream:

âAimÃ©e? I donât believe it.â

âIt may be a mistake,â I suggested feebly.

He said slowly: âShe wouldnât take it like that if it were. But I would never have believed it. I canât believe it.â

He sank down on a chair. I made myself useful by finding a stiff drink and bringing it to him. He swallowed it down and it seemed to do him good.

He said: âI couldnât take it in at first. Iâm all right now. Thanks, Burton, but thereâs nothing you can do. Nothing anyone can do.â

The door opened and Joanna came in. She was very white.

She came over to Owen and looked at me.

She said: âGet out, Jerry. This is my business.â

As I went out of the door, I saw her kneel down by his chair.

III

I canât tell you coherently the events of the next twenty-four hours. Various incidents stand out, unrelated to other incidents.

I remember Joanna coming home, very white and drawn, and of how I tried to cheer her up, saying:

âNow whoâs being a ministering angel?â

And of how she smiled in a pitiful twisted way and said:

âHe says he wonât have me, Jerry. Heâs very, very proud and stiff!â

And I said: âMy girl wonât have me, eitherâ¦.â

We sat there for a while, Joanna saying at last:

âThe Burton family isnât exactly in demand at the moment!â

I said, âNever mind, my sweet, we still have each other,â and Joanna said, âSomehow or other, Jerry, that doesnât comfort me much just nowâ¦.â

IV

Owen came the next day and rhapsodied in the most fulsome way about Joanna. She was wonderful, marvellous! The way sheâd come to him, the way she was willing to marry himâat once if he liked. But he wasnât going to let her do that. No, she was too good, too fine to be associated with the kind of muck that would start as soon as the papers got hold of the news.

I was fond of Joanna, and knew she was the kind whoâs all right when standing by in trouble, but I got rather bored with all this highfalutinâ stuff. I told Owen rather irritably not to be so damned noble.

I went down to the High Street and found everybodyâs tongues wagging nineteen to the dozen. Emily Barton was saying that she had never really trusted AimÃ©e Griffith. The grocerâs wife was saying with gusto that sheâd always thought Miss Griffith had a queer look in her eyeâ

They had completed the case against AimÃ©e, so I learnt from Nash. A search of the house had brought to light the cut pages of Emily Bartonâs bookâin the cupboard under the stairs, of all places, wrapped up in an old roll of wallpaper.

âAnd a jolly good place too,â said Nash appreciatively. âYou never know when a prying servant wonât tamper with a desk or a locked drawerâbut those junk cupboards full of last yearâs tennis balls and old wallpaper are never opened except to shove something more in.â

âThe lady would seem to have had a penchant for that particular hiding place,â I said.

âYes. The criminal mind seldom has much variety. By the way, talking of the dead girl, weâve got one fact to go upon. Thereâs a large heavy pestle missing from the doctorâs dispensary. Iâll bet anything you like thatâs what she was stunned with.â

âRather an awkward thing to carry about,â I objected.

âNot for Miss Griffith. She was going to the Guides that afternoon, but she was going to leave flowers and vegetables at the Red Cross stall on the way, so sheâd got a whopping great basket with her.â

âYou havenât found the skewer?â

âNo, and I shanât. The poor devil may be mad, but she wasnât mad enough to keep a bloodstained skewer just to make it easy for us, when all sheâd got to do was to wash it and return it to a kitchen drawer.â

âI suppose,â I conceded, âthat you canât have everything.â

The vicarage had been one of the last places to hear the news. Old Miss Marple was very much distressed by it. She spoke to me very earnestly on the subject.

âIt isnât true, Mr. Burton. Iâm sure it isnât true.â

âItâs true enough, Iâm afraid. They were lying in wait, you know. They actually saw her type that letter.â

âYes, yesâperhaps they did. Yes, I can understand that.â

âAnd the printed pages from which the letters were cut were found where sheâd hidden them in her house.â

Miss Marple stared at me. Then she said, in a very low voice: âBut that is horribleâreally wicked.â

Mrs. Dane Calthrop came up with a rush and joined us and said: âWhatâs the matter, Jane?â Miss Marple was murmuring helplessly:

âOh dear, oh dear, what can one do?â

âWhatâs upset you, Jane?â

Miss Marple said: âThere must be something. But I am so old and so ignorant, and I am afraid, so foolish.â

I felt rather embarrassed and was glad when Mrs. Dane Calthrop took her friend away.

I was to see Miss Marple again that afternoon, however. Much later when I was on my way home.

She was standing near the little bridge at the end of the village, near Mrs. Cleatâs cottage, and talking to Megan of all people.

I wanted to see Megan. I had been wanting to see her all day. I quickened my pace. But as I came up to them, Megan turned on her heel and went off in the other direction.

It made me angry and I would have followed her, but Miss Marple blocked my way.

She said: âI wanted to speak to you. No, donât go after Megan now. It wouldnât be wise.â

I was just going to make a sharp rejoinder when she disarmed me by saying:

âThat girl has great courageâa very high order of courage.â

I still wanted to go after Megan, but Miss Marple said:

âDonât try and see her now. I do know what I am talking about. She must keep her courage intact.â

There was something about the old ladyâs assertion that chilled me. It was as though she knew something that I didnât.

I was afraid and didnât know why I was afraid.

I didnât go home. I went back into the High Street and walked up and down aimlessly. I donât know what I was waiting for, nor what I was thinking aboutâ¦.

I got caught by that awful old bore Colonel Appleton. He asked after my pretty sister as usual and then went on:

âWhatâs all this about Griffithâs sister being mad as a hatter? They say sheâs been at the bottom of this anonymous letter business thatâs been such a confounded nuisance to everybody? Couldnât believe it at first, but they say itâs quite true.â

I said it was true enough.

âWell, wellâI must say our police force is pretty good on the whole. Give âem time, thatâs all, give âem time. Funny business this anonymous letter stuntâthese desiccated old maids are always the ones who go in for itâthough the Griffith woman wasnât bad looking even if she was a bit long in the tooth. But there arenât any decent-looking girls in this part of the worldâexcept that governess girl of the Symmingtons. Sheâs worth looking at. Pleasant girl, too. Grateful if one does any little thing for her. Came across her having a picnic or something with those kids not long ago. They were romping about in the heather and she was knittingâever so vexed sheâd run out of wool. âWell,â I said, âlike me to run you into Lymstock? Iâve got to call for a rod of mine there. I shanât be more than ten minutes getting it, then Iâll run you back again.â She was a bit doubtful about leaving the boys. âTheyâll be all right,â I said. âWhoâs to harm them?â Wasnât going to have the boys along, no fear! So I ran her in, dropped her at the wool shop, picked her up again later and that was that. Thanked me very prettily. Grateful and all that. Nice girl.â

I managed to get away from him.

It was after that, that I caught sight of Miss Marple for the third time. She was coming out of the police station.

V

Where do oneâs fears come from? Where do they shape themselves? Where do they hide before coming out into the open?

Just one short phrase. Heard and noted and never quite put aside:

âTake me awayâitâs so awful being hereâfeeling so wickedâ¦.â

Why had Megan said that? What had she to feel wicked about?

There could be nothing in Mrs. Symmingtonâs death to make Megan feel wicked.

Why had the child felt wicked? Why? Why?

Could it be because she felt responsible in anyway?

Megan? Impossible! Megan couldnât have had anything to do with those lettersâthose foul obscene letters.

Owen Griffith had known a case up Northâa schoolgirlâ¦.

What had Inspector Graves said?

Something about an adolescent mindâ¦.

Innocent middle-aged ladies on operating tables babbling words they hardly knew. Little boys chalking up things on walls.

No, no, not Megan.

Heredity? Bad blood? An unconscious inheritance of something abnormal? Her misfortune, not her fault, a curse laid upon her by a past generation?

âIâm not the wife for you. Iâm better at hating than loving.â

Oh, my Megan, my little child. Not that! Anything but that. And that old Tabby is after you, she suspects. She says you have courage. Courage to do what?

It was only a brainstorm. It passed. But I wanted to see Meganâ I wanted to see her badly.

At half past nine that night I left the house and went down to the town and along to the Symmingtons.â

It was then that an entirely new idea came into my mind. The idea of a woman whom nobody had considered for a moment.

(Or had Nash considered her?)

Wildly unlikely, wildly improbable, and I would have said up to today impossible, too. But that was not so. No, not impossible.

I redoubled my pace. Because it was now even more imperative that I should see Megan straightaway.

I passed through the Symmingtonsâ gate and up to the house. It was a dark overcast night. A little rain was beginning to fall. The visibility was bad.

I saw a line of light from one of the windows. The little morning room?

I hesitated a moment or two, then instead of going up to the front door, I swerved and crept very quietly up to the window, skirting a big bush and keeping low.

The light came from a chink in the curtains which were not quite drawn. It was easy to look through and see.

It was a strangely peaceful and domestic scene. Symmington in a big armchair, and Elsie Holland, her head bent, busily patching a boyâs torn shirt.

I could hear as well as see for the window was open at the top.

Elsie Holland was speaking.

âBut I do think, really, Mr. Symmington, that the boys are quite old enough to go to boarding school. Not that I shanât hate leaving them because I shall. Iâm ever so fond of them both.â

Symmington said: âI think perhaps youâre right about Brian, Miss Holland. Iâve decided that he shall start next term at Winhaysâmy old prep school. But Colin is a little young yet. Iâd prefer him to wait another year.â

âWell of course I see what you mean. And Colin is perhaps a little young for his ageââ

Quiet domestic talkâquiet domestic sceneâand a golden head bent over needlework.

Then the door opened and Megan came in.

She stood very straight in the doorway, and I was aware at once of something tense and strung up about her. The skin of her face was tight and drawn and her eyes were bright and resolute. There was no diffidence about her tonight and no childishness.

She said, addressing Symmington, but giving him no title (and I suddenly reflected that I never heard her call him anything. Did she address him as father or as Dick or what?)

âI would like to speak to you, please. Alone.â

Symmington looked surprised and, I fancied, not best pleased. He frowned, but Megan carried her point with a determination unusual in her.

She turned to Elsie Holland and said:

âDo you mind, Elsie?â

âOh, of course not,â Elsie Holland jumped up. She looked startled and a little flurried.

She went to the door and Megan came farther in so that Elsie passed her.

Just for a moment Elsie stood motionless in the doorway looking over her shoulder.

Her lips were closed, she stood quite still, one hand stretched out, the other clasping her needlework to her.

I caught my breath, overwhelmed by her beauty. When I think of her now, I always think of her like thatâin arrested motion, with that matchless deathless perfection that belonged to ancient Greece.

Then she went out shutting the door.

Symmington said rather fretfully:

âWell, Megan, what is it? What do you want?â

Megan had come right up to the table. She stood there looking down at Symmington. I was struck anew by the resolute determination of her face and by something elseâa hardness new to me.

Then she opened her lips and said something that startled me to the core.

âI want some money,â she said.

The request didnât improve Symmingtonâs temper. He said sharply:

âCouldnât you have waited until tomorrow morning? Whatâs the matter, do you think your allowance is inadequate?â

A fair man, I thought even then, open to reason, though not to emotional appeal.

Megan said: âI want a good deal of money.â

Symmington sat up straight in his chair. He said coldly:

âYou will come of age in a few monthsâ time. Then the money left you by your grandmother will be turned over to you by the public trustee.â

Megan said:

âYou donât understand. I want money from you.â She went on, speaking faster. âNobodyâs ever talked much to me about my father. Theyâve not wanted me to know about him. But I do know that he went to prison and I know why. It was for blackmail!â

She paused.

âWell, Iâm his daughter. And perhaps I take after him. Anyway, Iâm asking you to give me money becauseâif you donâtââshe stopped and then went on very slowly and evenlyââif you donâtâI shall say what I saw you doing to the cachet that day in my motherâs room.â

There was a pause. Then Symmington said in a completely emotionless voice:

âI donât know what you mean.â

Megan said: âI think you do.â

And she smiled. It was not a nice smile.

Symmington got up. He went over to the writing desk. He took a cheque-book from his pocket and wrote out a cheque. He blotted it carefully and then came back. He held it out to Megan.

âYouâre grown up now,â he said. âI can understand that you may feel you want to buy something rather special in the way of clothes and all that. I donât know what youâre talking about. I didnât pay attention. But hereâs a cheque.â

Megan looked at it, then she said:

âThank you. That will do to go on with.â

She turned and went out of the room. Symmington stared after her and at the closed door, then he turned round and as I saw his face I made a quick uncontrolled movement forward.

It was checked in the most extraordinary fashion. The big bush that I had noticed by the wall stopped being a bush. Superintendent Nashâs arms went round me and Superintendent Nashâs voice just breathed in my ear:

âQuiet, Burton. For Godâs sake.â

Then, with infinite caution he beat a retreat, his arm impelling me to accompany him.

Round the side of the house he straightened himself and wiped his forehead.

âOf course,â he said, âyou would have to butt in!â

âThat girl isnât safe,â I said urgently. âYou saw his face? Weâve got to get her out of here.â

Nash took a firm grip of my arm.

âNow, look here, Mr. Burton, youâve got to listen.â

VI

Well, I listened.

I didnât like itâbut I gave in.

But I insisted on being on the spot and I swore to obey orders implicitly.

So that is how I came with Nash and Parkins into the house by the back door which was already unlocked.

And I waited with Nash on the upstairs landing behind the velvet curtain masking the window alcove until the clocks in the house struck two, and Symmingtonâs door opened and he went across the landing and into Meganâs room.

I did not stir or make a move for I knew that Sergeant Parkins was inside masked by the opening door, and I knew that Parkins was a good man and knew his job, and I knew that I couldnât have trusted myself to keep quiet and not break out.

And waiting there, with my heart thudding, I saw Symmington come out with Megan in his arms and carry her downstairs, with Nash and myself a discreet distance behind him.

He carried her through to the kitchen and he had just arranged her comfortably with her head in the gas oven and had turned on the gas when Nash and I came through the kitchen door and switched on the light.

And that was the end of Richard Symmington. He collapsed. Even while I was hauling Megan out and turning off the gas I saw the collapse. He didnât even try to fight. He knew heâd played and lost.

VII

Upstairs I sat by Meganâs bed waiting for her to come round and occasionally cursing Nash.

âHow do you know sheâs all right? It was too big a risk.â

Nash was very soothing.

âJust a soporific in the milk she always had by her bed. Nothing more. It stands to reason, he couldnât risk her being poisoned. As far as heâs concerned the whole business is closed with Miss Griffithâs arrest. He canât afford to have any mysterious death. No violence, no poison. But if a rather unhappy type of girl broods over her motherâs suicide, and finally goes and puts her head in the gas ovenâwell, people just say that she was never quite normal and the shock of her motherâs death finished her.â

I said, watching Megan:

âSheâs a long time coming round.â

âYou heard what Dr. Griffith said? Heart and pulse quite all rightâsheâll just sleep and wake naturally. Stuff he gives a lot of his patients, he says.â

Megan stirred. She murmured something.

Superintendent Nash unobtrusively left the room.

Presently Megan opened her eyes. âJerry.â

âHallo, sweet.â

âDid I do it well?â

âYou might have been blackmailing ever since your cradle!â

Megan closed her eyes again. Then she murmured:

âLast nightâI was writing to youâin case anything wentâwent wrong. But I was too sleepy to finish. Itâs over there.â

I went across to the writing-table. In a shabby little blotter I found Meganâs unfinished letter.

âMy dear Jerry,â it began primly:

âI was reading my school Shakespeare and the sonnet that begins:

âSo are you to my thoughts as food to life

Or as sweet-seasonâd showers are to the ground.â

and I see that I am in love with you after all, because that is what I feelâ¦.â

Fourteen

âSo you see,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop, âI was quite right to call in an expert.â

I stared at her. We were all at the vicarage. The rain was pouring down outside and there was a pleasant log fire, and Mrs. Dane Calthrop had just wandered round, beat up a sofa cushion and put it for some reason of her own on the top of the grand piano.

âBut did you?â I said, surprised. âWho was it? What did he do?â

âIt wasnât a he,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop.

With a sweeping gesture she indicated Miss Marple. Miss Marple had finished the fleecy knitting and was now engaged with a crochet hook and a ball of cotton.

âThatâs my expert,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop. âJane Marple. Look at her well. I tell you, that woman knows more about the different kinds of human wickedness than anyone Iâve ever known.â

âI donât think you should put it quite like that, dear,â murmured Miss Marple.

âBut you do.â

âOne sees a good deal of human nature living in a village all the year round,â said Miss Marple placidly.

Then, seeming to feel it was expected of her, she laid down her crochet, and delivered a gentle old-maidish dissertation on murder.

âThe great thing is in these cases to keep an absolutely open mind. Most crimes, you see, are so absurdly simple. This one was. Quite sane and straightforwardâand quite understandableâin an unpleasant way, of course.â

âVery unpleasant!â

âThe truth was really so very obvious. You saw it, you know, Mr. Burton.â

âIndeed I did not.â

âBut you did. You indicated the whole thing to me. You saw perfectly the relationship of one thing to the other, but you just hadnât enough self-confidence to see what those feelings of yours meant. To begin with, that tiresome phrase âNo smoke without fire.â It irritated you, but you proceeded quite correctly to label it for what it wasâa smoke screen. Misdirection, you seeâeverybody looking at the wrong thingâthe anonymous letters, but the whole point was that there werenât any anonymous letters!â

âBut my dear Miss Marple, I can assure you that there were. I had one.â

âOh yes, but they werenât real at all. Dear Maud here tumbled to that. Even in peaceful Lymstock there are plenty of scandals, and I can assure you any woman living in the place would have known about them and used them. But a man, you see, isnât interested in gossip in the same wayâespecially a detached logical man like Mr. Symmington. A genuine woman writer of those letters would have made her letters much more to the point.

âSo you see that if you disregard the smoke and come to the fire you know where you are. You just come down to the actual facts of what happened. And putting aside the letters, just one thing happenedâMrs. Symmington died.

âSo then, naturally, one thinks of who might have wanted Mrs. Symmington to die, and of course the very first person one thinks of in such a case is, I am afraid, the husband. And one asks oneself is there any reason?âany motive?âfor instance, another woman?

âAnd the very first thing I hear is that there is a very attractive young governess in the house. So clear, isnât it? Mr. Symmington, a rather dry repressed unemotional man, tied to a querulous and neurotic wife and then suddenly this radiant young creature comes along.

âIâm afraid, you know, that gentlemen, when they fall in love at a certain age, get the disease very badly. Itâs quite a madness. And Mr. Symmington, as far as I can make out, was never actually a good manâhe wasnât very kind or very affectionate or very sympatheticâhis qualities were all negativeâso he hadnât really the strength to fight his madness. And in a place like this, only his wifeâs death would solve his problem. He wanted to marry the girl, you see. Sheâs very respectable and so is he. And besides, heâs devoted to his children and didnât want to give them up. He wanted everything, his home, his children, his respectability and Elsie. And the price he would have to pay for that was murder.

âHe chose, I do think, a very clever way. He knew so well from his experience of criminal cases how soon suspicion falls on the husband if a wife dies unexpectedlyâand the possibility of exhumation in the case of poison. So he created a death which seemed only incidental to something else. He created a non-existent anonymous letter writer. And the clever thing was that the police were certain to suspect a womanâand they were quite right in a way. All the letters were a womanâs letters; he cribbed them very cleverly from the letters in the case last year and from a case Dr Griffith told him about. I donât mean that he was so crude as to reproduce any letter verbatim, but he took phrases and expressions from them and mixed them up, and the net result was that the letters definitely represented a womanâs mindâa half-crazed repressed personality.

âHe knew all the tricks that the police use, handwriting, typewriting tests, etc. Heâs been preparing his crime for some time. He typed all the envelopes before he gave away the typewriter to the Womenâs Institute, and he cut the pages from the book at Little Furze probably quite a long time ago when he was waiting in the drawing room one day. People donât open books of sermons much!

âAnd finally, having got his false Poison Pen well established, he staged the real thing. A fine afternoon when the governess and the boys and his stepdaughter would be out, and the servants having their regular day out. He couldnât foresee that the little maid Agnes would quarrel with her boy and come back to the house.â

Joanna asked:

âBut what did she see? Do you know that?â

âI donât know. I can only guess. My guess would be that she didnât see anything.â

âThat it was all a mareâs nest?â

âNo, no, my dear, I mean that she stood at the pantry window all the afternoon waiting for the young man to come and make it up and thatâquite literallyâshe saw nothing. That is, no one came to the house at all, not the postman, nor anybody else.

âIt would take her some time, being slow, to realize that that was very oddâbecause apparently Mrs. Symmington had received an anonymous letter that afternoon.â

âDidnât she receive one?â I asked, puzzled.

âBut of course not! As I say, this crime is so simple. Her husband just put the cyanide in the top cachet of the ones she took in the afternoon when her sciatica came on after lunch. All Symmington had to do was to get home before, or at the same time as Elsie Holland, call his wife, get no answer, go up to her room, drop a spot of cyanide in the plain glass of water she had used to swallow the cachet, toss the crumpled-up anonymous letter into the grate, and put by her hand the scrap of paper with âI canât go onâ written on it.â

Miss Marple turned to me.

âYou were quite right about that, too, Mr. Burton. A âscrap of paperâ was all wrong. People donât leave suicide notes on small torn scraps of paper. They use a sheet of paperâand very often an envelope too. Yes, the scrap of paper was wrong and you knew it.â

âYou are rating me too high,â I said. âI knew nothing.â

âBut you did, you really did, Mr. Burton. Otherwise why were you immediately impressed by the message your sister left scribbled on the telephone pad?â

I repeated slowly, ââSay that I canât go on FridayââI see! I canât go on?â

Miss Marple beamed on me.

âExactly. Mr. Symmington came across such a message and saw its possibilities. He tore off the words he wanted for when the time cameâa message genuinely in his wifeâs handwriting.â

âWas there any further brilliance on my part?â I asked.

Miss Marple twinkled at me.

âYou put me on the track, you know. You assembled those facts together for meâin sequenceâand on top of it you told me the most important thing of allâthat Elsie Holland had never received any anonymous letters.â

âDo you know,â I said, âlast night I thought that she was the letter writer and that that was why there had been no letters written to her?â

âOh dear, me, noâ¦ The person who writes anonymous letters practically always sends them to herself as well. Thatâs part of theâwell, the excitement, I suppose. No, no, the fact interested me for quite another reason. It was really, you see, Mr. Symmingtonâs one weakness. He couldnât bring himself to write a foul letter to the girl he loved. Itâs a very interesting sidelight on human natureâand a credit to him, in a wayâbut itâs where he gave himself away.â

Joanna said:

âAnd he killed Agnes? But surely that was quite unnecessary?â

âPerhaps it was, but what you donât realize, my dear (not having killed anyone), is that your judgment is distorted afterwards and everything seems exaggerated. No doubt he heard the girl telephoning to Partridge, saying sheâd been worried ever since Mrs. Symmingtonâs death, that there was something she didnât understand. He canât take any chancesâthis stupid, foolish girl has seen something, knows something.â

âYet apparently he was at his office all that afternoon?â

âI should imagine he killed her before he went. Miss Holland was in the dining room and kitchen. He just went out into the hall, opened and shut the front door as though he had gone out, then slipped into the little cloakroom. When only Agnes was left in the house, he probably rang the front door bell, slipped back into the cloakroom, came out behind her and hit her on the head as she was opening the front door, and then after thrusting the body into the cupboard, he hurried along to his office, arriving just a little late if anyone had happened to notice it, but they probably didnât. You see, no one was suspecting a man.â

âAbominable brute,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop.

âYouâre not sorry for him, Mrs. Dane Calthrop?â I inquired.

âNot in the least. Why?â

âIâm glad to hear it, thatâs all.â

Joanna said:

âBut why AimÃ©e Griffith? I know that the police have found the pestle taken from Owenâs dispensaryâand the skewer too. I suppose itâs not so easy for a man to return things to kitchen drawers. And guess where they were? Superintendent Nash only told me just now when I met him on my way here. In one of those musty old deed-boxes in his office. Estate of Sir Jasper Harrington-West, deceased.â

âPoor Jasper,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop. âHe was a cousin of mine. Such a correct old boy. He would have had a fit!â

âWasnât it madness to keep them?â I asked.

âProbably madder to throw them away,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop. âNo one had any suspicions about Symmington.â

âHe didnât strike her with the pestle,â said Joanna. âThere was a clock weight there too, with hair and blood on it. He pinched the pestle, they think, on the day AimÃ©e was arrested, and hid the book pages in her house. And that brings me back to my original question. What about AimÃ©e Griffith? The police actually saw her write that letter.â

âYes, of course,â said Miss Marple. âShe did write that letter.â

âBut why?â

âOh, my dear, surely you have realized that Miss Griffith had been in love with Symmington all her life?â

âPoor thing!â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop mechanically.

âTheyâd always been good friends, and I dare say she thought, after Mrs. Symmingtonâs death, that some day, perhapsâwellââ Miss Marple coughed delicately. âAnd then the gossip began spreading about Elsie Holland and I expect that upset her badly. She thought of the girl as a designing minx worming her way into Symmingtonâs affections and quite unworthy of him. And so, I think, she succumbed to temptation. Why not add one more anonymous letter, and frighten the girl out of the place? It must have seemed quite safe to her and she took, as she thought, every precaution.â

âWell?â said Joanna. âFinish the story.â

âI should imagine,â said Miss Marple slowly, âthat when Miss Holland showed that letter to Symmington he realized at once who had written it, and he saw a chance to finish the case once and for all, and make himself safe. Not very niceâno, not very nice, but he was frightened, you see. The police wouldnât be satisfied until theyâd got the anonymous letter writer. When he took the letter down to the police and he found theyâd actually seen AimÃ©e writing it, he felt heâd got a chance in a thousand of finishing the whole thing.

âHe took the family to tea there that afternoon and as he came from the office with his attachÃ© case, he could easily bring the tornout book pages to hide under the stairs and clinch the case. Hiding them under the stairs was a neat touch. It recalled the disposal of Agnesâs body, and, from the practical point of view, it was very easy for him. When he followed AimÃ©e and the police, just a minute or two in the hall passing through would be enough.â

âAll the same,â I said, âthereâs one thing I canât forgive you for, Miss Marpleâroping in Megan.â

Miss Marple put down her crochet which she had resumed. She looked at me over her spectacles and her eyes were stern.

âMy dear young man, something had to be done. There was no evidence against this very clever and unscrupulous man. I needed someone to help me, someone of high courage and good brains. I found the person I needed.â

âIt was very dangerous for her.â

âYes, it was dangerous, but we are not put into this world, Mr. Burton, to avoid danger when an innocent fellow-creatureâs life is at stake. You understand me?â

I understood.

Fifteen

I

Morning in the High Street.

Miss Emily Barton comes out of the grocerâs with her shopping bag. Her cheeks are pink and her eyes are excited.

âOh, dear, Mr. Burton, I really am in such a flutter. To think I really am going on a cruise at last!â

âI hope youâll enjoy it.â

âOh, Iâm sure I shall. I should never have dared to go by myself. It does seem so providential the way everything has turned out. For a long time Iâve felt that I ought to part with Little Furze, that my means were really too straitened but I couldnât bear the idea of strangers there. But now that you have bought it and are going to live there with Meganâit is quite different. And then dear AimÃ©e, after her terrible ordeal, not quite knowing what to do with herself, and her brother getting married (how nice to think you have both settled down with us!) and agreeing to come with me. We mean to be away quite a long time. We might evenââMiss Emily dropped her voiceââgo round the world! And AimÃ©e is so splendid and so practical. I really do think, donât you, that everything turns out for the best?â

Just for a fleeting moment I thought of Mrs. Symmington and Agnes Woddell in their graves in the churchyard and wondered if they would agree, and then I remembered that Agnesâs boy hadnât been very fond of her and that Mrs. Symmington hadnât been very nice to Megan and, what the hell? weâve all got to die some time! And I agreed with happy Miss Emily that everything was for the best in the best of possible worlds.

I went along the High Street and in at the Symmingtonsâ gate and Megan came out to meet me.

It was not a romantic meeting because an out-size Old English sheepdog came out with Megan and nearly knocked me over with his ill-timed exuberance.

âIsnât he adorable?â said Megan.

âA little overwhelming. Is he ours?â

âYes, heâs a wedding present from Joanna. We have had nice wedding presents, havenât we? That fluffy woolly thing that we donât know what itâs for from Miss Marple, and the lovely Crown Derby tea set from Mr. Pye, and Elsie has sent me a toast-rackââ

âHow typical,â I interjected.

âAnd sheâs got a post with a dentist and is very happy. Andâwhere was I?â

âEnumerating wedding presents. Donât forget if you change your mind youâll have to send them all back.â

âI shanât change my mind. What else have we got? Oh, yes, Mrs. Dane Calthrop has sent an Egyptian scarab.â

âOriginal woman,â I said.

âOh! Oh! but you donât know the best. Partridge has actually sent me a present. Itâs the most hideous teacloth youâve ever seen. But I think she must like me now because she says she embroidered it all with her own hands.â

âIn a design of sour grapes and thistles, I suppose?â

âNo, true loversâ knots.â

âDear, dear,â I said, âPartridge is coming on.â

Megan had dragged me into the house.

She said:

âThereâs just one thing I canât make out. Besides the dogâs own collar and lead, Joanna has sent an extra collar and lead. What do you think thatâs for?â

âThat,â I said, âis Joannaâs little joke.â

The Agatha Christie Collection

THE HERCULE POIROT MYSTERIES

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The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

The Big Four

The Mystery of the Blue Train

Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirotâ€™s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labors of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

The Underdog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGintyâ€™s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Manâ€™s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Clocks

Third Girl

Halloweâ€™en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Curtain: Poirotâ€™s Last Case

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Join the legendary spinster sleuth from St. Mary Mead in solving murders far and wide.

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The Murder at the Vicarage

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 From Paddington

The Mirror Crackâ€™d from Side to Side

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertramâ€™s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Complete Short Stories

THE TOMMY AND TUPPENCE MYSTERIES

Jump on board with the entertaining crime-solving couple from Young Adventurers Ltd.

The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

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Donâ€™t miss a single one of Agatha Christieâ€™s stand-alone novels and short-story collections.

The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

The Seven Dials Mystery

The Mysterious Mr. Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

Parker Pyne Investigates

Why Didnâ€™t They Ask Evans?

Murder Is Easy

The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

The Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories

Crooked House

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

The Pale Horse

Star over Bethlehem: Poems and Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

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About the Author

Agatha Christie is the most widely published author of all time and in any language, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her books have sold more than a billion copies in English and another billion in a hundred foreign languages. She is the author of eighty crime novels and short-story collections, nineteen plays, two memoirs, and six novels written under the name Mary Westmacott.

She first tried her hand at detective fiction while working in a hospital dispensary during World War I, creating the now legendary Hercule Poirot with her debut novel The Mysterious Affair at Styles. With The Murder in the Vicarage, published in 1930, she introduced another beloved sleuth, Miss Jane Marple. Additional series characters include the husband-and-wife crime-fighting team of Tommy and Tuppence Beresford, private investigator Parker Pyne, and Scotland Yard detectives Superintendent Battle and Inspector Japp.

Many of Christieâ€™s novels and short stories were adapted into plays, films, and television series. The Mousetrap, her most famous play of all, opened in 1952 and is the longest-running play in history. Among her best-known film adaptations are Murder on the Orient Express (1974) and Death on the Nile (1978), with Albert Finney and Peter Ustinov playing Hercule Poirot, respectively. On the small screen Poirot has been most memorably portrayed by David Suchet, and Miss Marple by Joan Hickson and subsequently Geraldine McEwan and Julia McKenzie.

Christie was first married to Archibald Christie and then to archaeologist Sir Max Mallowan, whom she accompanied on expeditions to countries that would also serve as the settings for many of her novels. In 1971 she achieved one of Britainâ€™s highest honors when she was made a Dame of the British Empire. She died in 1976 at the age of eighty-five. Her one hundred and twentieth anniversary was celebrated around the world in 2010.

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THE AGATHA CHRISTIE COLLECTION

The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

The Seven Dials Mystery

The Mysterious Mr. Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

Parker Pyne Investigates

Why Didnâ€™t They Ask Evans?

Murder Is Easy

The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

The Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories

Crooked House

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

The Pale Horse

Star over Bethlehem: Poems and Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

The Harlequin Tea Set

The Hercule Poirot Mysteries

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

The Big Four

The Mystery of the Blue Train

Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews and Other Stories

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirotâ€™s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labors of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

The Underdog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGintyâ€™s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Manâ€™s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Clocks

Third Girl

Halloweâ€™en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Curtain: Poirotâ€™s Last Case

The Miss Marple Mysteries

The Murder at the Vicarage

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 from Paddington

The Mirror Crackâ€™d from Side to Side

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertramâ€™s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Complete Short Stories

The Tommy and Tuppence Mysteries

The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the authorâ€™s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

AGATHA CHRISTIEÂ® MARPLE Â® MISS MARPLEÂ® THE MOVING FINGER â„¢. Copyright Â© 2011 Agatha Christie Limited (a Chorion company). All rights reserved. The Moving Finger was first published in 1943.

THE MOVING FINGER. Â© 1942. Published by permission of G.P. Putnamâ€™s Sons, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

ISBN 978-0-06-207362-4

EPub Edition Â© MAY 2011 ISBN:978-0-06-174981-0

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