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Agatha Christie (1890-1976) is know n throughout the world as the Q ueen of Crim e. H er books have sold over a billion copies in English w ith another billion in over 100 foreign languages. She is the most widely published and translated author of all time and in any language; only the Bible and Shakespeare have sold more copies. She is the author o f 80 crim e novels and short story collections, 19 plays, and six other novels. The Mousetrap, her most famous play, was first staged in 1952 in London and is still perform ed there —it is the longest-running play in history. Agatha C hristie’s first novel was published in 1920. It featured Hercule Poirot, the Belgian detective w ho has becom e the most popular detective in crim e fiction since Sherlock Holmes. Collins has published Agatha Christie since 1926. This series has been especially created for readers worldw ide whose first language is not English. Each story has been shortened, and the vocabulary and gram m ar sim plified to m ake it accessible to readers w ith a good interm ediate know ledge o f the language. The follow ing features are included after the story: A List o f characters to help the reader identify w ho is who, and how they are connected to each other. Cultural notes to explain historical and other references. A Glossary o f words that some readers may not be fam iliar w ith are explained. There is also a Recording o f the story.

Agatha Christie The Moving Finger

Collins

Collins HarperCollins Publishers 77-85 Fulham Palace Road Hammersmith, London W6 8JB www.collinselt.com Collins ® is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Publishers Limited. This Collins English Readers Edition published 2012 R eprint 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 Original text first published in Great Britain by Collins 1943 AGATHA CHRISTIE™ MISS MARPLE™ The Moving Finger™ Copyright © 1943 Agatha Christie Limited. All rights reserved. Copyright © 2012 The Moving Finger™ abridged edition Agatha Christie Limited. All rights reserved. www.agathachristie.com ISBN: 978-0-00-745163-0 A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Educational Consultant: Fitch O ’Connell Cover by crushed.co.uk © HarperCollins/Agatha Christie Ltd 2008 Typeset by Aptara in India Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives pic All rights reserved. No part o f this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. HarperCollins does not warrant that www.collinselt.com or any other website mentioned in this title will be provided uninterrupted, that any website will be error free, that defects will be corrected, or that the website or the server that makes it available are free of viruses or bugs. For full terms and conditions please refer to the site terms provided on the website.

Chapter 1

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W h e n at last m y broken bones had m ended, and the nurses had helped m e to w alk again, and I was tired o f being treated like a child, m y doctor, M arcus K ent told me I m ust go and live in the country. ‘G ood air, quiet life, noth in g to do — th at’s w hat you need. Y our sister w ill look after you.’ I d id n ’t ask h im if I w ould ever be able to fly an aeroplane again. T here are questions that you don’t ask because you are afraid you w o n ’t like the answers. B ut M arcus K ent answered anyway. ‘You’re going to recover completely,’ he said. ‘B ut it’s going to take a long tim e. You’ve got to live slowly and easily. T h a t’s w hy I am telling you to go to the country, rent a house, get interested in local people, local scandal, and local gossip. A nd go to a village w here you haven’t got any friends living nearby.’ I agreed. ‘I had already tho u g h t o f that.’ I did no t w ant friends calling to give m e sympathy, and then talking about themselves for hours. So it happened that Joanna and I eventually decided to look at a house called Little Furze, in Lym stock, m ainly because we had never been to Lym stock. A nd w hen Joanna saw Little Furze she decided at once th at it was the house we w anted. It was a low w hite house, w ith a V ictorian veranda. It was about h a lf a m ile out o f the to w n and had a pleasant view over the countryside w ith the Lym stock church tow er dow n below. It had belonged to a fam ily o f u n m arried ladies, but now there was only one still alive, the youngest, Miss E m ily B arton. She told Jo anna th at she had never rented h er house before, ‘but you see, m y dear, I do n o t have enough m oney to live in such a

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big house any m ore. A nd, now I have m et you, I shall be very happy to k now that you are here. I really did hate the idea o f having M en in the house!’ At this p o in t Joanna had to tell her about me. A nd Miss Em ily said, ‘O h, how sad! A flying accident? B ut you r bro th er w ill be unable to m ove very m uch —’ T h e thought seem ed to cheer her. A nd she told Joanna that she was going to live w ith a w om an w ho had once been her servant, ‘D ear Florence’ w ho had m arried a builder. ‘T hey now have a nice house in the H ig h Street and tw o beautiful room s on the top floor w here I shall be very com fortable.’ So Jo an n a and I agreed to rent Little Furze for six m onths, and w e m oved in. Miss B arto n ’s servant, Partridge, a thin, hum ourless w om an, w ho cooked very well, stayed to look after us. A nd she was helped by a girl w ho came in every m orning. W h e n w e had been at Little Furze for a w eek M rs Sym m ington, the law yer’s wife; Miss G riffith, the doctor’s sister; M rs D aneC althrop, the vicar’s wife, and M r Pye o f P rio r’s E nd all cam e to visit us and leave us their address cards. Jo an n a was very excited. ‘I did n ’t know that people really called — w ith cards.’ ‘T h at is because you k now n o th in g about the country,’ I said. ‘N onsense. I’ve stayed for lots o f w eekends w ith people in the country.’ ‘T h at is n o t at all the same th in g ,’ I said. T h en I suddenly k new how selfish m y accident had m ade me. For m y younger sister is very pretty, and she likes dancing, and driv in g around in fast cars. ‘This is going to be aw ful for you,’ I said to her. ‘You are going to miss L ondon so m uch.’ Jo an n a laughed and said she did n ’t m ind at all. ‘In fact, I’m glad to get away from it all. I was really very upset about Paul and it w ill take m e a long tim e to get over him .’

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I didn’t believe this. Joanna’s love affairs are always the same. She falls madly in love w ith some weak young m an w ho is really very clever, but no one understands him . She listens to all his complaints and works hard to get him respect. Then, w hen he is ungrateful, she says her heart is broken — until the next weak young m an comes along! So I did not take Joanna’s pain very seriously. But I did understand that living in the country was like a new game to my beautiful sister. ‘This is a nice place, Jerry!’ she said. ‘So sweet and funny and old-fashioned. You just can’t think o f anything awful happening here, can you?’ A nd I agreed w ith her. In a place like Lymstock nothing awful could happen. It is strange to think that it was just a week later that we got the first letter. II

T he letter arrived while we were having breakfast. It was a local letter w ith a typew ritten address. I opened it. Inside, words had been cut out from a book and stuck to a sheet o f paper. For a m inute or tw o I looked at the words w ithout understanding them . T hen I gasped. Joanna looked up. ‘W hat is it?’ The letter, using very unpleasant language, expressed the w riter’s opinion that Joanna and I were not brother and sister. ‘It’s a disgusting anonym ous letter,’ I said, very shocked. Joanna was im m ediately interested. ‘W hat does it say?’ I handed the letter to her. ‘W hat a piece o f dirt!’ She began to laugh. ‘You were obviously right about my w earing too m uch m ake-up, Jerry. I suppose they think I’m an evil w om an!’ 3

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‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘But, o f course, o u r father was tall and dark­ haired and o ur m other was fair-haired w ith blue eyes. A nd since I look like h im and you look like her . . .’ Jo anna nodded. ‘N o b ody w ould th in k w e w ere b ro th er and sister. So w hat shall w e do w ith the letter? ’ ‘T h e correct thing, I believe, is to th ro w it into the fire.’ I did so, and Jo anna watched. T h en she got up and w ent to the w indow . ‘I w onder w ho w ro te it?’ ‘W e w ill probably never know .’ Joanna was silent for a m om ent. ‘W h e n I th in k about it, I’m not sure that it’s so funny after all. I thought they . . . liked us dow n here.’ ‘T h ey do,’ I said. ‘T his is ju st some half-m ad stupid person.’ ‘I suppose so. B ut it’s cruel!’ As she w ent out into the sunshine, I thought that she was quite right. It was cruel. Som eone hated us living here — som eone hated Jo an n a’s stylish beauty — som ebody w anted to h u rt us. To laugh was perhaps the best th in g to do. B ut it still w asn’t funn y . . . D r G riffith came to the house that m orning. I had arranged for h im to exam ine m e once a w eek. I liked O w e n Griffith. H e was aw kw ard in the way he m oved, bu t he had very gentle hands. H is rep o rt on m y progress was encouraging. T h en he said, ‘A re you feeling all right? I sense that som ething has upset you today?’ ‘N o t really,’ I said. ‘B ut a rather unpleasant anonym ous letter arrived this m o rning.’ H e dropped his bag on the floor. ‘A re you telling m e that you’ve also had one o f th em ?’

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I was interested. ‘There have been other such letters, then?’ ‘O h, yes.’ ‘I see,’ I said. ‘I thought that someone didn’t like strangers living here.’ ‘N o, no, it’s nothing to do w ith that. It’s just . . . W hat did it say?’ Suddenly his face w ent red. ‘Sorry, perhaps I should not ask?’ ‘I am happy to tell you,’ I said. ‘It just suggested that the very lively girl I had brought here to live w ith me was not my sister! A nd that is a polite translation.’ ‘H ow disgusting! I do hope your sister is not too upset.’ ‘J oanna’, I said, ‘found it very funny. A nd that is the best way to treat som ething so totally stupid.’ ‘Yes,’ said O w en Griffith. ‘But the trouble is, that once this sort o f thing starts, it just gets bigger. It is a type of madness, o f course.’ I nodded. ‘Have you any idea who is doing it?’ ‘N o, I wish I had. You see, there are usually tw o reasons for sending anonym ous letters. Either it is particular and the letters are sent to one person or group of people, by someone w ho is angry w ith them for som ething that has happened. It is unkind and disgusting, but it’s not always mad, and it’s usually fairly easy to find out w ho the w riter is. But if it is general and not particular, then it is m ore serious. T he letters are sent to lots o f people who are not connected by any bad treatm ent o f the writer. This is because the m ain purpose of such letters is to express some deep problem in the w riter’s m ind. And that is definitely a form of madness. Also, w hen you eventually find out w ho the w riter is, it is often a real shock, and rather frightening. I rem em ber some anonym ous letters being sent w hen I was w orking in the north o f England, and although they were simply about personal hatred, the situation still frightened me.’

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‘Have people in Lym stock been receiving these letters for a long tim e ?’ I asked. ‘I do n ’t th in k so. But, o f course, people w ho get these letters don ’t usually tell anyone.’ H e paused. ‘I’ve had one myself. Sym m ington, the lawyer, h e ’s had one. A nd one or tw o o f my patients have told m e about them .’ ‘A re they all about the same sort o f th in g ?’ ‘O h yes. Sex is always the m ain subject.’ H e smiled. ‘S ym m ington was accused o f being involved w ith his secretary, Miss G inch, w ho wears big glasses and has a nose like a b ird ’s beak. S ym m ington took it straight to the police. M y letters said that I had been involved w ith several o f m y lady patients. T h ey ’re all quite childish, but they can still be dangerous.’ ‘I suppose they can.’ ‘You see,’ he said, ‘one day, one o f these letters w ill, by chance, be accurate. A nd then, goodness know s w hat m ay happen! Also, some people see som ething w ritten dow n and im m ediately believe that it’s true. T h en things can becom e very unpleasant.’

6

Chapter 2 i O u r anonymous letter did w orry me a little but I soon stopped thinking about it. Then, about a week later, our servant, Partridge, told me that Beatrice, the girl who helped her, would not be com ing today. ‘She has been upset,’ Partridge said. I said I was sorry and hoped that Beatrice w ould soon be better. ‘She is perfectly well,’ said Partridge. ‘It is her feelings that are upset. Because o f a letter she has received, suggesting, well, that she is too friendly w ith you, M r B urton.’ Since I hardly knew w hat Beatrice looked like I said, ‘W hat nonsense!’ ‘T hat is just w hat I said to the girl’s m other,’ said Partridge. ‘But Beatrice’s boyfriend got one o f those letters too, and he doesn’t think it is nonsense at all. So I think it is a good thing Beatrice has left. Because she would not be so upset unless there was something she didn’t w ant found out. There is no smoke w ithout fire. M r B urton.’ I did not know then how very tired I was going to get o f that particular phrase. II

T hat m orning I had decided to walk dow n to Lymstock on my ow n for the first tim e. W e had arranged that Joanna would meet me w ith the car and drive me back up the hill in tim e for lunch. T he sun was shining, and there was the sweetness o f spring in 7

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the air. I picked up m y w alking sticks and started off. It felt like an adventure. B ut I did not, after all, w alk dow n to the to w n alone. I had no t gone far, w hen I heard the sound o f a bell behind m e, and then M egan H u n ter alm ost fell o ff her bicycle at m y feet. ‘H ello,’ she said as she got up. I rather liked M egan and always felt rather sorry for her. She was the lawyer S ym m ington’s step-daughter — M rs S y m m in g to n ’s daughter by a first m arriage. N o b o d y talked m uch about M r (or C aptain) H unter. I had heard that he had treated M rs S ym m ington very badly. She had divorced him then cam e to Lym stock w ith M egan ‘to forget’, and had eventually m arried the only suitable u n m arried m an in the place, R ich ard S ym m ington. T h ey had tw o little boys together w h o m they obviously loved very m uch, and I tho u g h t that M egan m ust som etim es feel a bit left out. She w asn’t at all like her m other, w ho was a small pretty w om an. M egan was tall and aw kw ard, and although she was actually tw enty, she looked m ore like a schoolgirl. She had untidy bro w n hair, green eyes, a th in face, and a delightful smile. H er clothes w ere unattractive and she usually w ore thick stockings w ith holes in them . She looked, I thought this m orning, m uch m ore like a horse than a h u m an being. In fact she w ould have been a very nice horse i f som eone had brushed her. ‘I’ve been up to the farm ,’ she said, ‘to see if they had got any du ck ’s eggs. T h ey ’ve got some sweet little pigs. D o you like pigs? I even like the smell.’ ‘W ell-kept pigs shouldn’t smell,’ I said. ‘S houldn’t they? A re you w alking dow n to the tow n? I saw you w ere alone, so I th ought I w ould stop and w alk w ith you. B ut I stopped rather suddenly.’

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‘You’ve torn your stocking,’ I said. M egan looked at her right leg. ‘O h, yes. But there are tw o holes in it already, so it doesn’t really matter, does it?’ ‘D on’t you ever m end your stockings, Megan? ’ ‘W hen M um m y tells me to. But she doesn’t often notice what I do, so it’s lucky in a way.’ ‘You don’t seem to understand that you’re grow n up,’ I said. ‘You m ean I ought to be m ore like your sister? All dressed up?’ I didn’t m uch like this description o f Joanna. ‘She looks clean and tidy and good to look at,’ I said. ‘She’s very pretty,’ said M egan. ‘She isn’t a bit like you, is she? W hy not?’ ‘Brothers and sisters aren’t always alike.’ ‘N o. M y half-brothers Brian and Colin aren’t like each other.’ W e walked on in silence for a m om ent or two, then M egan said, ‘You fly aeroplanes, don’t you?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘T hat’s how you got hurt?’ ‘Yes, I crashed.’ She paused, and then asked w ith the honesty o f a child, ‘W ill you get better and be able to fly again, or w ill you always need sticks?’ ‘M y doctor says I w ill get better.’ ‘I’m glad you’re going to get better,’ M egan said. ‘I thought that you m ight look angry because you were never going to be well again.’ ‘I’m angry,’ I said, ‘because I’m in a hurry to get fit again — and these things can’t be hurried.’ ‘T hen why w orry?’ I began to laugh. ‘M egan, aren’t you ever in a hurry for things to happen?’ 9

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‘N o. W h y should I be? N o th in g ever happens.’ I was struck by som ething sad in the words. ‘H aven’t you got any friends h ere?’ ‘T here aren’t m any girls w ho live here, and they all th in k I’m aw ful.’ ‘W h y ?’ M egan shook her head. ‘D id you enjoy school?’ ‘It w asn’t bad. B ut the teachers could never answ er questions properly.’ ‘Very few teachers can,’ I said. ‘O f course, I am rather stupid,’ said M egan. ‘A nd such a lot o f things seem to m e such nonsense. A ll that stuff those poets Shelley and Keats w ro te about birds, and W ordsw orth going all silly over some daffodils. A nd Shakespeare.’ ‘W h a t’s w ro n g w ith Shakespeare?’ ‘H e says things in such a difficult way that you can’t understand w hat he means. B ut I like some Shakespeare. I like G oneril and R eg an .’ ‘W h y these tw o ?’ ‘Because, w ell something m ust have m ade them behave so badly.’ For the first tim e I really tho u g h t about them . I had always accepted that K ing Lear’s elder daughters w ere tw o very unpleasant w om en and that was all. B ut M egan’s dem and for a reason interested me. ‘I’ll th in k about it,’ I said. ‘W asn’t there any subject you enjoyed at school, M egan?’ ‘O n ly M aths.’ H er face suddenly looked happy. ‘I loved M aths. I th in k num bers are beautiful.’

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W e were now entering the H igh Street and D r Griffiths’s sister, Aimee, called out to us, ‘Hello, you two. Beautiful m orning, isn’t it?’ She had all the confidence that her brother did not have and she was good-looking in a strong outdoor way. ‘M egan, I’m so glad to see you,’ she said in her deep voice. ‘I want some help addressing envelopes for the R ed Cross.’ M egan said som ething I could not hear, leant her bicycle against a wall, and w ent straight into a shop. ‘She’s a strange child,’ said Miss Griffith. ‘Very lazy. She needs an interest in life.’ I thought that was probably true. But I also felt that if I were M egan, I w ould have said no to any o f A im ee G riffith’s suggestions. ‘Laziness is so w rong,’ continued Miss Griffith, ‘particularly in young people. M egan isn’t even pretty. A nd she is very stupid. O f course it would be boring if we were all the same, but I don’t like to see anyone not enjoying their life. I enjoy my life and I w ant everyone else to. I’m always busy, always happy!’ Suddenly Miss Griffith saw a friend on the other side of the street, and w ith a shout, she ran across the road, leaving me free to continue on my way to Messrs Galbraith, Galbraith and Sym m ington. I was shown into R ichard Sym m ington’s inner office. W atching the lawyer as he bent over the docum ents I had brought, I thought that if Mrs Sym m ington had experienced a very difficult first m arriage, she had certainly chosen safety for her second. R ichard Sym m ington was an example o f calm respectability. H e had a long neck, a long expressionless face and a long thin nose. A kind m an, no doubt, a good husband and father, but not a m an to m ake a heart beat faster.

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W e quickly settled the m atter I had com e to ask h im about and as I got up I said, ‘I w alked dow n the hill w ith your step­ daughter.’ For a m om ent M r S ym m ington looked as th o u g h he did n o t k now w ho his step-daughter was, then he smiled. ‘O h , yes, o f course, M egan. W e’re try in g to find som ething for her to do — yes. B ut o f course she’s still very young. A nd some people th in k that she’s n o t very clever.’ I left th ro u g h the o uter office w here a m iddle-aged w om an w ith a big nose and large glasses was w orking at a typew riter. If this was Miss Ginch, I agreed w ith O w en G riffith that any sexual relations betw een her and her em ployer w ere very unlikely. I w ent into the street and looked around, hoping to see Joanna w ith the car. T h e w alk had m ade m e very tired. B ut she had not arrived yet. T h en suddenly m y eyes w idened w ith surprise and delight. A long the pavem ent there came floating towards m e a goddess. T h ere is really no other w ord for it. H er perfect face, the curling golden hair, the tall beautifully shaped body! A nd she w alked like a goddess, w ith o u t effort, com ing nearer and nearer. I was so excited that I dropped one o f m y sticks on the pavem ent, and I nearly fell dow n myself. It was the strong arm o f the goddess th at caught and held me. ‘T h anks so m uch,’ I said. ‘I’m very sorry.’ T h en she handed m e the stick, sm iled kindly and said, ‘T h a t’s all right. It was no trouble, I prom ise you.’ A nd the m agic died com pletely w ith the sound o f her very ordinary voice. She was a nice healthy-looking girl, n o th in g m ore. Jo an n a had now driven up and stopped in the road beside me. She asked if there was anything the m atter.

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‘N othing,’ I said. ‘I’ve had a shock, that’s all. D o you know who that is?’ I pointed to the girl’s back as she floated away. ‘T hat’s the Sym m ingtons’ governess.’ Joanna opened the door o f the car and I got in. ‘It’s funny, isn’t it? Some people have the m ost perfect looks and absolutely no sex appeal.’ I said that if she was a governess, having no sex appeal was probably a good thing.

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T h at afternoon we w ent to tea w ith M r Pye. H e was a small fat m an w ho lived at P rio r’s Lodge, a very beautiful house and m ade even m ore beautiful by M r Pye. Every piece o f fu rn itu re was polished and set in the perfect place. T he curtains, too, w ere all m ade in perfectly chosen colours and o f the m ost expensive silks. I th o u g h t that living there w ould be rather like living in a m useum . M r P ye’s greatest pleasure was tak in g people round his house. His small hands shook as he described his treasures. Luckily, Joanna and I are b o th interested in beautiful old furniture. ‘It is so fortunate’, M r Pye said, ‘to have you here in Lymstock. T he good people o f the to w n are so, well — they don’t know any th in g about style. T h e insides o f their houses w ould m ake you cry, dear lady. Perhaps they have already done so?’ Jo an n a said that she h ad n ’t gone quite as far as that. ‘B ut I’m sure you agree,’ he said, ‘that beauty is the only th in g w o rth living for. So w hy do people surround themselves w ith ugliness?’ Jo an n a said it was very strange. ‘Strange? It’s criminal! A nd they give such stupid excuses. T hey even say that som ething is comfortable! N ow , the house you are renting, Miss E m ily B arton’s house, has some quite nice pieces in it. B ut som etim es, I th in k, it looks uncared for because she likes to keep things looking the same as w hen her m other was alive.’ H e tu rn ed to m e and his voice changed from that o f a sensitive artist to that o f a gossip.

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‘You didn’t know the family at all? No, well, the old m other was an extraordinary person — quite extraordinary! A monsterl “The girls” ! T hat’s w hat she always called her five daughters. And the eldest was well over sixty then. Every night they had to go to bed at ten o’clock. A nd they were never allowed to invite friends home. She had no respect for them because they were not m arried. But she arranged their lives so that it was impossible for them to m eet anybody! ’ ‘It sounds like a book,’ said Joanna. ‘O h, it was. A nd then the awful old w om an died, but of course it was far too late then. A nd soon they just died one after the other. All except Emily. It is so sad that she now has m oney problem s.’ ‘W e feel rather awful being in her house,’ said Joanna. ‘N o, no, my dear. You m ustn’t feel like that. She told me herself how happy she was to have got such nice tenants.’ It was tim e to leave and we all went out into the hall. As we reached the front door a letter came through the letterbox and fell on the floor. M r Pye picked it up. ‘M y dear young people, such a pleasure to m eet some lively m inds for a change. Lymstock is beautiful, but nothing ever happens.’ H e helped me into the car. Then Joanna drove off and I turned to wave goodbye to M r Pye. B ut he did not see me, for he hadjust opened his letter. And his face was tw isted w ith anger and shock. At that m om ent I knew that there had been som ething familiar about that envelope. ‘Goodness,’ said Joanna, looking in the car m irror. ‘W hat’s upset the poor old boy?’ ‘I think,’ I said, ‘that it’s the letter.’ ‘You m ean a letter like the one you got? But who writes these things, Jerry? A nd w hy?’

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‘You m ust read Freud and Ju n g to find that out,’ I said. ‘O r ask D r G riffith.’ Jo an n a shook her head. ‘D r G riffith doesn’t like m e.’ ‘H e ’s hardly seen you.’ ‘H e ’s seen quite enough, it seems, to m ake h im cross over the road i f he sees m e com ing. B ut seriously, Jerry, w hy do people w rite anonym ous letters?’ ‘I suppose that if others have been u n k in d to you, or ju st not noticed you, and your life is dull and empty, you m ig h t get a sense o f pow er from h u rtin g people w ho are happy.’ As w e drove th ro u gh the tow n, I looked at the few m en and w om en in the H ig h Street. Was one o f those healthy country people really filled w ith hate beh in d their calm expression, plan n in g perhaps even now another evil letter? B ut I still did n o t take it seriously. II Two days later, on Saturday afternoon, w e w ent to a card party at the S ym m ingtons’. T here w ere tw o tables. T he players w ere the Sym m ingtons, ourselves, Miss G riffith, M r Pye, Miss B arton and a C olonel A ppleton w ho lived in a nearby village. W h e n w e arrived, Elsie H olland, the children’s governess, was searching for some extra notebooks in the desk. She floated across the floor w ith them in the same way as w hen I had first seen her, b u t the m agic was gone. I now noticed how large her teeth were, and the way she opened her m outh very w ide w hen she laughed. W h ich she did a lot. ‘A re these notebooks all right, M rs Sym m ington? O h , they are a bit yellow round the edges. Anyway, I’m taking the boys to L ong B arrow so there w o n ’t be any noise.’

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W e sat down and began to play a game o f bridge. Everyone was very friendly and the afternoon passed quickly and enjoyably. W e then had tea in the dining-room . Suddenly, tw o excited little boys ran in. M rs Sym m ington smiled w ith pride as she introduced her sons to us. Then, just as we were finishing our tea, I heard a sound and turned my head to see M egan standing betw een the open French windows. ‘O h,’ said her m other, sounding surprised. ‘H ere’s M egan. I’m sorry but I forgot about your tea, dear. Miss H olland and the boys took theirs out w ith them .’ ‘T hat’s all right. I’ll go to the kitchen.’ M egan moved silently across the room. Mrs Sym m ington said w ith a little laugh, ‘Poor M egan. Girls are so awkward w hen they’ve just left school.’ Joanna looked up. ‘B ut M egan’s twenty, isn’t she?’ ‘O h, yes, yes. She is. B ut she’s very young for her age. W hich is so nice. I expect all m others w ant their children to rem ain babies.’ ‘I can’t think why,’ said Joanna. ‘It would be a bit difficult to have a child who had a six year old brain in a grow n-up body.’ ‘O h, you m ustn’t take things so seriously,’ said Mrs Sym m ington. As we drove hom e, Joanna said, ‘I feel very sorry for Megan. H er m other doesn’t like her.’ ‘O h, Joanna, it’s not as bad as that.’ ‘Yes, it is. M egan does not fit into the Sym m ington family. It’s complete w ithout her. A nd that’s a very unhappy feeling for a sensitive girl to have — and she is sensitive.’ ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I think she is.’

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Jo an n a suddenly laughed. ‘B ad luck for you about the governess.’ ‘I d on’t k now w hat you m ean.’ ‘N onsense. A nd I agree w ith you. It is a waste. She is so beautiful, u n til she opens her m outh, to talk or laugh! B ut I’m glad you noticed her. It is a sign that you are com ing alive again. I was quite w o rried about you at the hospital. You never even looked at th at very p retty nurse you had.’ I smiled. ‘B ut w hat about y o u ?’ ‘M e?’ ‘Yes. Y ou’ll need som eone to give you some excitem ent dow n here. So w hat about O w en Griffith? H e ’s the only u n m arried m an in the place.’ Jo an n a drove in silence th ro u g h the gate and ro u n d to the garage. T h en she said, ‘I don’t understand w hy any m an w ould cross the street to avoid m e. It’s ru d e , apart from anything else.’ I got carefully out o f the car, then stood leaning on m y sticks. ‘I’ll tell you this. O w en G riffith is no t one o f those w eak, artistic y oung m en you’ve always liked. So be careful. H e could be dangerous.’ ‘O h , do you th in k so?’ Joanna said w ith obvious pleasure at the thought. ‘B ut how dare he cross the street w hen he saw m e co m in g ?’ ‘W e have com e dow n here,’ I said, ‘for peace and quiet, and I am determ in ed that we w ill get it.’ B ut peace and quiet w ere the last things w e w ere to have.

18

Chapter 4 I

It was about a week later that Partridge told me that M rs Baker, the m other of the servant girl Beatrice, w ould like to speak to me. I hoped that I was not going to be accused o f being too friendly w ith her daughter, as the anonymous letter had said. But when I had offered her a chair, Mrs Baker said, ‘It is very good of you to see me, M r B urton. W hen Beatrice was on her bed, crying, I told her that you w ould know w hat to do.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘But w hat has happened?’ ‘It is the letters. T he evil letters.’ ‘Has your daughter received m ore letters?’ ‘N ot her, M r Burton. But now George, Beatrice’s boyfriend, he’s got one of them , saying how Beatrice is seeing Tom Ledbetter. George is m ad w ith anger, and he came round and told Beatrice he didn’t w ant to see her any m ore.’ ‘But w hy come to m e?’ I asked. ‘I heard that you’d had one o f these letters yourself, and I thought that, being a London gentleman, you’d know w hat to do about them .’ ‘If I were you,’ I said, ‘I would go to the police.’ Mrs Baker looked shocked. ‘Me, go into a police station? I’ve never been near the police.’ ‘W ell, they are the only people who can do som ething about these letters. It’s their job.’ Mrs Baker said, ‘These letters ought to be stopped. Young fellows like George get very violent — and so do the older ones.’ I leaned forward. ‘M rs Baker, have you any idea who is w riting these letters?’ 19

A g ath a C h ristie

I was very surprised w hen she said, ‘Yes, w e’ve all got a good idea. M rs Cleat — th at’s w hat w e all th in k .’ ‘A nd w ho is M rs Cleat? ’ She was, M rs B aker said, the w ife o f an old gardener. B ut w hen I asked her w hy M rs Cleat w ould w rite these letters, M rs B aker w ould only say that ‘It w ould be like her.’ In the end she left, and I then decided to go and talk to D r G riffith. H e w ould alm ost certainly know this C leat w om an. B ut w hen I arrived and told h im about m y conversation w ith M rs Baker, G riffith shook his head. ‘It’s m ost unlikely.’ ‘T h en w hy do they all th in k it is her?’ H e smiled. ‘O h, because M rs Cleat is the local w itch .’ ‘G oodness!’ I said. ‘Yes, it does sound rather strange in this m o d ern w orld. B ut M rs C leat is an unusual w om an w ith a b itter sense o f hum our. I f a child cuts its finger, she nods and says, “Yes, he stole m y apples last w eek,” or “H e pulled m y cat’s tail.” So m others give h er h o n ey and cakes to m ake sure she w o n ’t m ake som ething bad happen to them . It’s very silly, bu t now o f course they th in k she m ust be w ritin g the letters.’ ‘B ut she isn’t? ’ ‘O h , no. She’s n o t that sort o f person.’ II W h e n I got back to the house, I found M egan sitting on the veranda steps. ‘H ello,’ she said. ‘C ould I com e to lunch?’ ‘O f course. I f you like Irish stew.’ ‘A bit. I m ean, it’s like a dogs’ d in n er isn’t it, m ostly potato and flavour?’ ‘Exactly,’ I said.

20

The M oving Finger

M egan stretched out a long dusty leg. ‘Look, I’ve m ended my stockings,’ she said proudly. ‘Is your sister good at m ending?’ ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Well, what does she do when she gets a hole in her stocking?’ R ather embarrassed, I said, ‘I think that she throws them away and buys another pair.’ ‘Very sensible,’ said M egan. ‘But I can’t do that. I only get a very small allowance.’ She paused. ‘I suppose you think I’m awful, like everyone else?’ ‘D on’t be stupid,’ I said. M egan shook her head. ‘T hat’s just it. I’m not stupid. People think I am. They don’t understand that inside I know just what they’re like, and that all the tim e I hate them .’ ‘You hate them? ’ ‘Yes.’ H er sad, eyes, looked straight into m ine. ‘You would hate people if you were like me, if you w eren’t wanted.’ ‘D on’t you think you’re being rather negative?’ I asked. ‘Yes,’ said M egan. ‘T hat’s w hat people always say w hen you speak the truth. A nd I understand why I’m not wanted. M um m y doesn’t like me because I rem ind her o f my father. W hat M um m y would really like is to be just herself w ith my stepfather and the boys.’ I said slowly, ‘If some of w hat you say is true, why don’t you go away and have a life o f your ow n?’ ‘You mean earn m y living? W hat at? I am stupid w hen I try to do things. And also . . .’ ‘W ell?’ There were tears in her eyes. W h y should I go away? They don’t w ant me, so I’ll stay and make everyone sorry. I hate everyone in Lymstock. They all think I’m stupid and ugly. But I’ll show them. I’ll . . .’

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I heard a step on the path ro u n d the side o f the house. ‘G et up,’ I said roughly. ‘Go up to the b ath ro o m and w ash y o u r face. Q u ick .’ She ju m p ed up and disappeared th ro u g h the French w indow s just as Jo anna came ro u n d the corner.

22

Chapter 5 i The R everend Caleb D ane-C althrop and his wife M aud D aneCalthrop were both unusual personalities. D ane-C althrop lived for his books and in his study. M rs D ane-C althrop was quite the opposite. She was frighteningly aware of everything around her. She had a long thin face, and always spoke in a very sincere way. I soon learned that almost everyone in the village was slightly afraid of her. T he day after M egan had come to lunch, M rs D ane-C althrop stopped me in the H igh Street. ‘O h, M r Burton! N ow what did I want to see you about? Som ething rather unpleasant, I think.’ ‘I’m sorry about that,’ I said. ‘A h. Anonym ous letters! T hat’s it. W hy have you brought anonymous letters to Lymstock?’ ‘I didn’t bring them ,’ I said. ‘T hey were here already.’ ‘N obody got any until you came, though!’ ‘Yes they did. Several people got them .’ ‘O h dear,’ she said. ‘T hat’s all wrong. W e’re not like that here. A nd it upsets me because I ought to know about it.’ ‘H ow could you know ?’ I asked. ‘Because I usually do. A nd they are such silly letters, too.’ ‘Have you had any yourself?’ H er eyes opened wider. ‘O h yes, tw o — no, three. I forget exactly what they said. It was som ething about Caleb and the schoolteacher. Very silly.’ She paused. ‘A nd there are so many things the letters m ight say, but don’t. T hat’s w hat is so strange. They don’t seem to know any of the real things.’

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‘W h a t do you m ean exactly?’ ‘W ell, o f course. T here is plenty o f adultery here, and m ore so w hy doesn’t the w riter use those secrets? W h a t did they say in y o u r letter? ’ ‘T h ey suggested that m y sister w asn’t m y sister.’ ‘A nd is she?’ ‘Jo an n a is certainly m y sister.’ She nodded. ‘T h at ju st shows you w h at I m ean. I expect there are o th er things —’ She looked at m e thoughtfully, and I suddenly u n d ersto o d w hy Lym stock was afraid o f M rs D a n e-C alth ro p . F o r once, I was d elig h ted w h e n A im ee G riffith ’s loud voice called, ‘H ello, M aud, I’m glad I’ve seen you. I w a n t to ch an g e th e date for the R e d Cross sale. I m ust ju s t go in to th e g ro c e r’s, th e n w e ’ll talk , i f th at suits you? G o o d m o rn in g , M r B u rto n .’ ‘Yes, that w ill do quite w ell,’ said M rs D ane-C althrop. B ut A im ee G riffith had already gone, and she shook her head. ‘Poor th in g .’ I was confused. Surely she could not feel sorry for A im ee? B ut she w ent on, ‘You know , M r B urton, I’m rather afraid . . .’ ‘A bout this letter business?’ ‘Yes, you see it m ust m ean —’ She paused, then she said slowly as th o u g h she was solving a problem , ‘It m ust m ean that it was caused by blind hatred . . . yes, blind hatred. B ut even a blind m an m ig h t p u t a knife in the heart purely by chance - and w hat w ould happen then, M r B u rto n ?’ W e w ere to k now that before another day had passed. II It was P artridge w ho b rought the news o f the tragedy.

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She came into Joanna’s bedroom in the m orning. ‘T here’s awful news, Miss B urton,’ she said as she pulled back the curtains. ‘Shocking! I couldn’t believe it when I heard.’ ‘W hat’s awful?’ said Joanna, trying to wake up. ‘Poor Mrs Sym m ington.’ She paused. ‘Dead.’ ‘D ead?’Joanna sat up in bed, now wide awake. ‘Yes, and w hat’s worse, she com m itted suicide.’ ‘O h no, Partridge!’Joanna was really shocked. ‘Yes, it’s the truth. But she was driven to it. poor thing.’ ‘N ot . . .?’ Joanna’s eyes questioned Partridge and Partridge nodded. ‘T hat’s right. O ne o f those evil letters!’ ‘W hat did it say?’ But unfortunately Partridge had not been able to find out. ‘T hey’re unpleasant things,’ said Joanna. ‘But I don’t see why they would make som eone w ant to com m it suicide.’ ‘N ot unless they were true, Miss B urton.’ A nd Partridge left the room. W hen Joanna came in to tell me the news, I thought of what D r Griffith had said, that sooner or later the letter w riter would hit the mark. N ow they had w ith Mrs Sym m ington. She, the wom an you would least suspect, had had a secret . . . ‘H ow awful for her husband,’ Joanna said. ‘A nd for M egan. D o you think . . .’ She paused. ‘I wonder if she’d like to come and stay w ith us for a day or tw o?’ ‘W e’ll go and ask her,’ I said. W e w ent dow n to the Sym m ingtons’ house after breakfast. W e were a little nervous because we did not w ant to seem too interested in what had happened. Luckily we m et O w en Griffith just com ing out through the gate. ‘O h, hello, Burton. I’m glad to see you. W hat an awful business! ’

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‘G ood m orning, D r G riffith,’ said Joanna loudly. G riffith ’s face w ent red. ‘O h , good m orning, Miss B u rto n .’ ‘I th o u g h t perhaps,’ said Joanna, ‘that you didn’t see m e.’ O w en G riffith got redder still. ‘I’m - I’m so sorry - I was th in k in g .’ Jo an n a w ent on, ‘A fter all, I am standing rig h t in fro n t o f you.’ I in terru p ted quickly, ‘M y sister and I w ondered w hether it w ould be a good th in g i f M egan came and stayed w ith us for a day or tw o? W h a t do you th in k ? ’ ‘I th in k it w ould be an excellent thing,’ he said. ‘It w ould be good for her to get away. Miss H olland is doing very well, b u t she really has quite enough to do w ith the tw o boys and S ym m ington himself. H e ’s quite heart-broken —’ ‘It was —’ I paused — ‘suicide?’ G riffith n o d ded. ‘O h yes. She w ro te , “I can’t go o n ” on a to rn b it o f paper, and the anonym ous letter was fo u n d in the fireplace.’ W h a t did —’ I stopped. ‘Sorry,’ I said. G riffith gave a quick unhappy smile. ‘It w ill have to be read at the inquest. B ut the suggestion was that the second boy, C olin, was n o t S ym m ington’s child.’ ‘D o you th in k that was tru e ? ’ I asked. ‘I’ve only been here five years. B ut I thought the Sym m ingtons w ere a happy couple w ho loved each other and their boys. It’s tru e th at C o lin doesn’t look very m uch like his parents - h e ’s got red hair, for one th in g —bu t th a t’s no t unusual.’ ‘H is red hair m ay have been the reason for the suggestion.’ ‘It probably was.’ ‘B ut it ju st happened to be correct,’ said Joanna, ‘o r she w o u ld n ’t have killed herself, w ould she?’

26

The M oving Finger

Griffith said, ‘I’m not sure. I’ve been treating her for a nervous condition, so she may have thought that her husband w ould not believe her w hen she said the story wasn’t true.’ And O w en walked away slowly dow n the street. Joanna and I w ent on into the house. T he front door was open and it seemed easier than ringing the bell, especially when we heard Elsie H olland’s voice from inside the sitting room. ‘But, M r Sym m ington, you must eat som ething. You haven’t had anything since lunchtim e yesterday, and you w ill be ill if you don’t eat or drink.’ Sym m ington said, ‘You’re very kind, Miss Holland, but —’ ‘A nice cup o f hot tea,’ said Elsie Holland. Personally I w ould have given the poor fellow som ething stronger. He was sitting in a chair, looking very confused. But he took the tea, and said, ‘T hank you so m uch, Miss Holland. You are being so good to me.’ ‘It’s nice o f you to say that, M r Sym m ington. And don’t w orry about the children — I’ll look after them . Also, if I can help in any other ways, like letter w riting or telephoning, please do ask m e.’ Then, as Elsie H olland turned to go, she saw us and hurried out into the hall. ‘Isn’t it terrible?’ she whispered. ‘Can we speak to you for a m om ent?’ asked Joanna. Elsie Holland led the way into the dining room . ‘It’s been awful for M r Sym m ington. It’s been such a shock. But, o f course, M rs Sym ington had been behaving strangely for some time. She had been very nervous, and often crying.’ ‘W h at we really cam e for,’ said Joanna, ‘was to ask if M egan could stay w ith us for a few days — that is if she’d like to com e?’

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Elsie H olland looked surprised. ‘M egan? I don’t know . I m ean, one never know s w hat she is going to feel about anything.’ Jo anna said, ‘W e th o u g h t it m ight be a help.’ ‘O h well, o f course it w ould. I m ean, I haven’t really had tim e to pay m uch attention to M egan. I th in k she’s upstairs som ewhere. I do n ’t k now i f —’ Jo an n a looked at m e and I w ent quickly out into the hall. I found M egan in a room at the top o f the house. T h e curtains w ere draw n across the w indow s and she was curled up on a bed in the dark like a frightened anim al. ‘M egan,’ I said gently. She looked at me, b u t she did no t move. ‘M egan,’ I said again. ‘J o an n a and I have com e to ask you if you w ould like to com e and stay w ith us for a few days.’ ‘Stay w ith you? In y o u r house?’ H er expression did not change. ‘Yes.’ ‘You m ean, you’ll take m e away from here?’ ‘Yes, M egan.’ Suddenly she began to shake all over. ‘O h, do take m e away! Please. It’s so awful, being here, and feeling so evil. C an w e go now ?’ ‘W ell, w hen you’ve packed a few things that you’ll need. I’ll be dow nstairs.’ I re tu rn ed to the d in in g room . ‘M egan’s com ing,’ I said. ‘O h , th at is good,’ Elsie H olland replied. ‘It w ill stop her th in k in g about herself all the tim e. A nd it w ill be so good for m e n o t to have to th in k about her as w ell as everything else. I hope she w o n ’t be too difficult. O h dear, there’s the telephone. I m ust go and answer it.’ She hu rried out o f the room . Jo an n a said, ‘W h at an angel!’

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The M oving Finger

‘You said that rather unkindly,’ I told her. ‘A nd Miss Holland is obviously very dependable.’ ‘Very. And she knows it.’ Before I could reply there was the sound o f a suitcase bum ping dow n the stairs. It annoyed me that Joanna had to lift it into the car. I could m anage w ith one stick now, but I couldn’t do anything that needed real strength. Anyway, we all got in and she drove off. But, as soon as we reached Little Furze and w ent into the sitting room , M egan sat dow n and burst into tears. She cried loudly, like a small child so I quickly left the room and w ent to find som ething that m ight cheer her up. W hen I came back I handed M egan a glass. ‘W hat is it?’ ‘A cocktail,’ I said. H er tears im m ediately stopped. ‘I’ve never drunk a cocktail.’ She tasted the drink carefully, then a big smile spread over her face, and she swallowed the rest all at once. ‘It’s lovely. Can I have another?’ ‘N o.’ ‘W hy not?’ ‘In about ten m inutes you’ll probably understand.’ ‘O h !’ M egan turned to Joanna. ‘It is so kind o f you to have me here. I am really very grateful.’ ‘Please don’t be grateful,’ said Joanna. ‘W e are glad to have you here. Jerry and I are so bored because we can’t think o f any m ore things to say to each other.’ ‘But now,’ I said, ‘we shall be able to have lots o f interesting discussions about Shakespeare’s characters — G oneril and R egan perhaps.’

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M egan suddenly smiled. ‘I’ve been th in k in g about that. T hey behaved badly because that aw ful old father o f theirs always forced them to be so grateful. W h e n you have to keep saying “th an k you” and “ how very k in d ”, it w ould m ake you w ant to be very unpleasant for a change.’ ‘I’m afraid I always find Shakespeare very boring,’ said Joanna. ‘All those long scenes w here everybody is d ru n k and it’s supposed to be funny.’ ‘T alking o f d rin k ,’ I said. ‘H o w are you feeling, M egan?’ ‘Very well, th an k you.’ ‘N o t at all confused? You can’t see tw o Joannas or anything like th at?’ ‘N o. I ju st feel as though I’d like to talk rather a lot.’ ‘Perfect,’ I said. ‘K eeping a clear m in d w hile enjoying alcohol is a great advantage to any h u m an being.’

Chapter 6 I T he inquest was held three days later. T he tim e of M rs Sym m ington’s death was put at betw een three and four o’clock. She was alone in the house, Sym m ington was at his office, the maids were having their day off, Elsie H olland and the children were out w alking and M egan had gone for a bicycle ride. T he letter must have come by the afternoon post. M rs Sym m ington must have read it and been very upset, so she had gone to the garden shed, found some of the cyanide kept there for killing wasps, m ixed it w ith water and drunk it after w riting those last words, ‘I can’t go on . . .’ T he coroner said that whoever had w ritten that evil anonym ous letter was m orally guilty of murder. The verdict was: Suicide while tem porarily insane. T he coroner had done his best. D r Griffith also had done his best w hen he spoke about M rs Sym m ington’s nervous condition. But afterwards, w alking through the H igh Street, I heard the same hateful whisper I had begun to know so well, ‘N o smoke w ithout fire!’ ‘There mu^t have been som ething that was true in the letter. She w ouldn’t have done it otherwise . . .’ A nd just for a m om ent I hated Lymstock. II

It is difficult to rem em ber exactly what happened next. But I do know that several people called on us. Aim ee Griffith came on

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the m o rn in g after the inquest and m anaged, as usual, to annoy m e im m ediately. Jo anna and M egan w ere out, so I saw h er alone. ‘G ood m o rn in g ,’ she said. ‘I hear you’ve got M egan H u n ter h ere?’ ‘W e have.’ ‘It’s very good o f you. B ut it m ust be so difficult for you, so I cam e up to say she can com e to us if you like. I can easily m ake her useful in the house.’ ‘H o w kin d o f you,’ I replied. ‘B ut w e like having her. A nd she w anders about quite happily.’ ‘I’m sure th at’s true. W andering is all she ever does. But, being so stupid, I suppose she can’t help it.’ ‘O h , I th in k she’s rather an intelligent girl.’ A im ee G riffith gave m e a long look. ‘T h a t’s the first tim e I’ve ever heard anyone say that. W h e n you talk to her, she looks th ro u g h you as th o ugh she doesn’t understand w hat you are saying!’ ‘She probably ju st isn’t interested,’ I said. ‘I f so, she’s extrem ely rude.’ ‘T h at m ay be. B ut n o t stupid.’ Miss G riffith replied, W h a t M egan needs is good hard w ork, som ething to give her an interest in life. She’s m uch too old to spend her tim e doing n o thing.’ ‘It’s been rather difficult for her to do anything m uch so far,’ I said. ‘M rs S ym m ington always seemed to th in k that M egan was about twelve years old.’ ‘I know ,’ Miss G riffith agreed. ‘O f course she’s dead now, p oor w om an, but I’m afraid I had little respect for M rs Sym m ington, although o f course I never suspected the tru th .’ ‘T h e tru th ? ’ I said sharply.

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T h e M o v in g F in g er

Miss G riffith’s face w ent red. ‘I was very sorry for D ick S ym m ington w hen everyone heard about it at the inquest. It was aw ful for him .’ ‘B ut you m ust have heard h im say that there was no t a w ord o f tru th in that letter? ’ ‘O f course he said so. A m an ’s got to protect his wife. A nd D ick w ould.’ She paused. ‘You see, I’ve kn o w n D ick S ym m ington a long tim e.’ ‘Really? B ut your brother told m e that you only came to Lym stock a few years ago.’ ‘O h yes, b u t w hen w e lived in the n o rth o f E ngland, D ick S ym m ington used to com e and stay near us. I’ve k n o w n h im for years.’ H er voice had softened. ‘I kn o w D ick very well. . . . H e ’s a p roud m an, and very private. B ut h e’s the sort o f m an w ho could be very jealous.’ ‘T h at w ould explain,’ I said, ‘w hy M rs S ym m ington was afraid to show h im the letter. She was afraid that he m ight not believe it wasn’t tru e.’ Miss G riffith looked at m e angrily. ‘D o you really th in k that any w om an w ould sw allow cyanide because o f som ething that w asn’t true? I f an in n o cen t w om an gets some unpleasant anonym ous letter, she laughs and throw s it away. T h a t’s w hat I —’ she paused suddenly, and then finished, ‘w ould do.’ B ut I had noticed that pause. ‘I see,’ I said. ‘So you’ve had one, to o ? ’ A im ee G riffith looked straight into m y eyes. ‘W ell, yes. B ut I d id n ’t let it w o rry me! I read a few words o f it, then threw it straight into the w astepaper bin.’ I w anted to reply, ‘N o smoke w ith o u t fire!’ bu t I stopped m yself and w ent back to talking about M egan.

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‘D o you k now anything about M egan’s financial position? W ill it be necessary for h er to earn her living?’ ‘I do n ’t th in k it’s necessary. H e r father’s m other left her a small incom e. I believe. A nd D ick S ym m ington w ould always give her a hom e. N o, it’s the principle that m atters.’ W h a t principle?’ ‘W ork, M r B urton. W ork is good for m en and for w om en. T h e one unforgivable sin is idleness.’ ‘H ave you never thought, Miss G riffith,’ I replied, ‘th at you w ould probably n o t be able to take a fast train to L ondon i f little G eorge Stephenson, w ho invented the steam engine, had been out w o rk in g instead o f standing about, bored, in his m o th er’s kitchen. For it was then that he suddenly becam e interested in the strange behaviour o f the kettle lid? ’ B ut A im ee G riffith was no t persuaded. ‘You are like m ost m en, M r B urton, you dislike the idea o f w om en w orking. A nd you are ju st like my parents. I w anted to study to be a doctor. B ut they refused to pay for m e to do that, although they paid happily for O w en to becom e a doctor.’ ‘I’m sorry about that,’ I said. ‘It was hard on you —'’ She w ent on quickly, ‘O h, I’m not upset about it now. M y life is busy and active. B ut I do still speak out against that stupid idea th at a w om an’s place is always in the hom e.’ ‘I’m sorry if I offended you,’ I said. ‘A nd I don’t th in k M egan’s place is being in the hom e at all.’ ‘N o , p o o r child. She doesn’t fit in anyw here, I’m afraid. H er father, you k now —’ She paused and I said, ‘I don’t know. Everyone says “ her father” very quietly, and that is all. W h at did the m an do ? Is he alive still?’

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‘I really don’t know. But he went to prison, I believe. And he was very strange. T hat’s why M egan is rather difficult to be w ith.’ ‘J oanna is very fond o f M egan,’ I said. Aim ee said, ‘Your sister must find it so boring dow n here.’ And as she said it, I learnt that Aim ee Griffith disliked my sister. It was there in the sm ooth sound o f her voice. ‘W e all wonder why you have both chosen to bury yourselves in such an out-ofthe-w ay place.’ It was a question and I answered it. ‘It was because o f my doctor’s orders. H e told m e to come somewhere very quiet where nothing ever happened.’ I paused. ‘N ot quite true o f Lymstock now.’ ‘N o, no.’ She sounded w orried and got up to go, then stopped. ‘You know, we must try to stop it, all this unpleasantness!’ ‘A ren’t the police doing anything?’ ‘I suppose so. But we ought to take control o f it ourselves.’ She said goodbye quickly and w ent away. Ill

Em ily Barton, the ow ner o f our house, also called on us just after we had finished tea to talk about the garden. As we walked back towards the house she said, ‘I do hope that M egan hasn’t been too upset by this awful business?’ ‘H er m other’s death, you m ean?’ ‘That, o f course. But I really m eant, the unpleasantness behind it.’ I was interested. ‘W hat do you think about that letter? Was it true?’ ‘O h, no, no. I’m quite sure that M rs Sym m ington never —but why w ould anyone w ant to w rite such a thing?’

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‘A tw isted m ind.’ ‘T h at seems very sad.’ ‘It doesn’t seem sad to me. It ju st seems evil.’ ‘B ut why, M r B u rton, why? W h a t pleasure can anyone get out o f it?’ She low ered her voice. ‘T hey say that Mrs Cleat - but I really cannot believe it. N o th in g like this has ever happened before in Lym stock.’ I said, ‘You’ve n o t — er — received any letters yourself? ’ H e r face w ent very red. ‘O h , no — oh, no. O h! T h at w ould be dreadful.’ I quickly apologized, but she w ent away looking upset and I w ent into the house. Jo anna was standing by the sitting room fire. She had a letter in her hand. ‘J erry! I found this in the letterbox. It begins, “You are an evil painted w om an . . . ” ’ ‘W h a t else does it say? ’ ‘Same b u t worse.’ She dropped it onto the flames. W ith a quick move that h u rt m y back I picked it up ju st before it caught fire. ‘D o n ’t,’ I said. ‘W e m ay need it.’ ‘N eed it?’ ‘For the police.’ IV Superintendent N ash cam e to see m e the next m orning. From the first m om ent I saw h im I liked him . H e was tall, and had th o u g h tfu l eyes and a quiet m anner. ‘G ood m orning, M r B u rto n ,’ he said. ‘I expect you can guess w hat I’ve com e to see you about.’ ‘Yes, I th in k so. This letter business.’ H e nodded. ‘I understand you had one o f th em ?’ ‘Yes, soon after we arrived here.’

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‘W hat did it say exactly?’ I thought for a m inute, then repeated the words o f the letter as accurately as possible. W hen I had finished, he said, ‘I see. You didn’t keep the letter, M r B urton?’ ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t. However, my sister got one yesterday. I just stopped her putting it in the fire.’ I w ent across to my desk, took it out and gave it to Nash. H e read it. T hen he looked up and asked me, ‘Does this look the same as the last one?’ ‘I think so.’ I said. ‘T he envelope was typed. T he letter had printed words stuck onto a piece o f paper.’ Nash nodded and put it in his pocket. T hen he said, ‘M r B urton, would you be able to come dow n to the police station w ith me? W e could have a discussion there and it w ould save a lot o f tim e.’ ‘Certainly,’ I said. There was a car w aiting outside and we drove dow n in it. At the police station I found Sym m ington and D r Griffith were already there. I was also introduced to another tall m an w ho did not wear a uniform . ‘Inspector Graves,’ explained Nash, ‘has come dow n from London to help us. H e’s an expert on anonymous letters.’ ‘T hey’re all the same, these cases,’ Graves said in a deep, sad voice. ‘You’d be surprised. T he words they use and the things they say.’ Some of the letters were spread out on the table and he had obviously been exam ining them. ‘The difficulty is,’ said Nash, ‘to get to see the letters. Either people put them in the fire, or they w on’t adm it to having received any.’ H e took the letter I had given him from his pocket and gave it to Graves who read it then put it on the table w ith the others.

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‘W e’ve got enough, I th in k , to go on w ith ,’ said Inspector Graves, ‘and i f you gentlem en get any m ore, w ould you please b rin g th em to m e at once. Also, ify o u hear o f som eone else getting one, please do your best to get them to com e here w ith them . I’ve already got one sent to M r S ym m ington, w hich he received tw o m onths ago, one to D r G riffith, one to M r S ym m ington’s secretary Miss Ginch, one to M rs M udge, the butcher’s wife, one to Jennifer C lark, w ho w orks at the T h ree C row ns, the one received by M rs S ym m ington, and this one now to Miss B u rto n — oh yes, and one sent to the bank m anager.’ S ym m ington asked, ‘Have you learned anything about the w riter?’ Graves coughed and then gave us a small lecture. ‘T here are certain things that are the same in all these letters. T h e words are m ade from separate letters cut out o f a book. It’s an old book, p rin ted in about the year 1830. T here are no fingerprints on the letters, b u t the envelopes w hich have been handled by the post office, have some fingerprints, but none that m atch. T he envelopes are ty p ew ritten by an old W indsor 7 m achine. M ost o f th em have been posted locally, or p u t in the box o f a house by hand. It is therefore obvious that they have been sent by som eone from the local area. T hey w ere w ritten by a w om an, and in m y opinion a w om an o f m iddle age or over, and probably, though n o t certainly, u n m arried.’ W e w ere silent for a m inute or tw o. T h en I said, ‘T he ty p ew riter w o n ’t be difficult to find in a little place like this.’ B ut Inspector Graves shook his head. ‘I am sorry to say that you are w rong, M r B u rto n .’ ‘T h e typew riter,’ said S uperintendent Nash, ‘came from M r S ym m ington’s office, and was given by h im to the W om en’s Institute w here anyone can use it. B ut w hat w e do k n o w is that

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these letters were w ritten by an educated w om an, w ho can spell, and use w ords well enough to say exactly w hat she w ants to.’ I was shocked. I had im agined the w riter as som eone like M rs Cleat, som eone determ ined, but not clever. S ym m ington p u t m y thoughts into words. ‘B ut there are only about twelve people like that in the w hole to w n !’ ‘T h a t’s right.’ ‘I can’t believe it.’ T h e n he co n tin u ed , ‘You heard w h at I said at th e inquest. I should like to repeat n ow th at I am certain th e w ords in the le tte r m y w ife received w ere absolutely u n tru e .’ Graves answ ered im m ediately ‘T h at’s probably right, M r Sym m ington. N o n e o f these letters show any signs o f real know ledge. T h ey are ju st about sex and cruelty! A nd th at’s going to help us find the w riter.’ S ym m ington got up. ‘W ell I hope you find her soon. She m urdered m y wife as surely as i f she had put a knife into her.’ H e paused. ‘H o w does she feel now, I wonder? ’ H e w ent out, leaving th at question unansw ered. ‘H o w does she feel, Griffith? ’ I asked. ‘I d on’t know. She m ay feel sorry, perhaps. O r she m ay be enjoying her power. M rs S ym m ington’s death m ay have fed her m adness.’ ‘I hope n o t,’ I said. ‘Because if so, she’ll —’ ‘She’ll go on,’ said Graves. ‘T h ey always do.’ H e paused. ‘I w o n d er i f perhaps you k n o w o f anyone w ho, definitely, hasn’t had a letter?’ ‘W h a t an extraordinary question! But, yes, I do, in a way.’ A n d I told h im about m y conversation w ith E m ily B arton and w hat she had said. Graves said, ‘W ell, th at m ay be useful.’

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I w ent out into the afternoon sunshine and w alked along to the house agents as I needed to pay o u r rent in advance. A w om an, w ho was typing, got up and cam e towards m e. She had a long nose and large glasses and I recognized her as Miss Ginch, w ho had recently w orked for M r Sym m ington. W h e n I asked her about it she said, ‘Yes, I did w ork there, but I th o u g h t it was better to leave. This is not quite so w ell paid, bu t there are things that are m ore valuable than m oney, don’t you th in k ? ’ ‘C ertainly,’ I said. ‘T hose letters,’ Miss G inch w hispered. ‘I got one. Saying the m ost awful things about m e and M r Sym m ington! A nd I felt th at i f people w ere talking — and they must have been, o r w here did the w riter get the idea from? — then I m ust avoid even the appearance o f im m orality, th o u g h there has never been anything wrong betw een m e and M r S ym m ington.’ I felt rather embarrassed. ‘N o, no, o f course not.’ ‘B ut people have such evil m in d s!’ I had been try in g to avoid looking into her eyes, bu t w hen I did I m ade a m ost unpleasant discovery. Miss G inch was enjoying herself. A nd suddenly an idea came into m y m ind. H ad Miss G inch w ritten these letters herself?

40

Chapter 7 i W hen I got hom e I found Mrs D ane-C althrop sitting talking to Joanna. She looked ill. ‘This has been such a shock, M r B urton,’ she said. ‘Poor thing, poor thing.’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s awful to think o f someone being so unhappy that they take their ow n life.’ ‘O h, you m ean M rs Sym m ington?’ she asked. ‘D idn’t you?’ Mrs D ane-C althrop shook her head. ‘O f course I am sorry for her, but it was going to happen some tim e, wasn’t it? ’ ‘Was it?’ said Joanna. M rs D ane-C althrop turned to her. ‘O h, I think so. If you think suicide is the best way to escape from trouble, then it doesn’t m uch m atter what the trouble is. She would have killed herself one day, because she was that kind of wom an. A lthough she always seemed rather selfish to me, as though her life was more im portant than other people’s. But I’m beginning to understand how little I really know anyone.’ ‘So w ho were you talking about when you said “Poor thing” ?’ I asked. ‘T he w om an w ho w rote the letters, o f course. T hink how unhappy someone must be to do that. H ow lonely. T hat’s why I feel so upset. Somebody in this tow n has been filled w ith that terrible unhappiness, and I did not know about it. I should have know n. Poor thing!’ She got up to go. I felt unable to agree w ith her, so I asked, ‘Have you any idea w ho this w om an is?’ 41

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‘W ell, I can guess, b u t th en I m ight be w rong, m ig h tn ’t I?’ She w ent quickly to the door, then tu rn ed . ‘W h y have you never m arried, M r B u rto n ?’ F rom anyone else this w ould have been rude, bu t w ith M rs D an e-C alth ro p I felt that she really w anted to know. ‘Shall w e say,’ I said, ‘Because I have never m et the right w o m an ?’ ‘W e can say so,’ said M rs D ane-C althrop, ‘b u t it w ouldn’t be a very good answer, because so m any m en have obviously m arried the w ro n g w om an.’ A nd then she left. Jo anna said, ‘I really do th in k she’s m ad, but I like her. T h e people in the village are afraid o f her.’ ‘So am I, a little.’ ‘D o you really th in k w hoever w rote these letters is very u nhappy?’ Jo anna asked. ‘I do n ’t k n o w w hat she’s th in k in g or feeling! A nd I d o n ’t care. It’s her victim s I feel sorry for.’ It seems strange to m e now that in our discussions about Poison Pen’s state o f m ind, w e missed the m ost obvious one. G riffith had th o u g h t she w ould be pleased w ith w hat she had done. I had th o u g h t she m ust be sorry. M rs D an e-C alth ro p had b een certain that she was suffering. Yet the obvious reaction w e did no t consider was Fear. Because w ith the death o f M rs Sym m ington, the position o f the w riter o f the letters was m uch m ore serious. T he police w ere n o w involved, so it was even m ore im portant for the anonym ous w riter to rem ain anonym ous. A nd i f Fear was the m ain reaction o f the w riter, o ther things w ould naturally happen. T hings that I did no t th in k about either, yet they should have been obvious.

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II

Joanna and I came dow n rather late to breakfast the next m orning. T hat is to say, late for Lymstock. A nd I was annoyed to see Aim ee Griffith standing on the doorstep talking to M egan. N ine-thirty is not the tim e for a m orning call. ‘Hello, there, you lazy pair!’ she called. ‘I just w anted to ask Miss B urton if she had any vegetables she could give to our R ed Cross sale. If so, I’ll get O w en to call for them in the car.’ M egan came back into the house and w ent into the dining room . At that m om ent the telephone rang and I w ent into the hall to answer it. ‘Yes?’ I said. T he noise o f deep breathing came from the other end and a female voice said ‘O h !’ ‘Yes?’ I said again. ‘O h,’ said the voice again. ‘Is that —is it Little Furze?’ ‘This is Little Furze.’ ‘O h !’ the voice said once more, then asked, ‘C ould I speak to Miss Partridge for a m inute?’ ‘Certainly,’ I said. ‘W ho shall I say?’ ‘Oh. Tell her it’s Agnes, would you? Agnes W oddell.’ I put dow n the telephone and called up the stairs, ‘Partridge. Agnes W oddell wants to speak to you.’ Partridge appeared w ith a brush in her hand. ‘Agnes W oddell — w hatever can she w ant now ?’ She put down her brush and came dow n the stairs looking very angry. I escaped into the dining room where M egan was eating bacon and eggs alone. So I opened the m orning newspaper and a little later Joanna entered. ‘W hew !’ she said. ‘Is it true that there are no green beans at this tim e o f year?’

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‘A ugust,’ said M egan and got up and w ent out o f the French doors on to the veranda. ‘W ell, one has th em any tim e in L ondon,’ said Joanna. W h e n I had finished m y breakfast, I followed M egan outside. Standing on the veranda, I heard P artridge enter the dining room . ‘C an I speak to you a m inute, Miss B urton?’ she said. ‘I am very sorry that someone called m e on your telephone. T he young person w ho did it should have know n better because Agnes used to work here. She was only sixteen then, but she hasn’t got a m other or any family. A nd that’s w hy I’m asking if you w ould allow her to come here to tea w ith m e this afternoon. It’s her day off, you see, and she’s w orried about som ething and wants to talk to me about it.’ Jo an n a said, ‘B ut w hy shouldn’t she com e to tea w ith yo u ?’ P artridge stood up very straight, as she replied, ‘It has never b een allow ed in this house, M iss.’ ‘It’s no good, Joanna,’ I said w hen P artridge had gone and my sister had com e outside. ‘Y our sym pathy is no t welcom e. You are n o t respected for it.’ Jo anna said, ‘I’m a com plete failure today - w ith A im ee for k n o w in g n o th in g about vegetables, and w ith P artridge for being a h u m an .’ T h en M egan, w ho was n ow standing in the m iddle o f the law n , came back towards us and said, ‘I m ust go hom e now .’ ‘W h a t? ’ I said. She w ent on, ‘It’s been very good o f you to have m e and I have enjoyed it, but I m ust go back because, well, it’s m y hom e and I can’t stay away for ever, so I th in k I’ll go this m orn in g .’ B o th Jo anna and I tried to m ake her stay, b u t she was determ ined, so finally Joanna got out the car and drove her back to M r S ym m ington’s house.

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hi

O w en Griffith arrived just before lunch tim e, and while the gardener was loading the vegetables into his car, I brought O w en indoors for a drink. H e said he w ouldn’t stay to lunch. W hen I came into the sitting room w ith the glasses I found Joanna on the sofa asking O w en questions about his work. She said she thought that being a doctor was one o f the most interesting jobs in the world. T hen she said, ‘D o change your m ind and stay to lunch w ith us, D r Griffith,’ and Griffith said that his sister was expecting him . . . ‘W e’ll ring her up and explain,’ said Joanna and w ent out into the hall. She came back sm iling and said that it was all right. And O w en Griffith stayed to lunch and seemed to enjoy himself. W e talked about books and about music and painting. W e didn’t talk about Lymstock at all, or about anonymous letters, or M rs Sym m ington’s suicide. W hen he had gone I said to Joanna, ‘T hat fellow’s too good for your usual female tricks.’ Joanna said, ‘T hat’s w hat you always say! W hat are you men so frightened of? ’ IV

T hat afternoon we were going to tea w ith Miss Em ily Barton at her room s in the village. W e must have got there early, for the door was opened to us by a tall fierce-looking w om an who told us that Miss B arton wasn’t in yet. ‘But she’s expecting you, I know, so if you’ll come up and wait, please.’ This obviously was Miss B arton’s form er servant, faithful Florence. We followed her up the stairs and she showed us into

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Agatha Christie

a pleasant sitting room . ‘I make her as comfortable as I can,’ she said, ‘but she ought to be in her ow n house.’ Joanna, said, ‘W ell, Miss B arton w anted to rent out the house. She went to the house agents.’ ‘Forced into it,’ said Florence. A nd looking hard at us for some m oments she left the room . W e don’t seem to be very popular,’ I said. ‘M egan gets tired of us, Partridge disapproves o f you, Florence disapproves of both of us.’ Joanna said, ‘I w onder w hy M egan did leave?’ ‘She got bored.’ ‘I don’t think she did. D o you think, Jerry, it could have been som ething that Aimee Griffith said?’ I was about to reply that she m ight easily have upset M egan w hen the door opened and Miss Em ily came in. H er face was pink and she seemed excited. H er eyes were very blue and shining. ‘O h dear, I’m so sorry I’m late. I was just doing a little shopping in the tow n, and the cakes at the Blue Rose didn’t seem to me quite fresh, so I w ent on to Mrs Lygon’s . . .’ Joanna said quickly, ‘N o, Miss Barton, you are not late. W e were early. Jerry is w alking so fast now that we arrive everywhere too soon.’ ‘You could never be too soon, dear. O ne cannot have too m uch o f a good thing, you know.’ Joanna brightened up. At last, it seemed, she was being a success. A nd then the door opened and Florence came in w ith a tray o f tea and some little cakes. Joanna and I ate far more than we wanted to and of course we talked about the people who lived in Lymstock. Miss Barton said

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T h e M o v in g F inger

how k in d and clever D r G riffith was. M r S ym m ington, too, was a very clever lawyer, and had helped Miss B arto n to get some m oney back from the incom e tax. H e was so nice to his children, too, and to his wife. She was less sure about M r Pye. A ll she said was that he was very kind, and very rich, too. H e had very strange visitors som etimes, but then, o f course, he had travelled a lot. ‘I have often th o u g h t I w ould like to go on a holiday,’ said E m ily B arton. ‘W h y don’t you go?’ asked Joanna. ‘O h, no, no, travelling alone w ould no t be suitable for a lady, d o n ’t you agree?’ ‘I’m not sure,’ said Joanna, and then quickly tried to calm her by asking a question about the R e d Cross sale in the village. This led us to talk about M rs D ane-C althrop. ‘You know , dear,’ Miss B arton said, ‘she does say some very strange things som etim es.’ I asked w hat things. ‘O h , very unexpected things. A nd the way she looks at you, as th o u g h you w eren’t there b u t som ebody else was. A nd then she w o n ’t — well, do anything. T here are so m any cases w here a vicar’s w ife could tell people w hat is right, and m ake them behave better. B ut she refuses, and she also has a habit o f feeling sorry for the m ost unpleasant people.’ ‘T h a t’s interesting,’ I said, looking quickly at Joanna. ‘B ut she is very loyal to her husband w ho is such a clever m an — and such a good m an, too.’ V At d in n er that night, Jo an n a said to P artridge that she hoped her tea p arty had been a success.

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Partridge’s face w ent red. ‘T hank you, but Agnes didn’t come after all.’ ‘O h, I’m sorry.’ ‘It didn’t m atter to me,’ said Partridge. ‘It wasn’t me who asked her! ’ ‘Perhaps she was ill,’ Joanna said. ‘D id you phone her to find out?’ ‘No, I did not,’ Partridge replied. ‘If Agnes likes to behave rudely, that’s her problem, but I shall tell her exactly what I think when we meet.’ And she went out o f the room, stiff w ith hurt pride. Joanna and I laughed, then began talking o f the anonymous letters and wondered how Superintendent Nash and Inspector Graves were getting on. ‘It’s a week today exactly’, said Joanna, ‘since Mrs Sym m ington’s suicide. They must have got on to som ething by now. Fingerprints, or w riting or something.’ But I was thinking about som ething else and a strange sense o f uneasiness was grow ing in my m ind. It was connected w ith the phrase that Joanna had used, ‘a week exactly’. A nd Joanna noticed suddenly that I wasn’t listening to her. ‘W hat’s the matter, Jerry? ’ I did not answer because my m ind was busy putting things together. Mrs Sym m ington’s suicide . . . She was alone in the house that afternoon . . . Alone in the house because the maids were having their day o ff. . . A week ago exactly . . . ‘J oanna, servants have days off once a week, don’t they? ’ ‘Yes.’ I crossed the room and rang the bell. Partridge came in. ‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘this Agnes W oddell. Is she a servant in som eone’s house?’ ‘Yes, Sir. At M r Sym m ington’s.’

The M oving Finger

I looked at the clock. It was half-past ten. ‘W ould she be back there now, do you think? ’ ‘Yes, Sir. The servants have to be in by ten.’ I w ent out into the hall and picked up the telephone. Joanna and Partridge followed me. ‘Sorry to ring you up,’ I said when Elsie H olland answered. ‘This is Jerry B urton speaking. Has your servant Agnes come in?’ Miss H olland sounded very surprised. Agnes? O f course she’ll be in by now.’ I felt like a fool, but I w ent on. ‘Do you m ind just checking that she has come in? ’ Luckily a governess is used to doing things w hen told. Elsie H olland put dow n the receiver and went away. Two m inutes later I heard her voice. ‘A re you there, M r B urton?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘A gnes isn’t in yet.’ I knew then that I had been right. I heard a noise of voices from the other end o f the line, then Sym m ington him self spoke. ‘Hello, B urton, w hat’s the m atter?’ ‘Your servant Agnes isn’t back yet? ’ ‘N o. T here’s not been an accident, has there?’ ‘N ot an accident,’ I said. ‘D o you m ean you think som ething has happened to the girl?’ ‘I shouldn’t be surprised,’ I told him .

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Chapter 8

i

I slept badly that night. I m ust k now w ho w ro te those evil letters. ‘N o smoke w ith o u t fire.’ T here was a p attern , i f only I could find it . . . A t last I fell asleep. It was the telephone that w oke me. I sat up and looked at m y watch. It was half-past seven. I ju m p ed out o f bed, ran dow n to the hall and picked up the receiver. ‘H ello ?’ ‘O h , th an k goodness, it’s you!’ It was M egan’s voice, upset and frightened. ‘O h, please do com e - do come! W ill yo u ?’ ‘I’m com ing at once,’ I said. I ran back upstairs and into Jo an n a’s room . ‘I’m going to the S ym m ingtons’.’ She rubbed her eyes like a small child. ‘W h y — w h at’s happened?’ ‘I do n ’t k now - it was som ething to do w ith the girl Agnes, I’m sure.’ I washed, shaved, dressed, got the car out and drove to the S ym m ingtons’ in h a lf an hour. M egan came ru n n in g out o f the house. ‘O h , you’ve cornel’ She was shaking. I put m y arm round her. ‘Yes. N o w w hat is it?’ ‘I — I found her.’ ‘You found Agnes? W h e re?’

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‘U nder the stairs. T here’s a cupboard, and she was in there am ong the fishing rods and things. W hen I touched her she was cold —she was deadV ‘W hat made you look there?’ I asked. ‘A fter you telephoned last night, we waited for a while, but she didn’t come in, and at last we went to bed. I didn’t sleep well and got up early. I had some bread and butter, and then suddenly Rose came in and said that Agnes’s outdoor clothes were still in her room . And I began to w onder if she’d ever left the house, and I started looking round, and . . . The police are here. My stepfather rang them up straight away. T hen I felt I couldn’t bear it, and I rang you up. You don’t m ind?’ ‘N o,’ I said. ‘Com e on, let’s go to the kitchen.’ W e w ent round to the back door. Rose, a plump m iddle-aged w om an, was drinking tea by the fire. W hen she saw us she put her hand on her heart. ‘J ust think, it m ight have been me, it m ight have been any of us, m urdered in our beds . . .’ I interrupted her. ‘M ake a good strong cup o f that tea for Miss M egan. She’s had a shock; remember, it was she w ho found the body.’ The w ord ‘body’ m ade Rose open her m outh to talk again, but I stopped her w ith a fierce look and she poured out a cup of strong tea. ‘There you are,’ I said to M egan. ‘D rink that.’ Then I told her to stay w ith Rose and w ent through into the house. I m et Elsie H olland in the hall. ‘O h, M r B urton, isn’t it awful ? W hoever can have done such a dreadful thing? A nd why? Poor Agnes, I’m sure she never did anyone any harm .’ ‘N o,’ I said. ‘Somebody made sure o f that.’

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She looked surprised, th en said, ‘I m ust go up to the boys. M r S ym m ington is so anxious that they shouldn’t be upset.’ She hu rried upstairs. T h en a door opened and Superintendent N ash stepped out in to the hall. ‘O h, M r B u rto n , I’d like to speak to you. You got here very quickly? H o w did you know ? ’ I said that M egan had ru n g m e up; and follow ed h im into a little m o rn in g room . ‘I hear that you telephoned last n ight and asked about this girl? W h y was th at?’ I told him about A gnes’s telephone call to P artridge and how she had n o t com e to tea as arranged. H e said, ‘Yes, I see. W ell, it’s m urder now. T h e question is, w hat did the girl know? D id she say anything to P artrid g e?’ ‘I do n ’t th in k so.’ ‘W ell, I’ll com e up and ask her w hen I’ve finished here.’ ‘W h a t happened?’ I asked. ‘W ell, it was the servants’ day off. R ose comes from N eth er M ickford, and in order to get there she has to catch the half­ past tw o bus. So yesterday R ose w ent o ff at tw o tw enty-five. S ym m ington left for his office at tw enty-five to three. Elsie H olland and the children w ent out at a quarter to three. M egan H u n ter w ent out on her bicycle about five m inutes later. Agnes was th en alone in the house. She norm ally left betw een three o ’clock and half-past three, bu t yesterday it is clear that she didn’t, because she was still in her uniform w hen w e found her body.’ ‘H o w was she killed?’ ‘She was first h it on the back o f the head. A fterw ards a small kitchen knife was pushed in the base o f the skull, im m ediately killin g her.’ ‘Very cold-blooded.’ I said. ‘W h o did it? A nd why? ’

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T he M oving Finger

‘I don’t suppose’, said Nash slowly, ‘that we shall ever know exactly why. But we can guess.’ ‘D id she know something? ’ ‘She knew something. Rose said she’d been upset ever since M rs Sym m ington’s death, and she’d been getting m ore and more w orried, and kept saying she didn’t know w hat to do.’ He shook his head. ‘If only she had come and told us w hat was w orrying her, she w ould be alive today.’ ‘It’s awful,’ I said, ‘not know ing.’ ‘A ctually, I think I know w hat may have been w orrying her. You see, on the afternoon that Mrs Sym m ington killed herself, both servants were supposed to be out. But actually Agnes came back to the house.’ ‘You know that?’ ‘Yes. Agnes had a boyfriend — young R endell w ho works in the fish shop. O n Wednesdays it closes early and he used to come here to m eet Agnes. T hat W ednesday they had a quarrel almost as soon as they met. R endell had received an anonymous letter saying that Agnes was seeing another man. H e was very angry w ith her so Agnes ran back to the house.’ ‘And? ’ ‘Now, that letter to M rs Sym m ington didn’t come by post. But it had a used stamp on it so that it would look as though it had. You understand w hat that m eans?’ I said slowly, ‘It means that it was pushed through the letterbox some tim e before the afternoon post was delivered, so that it w ould be amongst the other letters.’ ‘Exactly. So my theory is this. The girl was looking through the window, hoping that her young m an w ould come and apologize.’ A n d she saw whoever it was deliver that letter? ’

A g ath a C h ristie

‘T h a t’s m y guess, M r B urton. I m ay be w rong, o f course.’ ‘I don’t th in k you are . . . and it m eans that Agnes knew who the anonymous letter writer was.’

‘Yes.’ ‘B ut then w hy d idn’t she . . .?’ ‘Because the girl didn’t understand what she had seen. N o t at first. B u t th e m ore she th o u g h t about it, the m ore w o rried she becam e. So she decided to ask P artrid g e w h eth er she should tell som eone.’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘A nd som ehow, Poison Pen found out. H o w did she find o u t?’ ‘Y ou’re n o t used to liv in g in the country, M r B u rto n . First o f all th e re ’s th e telephone call. W h o overheard it in y o u r h o u se?’ I thought. ‘I answered the telephone. T hen I called up the stairs to Partridge.’ ‘M en tio n in g the girl’s n am e?’ ‘Yes - yes, I did.’ ‘D id anyone overhear y o u ?’ ‘M y sister or Miss G riffith possibly.’ ‘A h, Miss G riffith was visiting. Was she going back to the village straight afterw ards?’ ‘She was going to M r Pye first.’ S uperintendent N ash shook his head. ‘T h at’s tw o people w ho could have spread it all over the village. A nd then, o f course, there is this house. Miss H olland, R ose - they could have heard w hat Agnes said. A nd R endell m ay have told people that Agnes cam e back here that afternoon.’ I felt cold. I was looking out o f the w indow . In front o f me was a path and a small gate. Som eone had opened the gate, had w alked up to the house, and pushed a letter th ro u g h the

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letterbox. I saw, in m y m ind, the w om an’s shape. T he face was blank —but it must be a face that I knew . . . ‘But what do you think happened yesterday?’ ‘I think a certain lady walked up to the front door and rang the bell. Maybe she asked for Miss Holland, or perhaps she had brought a parcel. Anyway, Agnes turned round to put her visiting card or the parcel on the table, and our caller hit her on the back of the head.’ ‘A nd then stabbed her in the neck and hid her in the cupboard?’ I thought for a m om ent. ‘But if Agnes suspected this person . . .’ Nash interrupted me. ‘She didn’t. She just thought it was “strange”. She didn’t suspect that she was dealing w ith a w om an w ho w ould com m it murder. You see, M r B urton, w e’re dealing w ith someone who is highly respected!’ II

W e left the m orning room and w ent to find Elsie Holland, who was organizing the boys’ lessons. She led us into another room. ‘Miss Holland,’ Nash said. ‘W ill you tell me exactly what happened yesterday afternoon?’ ‘Well, we had lunch as usual at one o’clock. T hen M r Sym m ington w ent back to the office, and I took the boys out.’ ‘W here did you go?’ ‘Towards Combeacre, by the field path — the boys wanted to fish. I forgot the bait and had to go back for it.’ ‘W hat tim e was that?’ ‘A bout ten m inutes to three, perhaps.’ ‘Did you go into the house?’ ‘No. I’d left the bait in the shed.’ ‘D id you see M egan or Agnes?’ Nash asked. 55

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‘N o , I d idn’t see anyone.’ ‘You m ake the tea on W ednesdays, Miss H olland?’ ‘Yes. T h e food is all ready in the sitting ro o m for M r Sym m ington. I ju st m ake the tea w hen he comes in. T he children and I have ours in the schoolroom .’ ‘W h a t tim e did you get in ? ’ ‘At ten m inutes to five. T h en w hen M r S ym m ington came in at five I w ent dow n to m ake his tea, but he said he w ould have it w ith us. T he boys w ere so pleased. W e even played a card game. It seems aw ful to th in k o f it now - w ith that p o o r girl in the cupboard all the tim e.’ ‘So you noticed n o th in g unusual w hen you came back yesterday afternoon?’ H er blue eyes opened very w ide. ‘O h no, S uperintendent, n o th in g at all.’ ‘A nd w hat about the w eek before?’ ‘You m ean the day M rs S ym m ington . . .’ ‘Yes. W ere you out all that afternoon also?’ ‘I always take the boys out in the afternoon as w e do lessons in the m orning. W e w ent up on the hill - quite a long way.’ ‘You d id n ’t go up to see M rs S ym m ington w hen you got back?’ ‘O h no.’ N ash said lightly, ‘So no one w ould take the post up to her?’ ‘N o. M rs S ym m ington used to com e dow n and get it herself. She was usually awake by four.’ ‘You d idn’t th in k anything was w ro n g because you had n ’t seen her that afternoon? ’ ‘N o. M r S ym m ington was hanging up his coat and I said, “ Tea’s n o t quite ready, bu t the kettle’s nearly boiling,” and he called out, “M ona, M o n a!” - and then as M rs S ym m ington

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didn’t answer he w ent upstairs to her bedroom . . . then he called m e and said, “Keep the children away,” and . . Nash said, ‘T hat letter she received, Miss Holland, do you think it was true that one of her sons wasn’t her husband’s?’ Elsie Holland said firmly, ‘N o, I don’t. But M rs Sym m ington was very sensitive and anything so unpleasant w ould have given her a great shock.’ Nash was silent for a m om ent, then he asked, ‘Have you had any o f these letters?’ ‘N o, I haven’t had any.’ ‘A re you sure? W e know that the statements in them are all lies, so you don’t have to feel embarrassed.’ ‘But, Superintendent, really I haven’t.’ She was almost tearful. W hen she w ent back to the children, Nash said, ‘W ell, she says she hasn’t received any o f these letters. A nd she sounds as though she’s speaking the truth. So w hat I w ant to know is, w hy hasn’t she received one? I mean, she’s a pretty girl, isn’t she?’ ‘She’s rather m ore than pretty.’ ‘Exactly. So why has she been left out? ’ I shook my head. ‘B ut she’s not the only person. T here’s Em ily Barton, remem ber.’ Nash gave a small laugh. ‘You m ustn’t believe everything you’re told. Miss B arton had one all right — m ore than one.’ ‘H ow do you know? ’ ‘Because her form er servant, the faithful Florence was very angry about it and told us.’ W h y did Miss Em ily say she hadn’t received any? ’ ‘Because the language isn’t nice.’ ‘W hat did her letters say? ’ ‘That she poisoned her m other and most of her sisters!’

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I said, ‘H o w can this m ad and dangerous person be free to w rite all these things and w e can’t see w ho it is?’ ‘W e w ill,’ said Nash. ‘She’ll w rite ju st one letter too m any.’ ‘B ut she w o n ’t, w ill she - n o t after the m urder.’ H e looked at me. ‘O h yes she w ill. You see, she can’t stop now. She needs to w rite them .’

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Chapter 9 i

Nash and I w ent up to our house together so that he could speak to Partridge. Afterwards he joined Joanna and me. ‘She wasn’t m uch help. She just said that the girl was w orried about som ething and that she wanted Partridge’s advice.’ ‘T here’s som ething I w ant to ask,’ I said. ‘W hy were my sister and I sent anonymous letters w hen we had only just arrived here?’ The superintendent said, ‘I don’t know if either o f you looked closely at the envelope o f the letter Miss B urton got. If so, you may have noticed that it was actually addressed to Miss Barton, and the a altered to a u afterwards.’ T hat remark ought to have given us a new idea about the whole business. But none o f us noticed it then. W hen Nash had gone, Joanna said, ‘You don’t think that letter was really meant for Miss Emily, do you?’ ‘No. Because it w ould not have begun, “You are an evil painted w om an,” ’ I replied. T hen Joanna suggested that I should go dow n to the town. ‘You ought to hear w hat everyone is saying this m orning!’ II

Joanna was quite right. The H igh Street was full of people talking. I m et Griffith first. ‘You’ve no idea w ho com m itted this m urder?’ I asked.

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‘N o. I w ish I knew .’ H e asked h ow Joanna was, and said that he had some photographs she w anted to see. I offered to take th em to her. ‘O h , it doesn’t m atter. I shall be passing that way later in the m o rn in g .’ I let h im go as I saw his sister com ing and this tim e I w anted to talk to her. ‘Absolutely aw ful!’ A im ee G riffith called. ‘It’s the first m urder w e’ve ever had in Lymstock. I hear M egan found the body? It m ust have given her a bit o f a shock.’ ‘It did,’ I said shortly. T h en I m ade a sudden decision. ‘Tell m e, Miss G riffith, was it you w ho persuaded her to re tu rn hom e yesterday?’ ‘W ell, I w o u ld n ’t say persuaded.’ ‘B ut you did say som ething to her? ’ A im ee G riffith looked straight into m y eyes, ‘T h at young w om an doesn’t k now how people talk.’ ‘Talk, w hat talk?’ A im ee G riffith continued, ‘O h, I don’t th in k any o f it’s true! B ut it’s rather hard on the girl w hen she’s got to earn a living.’ ‘Has she got to earn a living?’ I asked, confused. ‘It’s a difficult position for her. I m ean, she can’t go im m ediately and leave the boys w ith no one to look after them . But, o f course people w ill gossip!’ ‘W h o are you talking about? ’ I asked. ‘Elsie H olland, o f course.’ ‘A n d w hat are people saying?’ A im ee G riffith laughed. It was, I thought, rather an unpleasant laugh. ‘T h at she is plan n in g to becom e M rs S ym m ington N o. 2. O f course, it’s mad! A nd p o o r D ick S ym m ington hasn’t

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any idea of all this! But if the girl is always there, m aking him comfortable, and looking after the boys — well, he w ill begin to depend on her. A nd that’s why I told M egan that she ought to go home. It looks better than having D ick Sym m ington and Miss H olland alone in the house, don’t you agree?’ she said, and walked away. Ill

I m et M r Pye by the church. H e was talking to Em ily Barton and turned to me w ith obvious pleasure. ‘So, a real Sunday newspaper m urder here in Lymstock! O nly a little servant. But still it is news.’ Miss Barton said, ‘It is shocking. She was such a nice girl. She came to me from the children’s hom e where she had lived for most o f her life and Partridge was very pleased w ith her. Then she w ent to work for the Sym m ingtons.’ ‘O f course,’ said M r Pye. ‘But Lymstock, I am afraid, is not what it was! Anonym ous letters, murders, w hat next?’ Em ily Barton said, ‘They don’t think that the tw o are connected, I hope.’ ‘A n interesting idea,’ said M r Pye. ‘The girl knew something, therefore she was m urdered. Yes, yes, o f course. H ow clever of you to think o f it.’ ‘I can’t bear to think o f it.’ A nd Em ily B arton turned away, w alking very fast. ‘W hat do you really think about all this business?’ I asked M r Pye. ‘Such unlikely people can surprise you by doing such strange things,’ he replied. ‘So I w ould advise the police to forget fingerprints and handw riting and to study character.

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N o tice instead w hat people do w ith th e ir hands, and the way they eat th eir food, and i f they laugh som etim es for no obvious reason.’ ‘M ad ?’ I said. ‘C om pletely m ad,’ said M r Pye, ‘bu t you’d never kn o w it!’ A nd he w alked happily o ff dow n the street. IV I arrived back at Little Furze ju st a few m inutes before lunch tim e and w ent out to jo in Jo an n a on the veranda. T h ere w ere tw o chairs by the iron table and tw o em pty glasses on it. O n ano th er chair was a strange object. ‘W h a t on earth is this?’ I asked. ‘O h . It’s a photograph o f a diseased lung w hich D r G riffith th o u g h t I’d be interested in.’ I looked at the photograph. Every m an has his ow n ways o f con n ectin g w ith w om en. B ut I w ould not, myself, choose to do it w ith photographs o f lungs, diseased or otherw ise. ‘It looks m ost unpleasant,’ I said. ‘H o w was G riffith?’ ‘H e looked tired and very unhappy. I th in k h e’s got som ething on his m in d .’ ‘I should say he’s got you on his m ind. I w ish you’d leave the m an alone, Joanna.’ ‘O h , do be quiet. I haven’t done anything.’ She tu rn e d and w alked away across the lawn. T h e diseased lung was beg in n in g to curl up in the sun. I picked it up by one corner and took it into the sitting-room . T h en I pulled out a heavy book from the bookcase in order to press the photograph flat again betw een its pages. It was a bo o k o f som ebody’s sermons and it came open in m y hand in

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a surprising way. In m om ent I saw why. From the middle o f it a number o f pages had been neatly cut out.

I was looking at the book which Poison Pen m ust have used to cut out words to use in the anonymous letters. But w ho had cut the pages out? Well, it could have been anyone who had been alone in this room , any visitor w ho had sat here waiting for Em ily Barton. So, almost anyone in Lymstock. V After lunch I took the book down to the police station. They were excited. They tested it for fingerprints, but they didn’t find any o f interest. There were m ine, and Partridge’s because she cleaned very carefully, but nobody else’s. I asked Nash how he was getting on. ‘W e’re narrow ing it dow n. W e know the people it couldn’t be.’ ‘A h,’ I said. ‘A nd w ho rem ains?’ ‘Miss Ginch. She had arranged to meet someone yesterday afternoon at a house they were selling not far along the road from the Symmingtons’. And the day of Mrs Symm ington’s suicide, which was Miss Ginch’s last day at Symmington’s office, she could also have walked past the house when she went out to get some stamps.’ ‘W ho else remains as a suspect?’ Nash looked very straight ahead of him . ‘You’ll understand that we can’t decide to leave out anybody.’ ‘N o,’ I said. ‘I see that.’ He said, ‘Miss Griffith w ent to Brenton for a m eeting o f the R ed Cross yesterday. She arrived rather late.’ ‘You don’t think . . .’

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‘N o, but I don’t know. Miss Griffith seems a very healthym inded w om an but . . .’ ‘W hat about last week? Could she have put the letter in the letterbox?’ ‘It’s possible. She was shopping in the tow n that afternoon. T he same is true o f Miss Em ily Barton. She was out shopping yesterday afternoon and she w ent to see some friends on the road past the Sym m ingtons’ house the week before.’ I shook my head. I rem em bered Miss Em ily com ing in yesterday so bright and happy and excited. . . Yes, excited . . . surely not because . . . ‘And there’s M r Pye,’ Nash said. ‘A strange character — not, I think, a very nice character. And he says he was alone in his garden on both occasions.’ ‘So you’re not only suspecting w om en?’ ‘I don’t think a m an w rote the letters, but w e’ve got to include everybody. Because this is a m urder case. You’re all right,’ he smiled, ‘and so is your sister. And M r Sym m ington didn’t leave his office, and D r Griffith was visiting patients.’ I said, ‘So your suspects are dow n to those four —Miss Ginch, M r Pye, Miss Griffith and Miss B arton?’ ‘O h, no, no, w e’ve got a couple more — as well as the vicar’s wife.’ ‘You’ve thought o f her? ’ ‘W e’ve thought o f everybody, and M rs D ane-C althrop could have done it. She was in the woods bird-w atching yesterday afternoon — and the birds can’t speak for her.’ H e turned sharply as O w en Griffith came into the police station. ‘Hello, Nash. I heard you wanted to speak to m e.’ Nash said, ‘M rs Sym m ington was taking some pills that you gave her. W ould too many o f those have killed her?’ 64

The M oving Finger

‘N ot unless she’d taken about tw enty-five of them! Anyway, there’s no doubt about the cause o f death. It was cyanide.’ ‘O h, I know that — I only thought that w hen com m itting suicide, you’d prefer to take a lot o f pills that w ould m ake you go to sleep, rather than to take cyanide.’ ‘O h, right. But cyanide is almost certain to kill you. W ith the pills it m ight have been possible to save her if she was found quickly.’ ‘I see, thank you, D r Griffith.’ Griffith left, and I walked slowly up the hill to Little Furze. Joanna was out, and there was a note w ritten on the telephone pad. I f D r Griffith rings up, I can’t go on Tuesday, but could manage Wednesday or Thursday.

I went into the sitting room , sat dow n and tried to think the whole thing over. O w en’s arrival had interrupted my conversation w ith the superintendent, w ho had just m entioned tw o other people as being possible suspects. I wondered who they were. Partridge, perhaps? After all, the book w ith the pages cut out had been found in this house. But w ho was the other? Somebody that I didn’t know? I closed my eyes and considered four people in turn. Gentle little Em ily Barton? W hat points were there actually against her? Controlled from early childhood? H er dislike o f discussing anything ‘not very nice’? Was that actually a sign o f an inner interest in such things? Aim ee Griffith? Surely nobody could control her. Cheerful and successful. Yet there was som ething . . . Ah, yes! O w en G riffith saying, ‘W e had some anonymous letters sent to people

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in the n o rth o f E ngland w hen I was w orking there.’ H ad that been A im ee Griffith? N o , because they’d found the w riter o f those. G riffith had said it was a schoolgirl. W h y did I suddenly feel so cold and upset? Perhaps it was A im ee G riffith, not the schoolgirl? A nd A im ee had started her tricks again. A nd that was w hy O w e n G riffith was lo o k in g so unhappy. H e suspected his sister. M r Pye? N o t a very nice little m an. I could im agine h im arranging the w hole business . . . laughing . . . T h en that message on the telephone pad in the hall . . . w hy did I keep th in k in g o f it? G riffith and Joanna —he was falling in love w ith her. N o, that w asn’t w hy the message w orried me. It was som ething else . . . M y thoughts w ere going ro u n d and round and I kept repeating to myself, ‘N o smoke w ith o u t fire. N o smoke w ith o u t fire. . . T h a t’s it . . . it all fits together . . .’ T h en I was suddenly in the church and Elsie H olland was gettin g m arried to D r G riffith and the R everend D an e-C alth ro p was reading the service in Latin. A nd in the m iddle o f it M rs D an e-C alth ro p ju m p ed up and cried, ‘It’s got to be stopped!’ T h en I w oke up, and I was in the sitting room o f Little Furze and M rs D an e-C alth rop had just com e through the French w indow s and was standing in front o f m e saying, ‘It has got to be stopped, I tell you.’ I ju m p e d up. ‘Sorry, w hat did you say?’ M rs D an e-C alth ro p banged a small table w ith her hand. ‘It’s got to be stopped. These letters! M urder! W e can’t go on having p o o r children like Agnes W oddell killed !’ ‘You’re quite right,’ I said. ‘B ut w hat do you suggest w e d o ?’

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‘I said this wasn’t an evil place. I was wrong. It is.’ ‘Yes, but w hat are you going to do?’ ‘I’m going to call in an expert. Someone w ho knows all about

evilV

Before I could say anything, Mrs D ane-C althrop w ent out into the garden again.

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Chapter 10

i T h e next w eek felt like a dream . T h e inquest on Agnes W oddell was held and the only possible verdict was returned, ‘M urder by person or persons u n k n o w n .’ So p o o r little Agnes, having had her h o u r o f fame, was then buried in the old churchyard and life in Lym stock w ent on as before. N o , that last statem ent is untrue. N o t as before . . . T here was a half-scared, half-excited light in alm ost everybody’s eye. N eig h bour looked at neighbour. Som ew here in Lym stock was a person w ho had cracked a girl’s skull and pushed a knife into her brain. B ut no one k new w ho that person was. A nd in the evenings, w ith the curtain draw n, Joanna and I sat talking and arguing, over all the various possibilities. M r Pye? Miss Ginch? M rs D ane-C althrop? A im ee Griffith? E m ily Barton? Partridge? A nd all the tim e, nervously, w e w aited for som ething to happen. B ut n o th in g did happen. E m ily B arton came to tea. M egan came to lunch. W e w ent for drinks w ith M r Pye. A nd w e w ent to tea at the vicarage. O u r afternoon there, in the big com fortable sitting room , was one o f the m ost peaceful w e had spent. T he D ane-C althrops had

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a guest staying w ith them , a gentle old lady w ho was k n ittin g som ething w ith w hite wool. It was very pleasant. I do n ’t m ean that w e did no t m ention the m urder, because w e did. Miss M arple, the guest, was very excited by the subject. ‘Tell me, dear,’ she said to M rs D ane-C althrop, ‘w hat do the tow nspeople — say? W h a t do they th in k ?’ ‘M rs Cleat still, I suppose,’ said Joanna. ‘O h no,’ said M rs D ane-C althrop. ‘N o t now.’ Miss M arple asked w ho M rs Cleat was. Joanna said she was the village witch. ‘She’s a very silly w om an,’ said M rs D ane-C althrop. ‘She goes out to gather plants w hen there is a full m oon and makes sure th at everybody know s about it.’ I asked, ‘B ut w hy shouldn’t people suspect her o f the m urder? T hey th o u g h t she had w ritten the letters.’ M iss M arple said, ‘O h! B ut the girl was killed w ith a knife, v ery unpleasant! So th at m eans it can’t be this M rs Cleat. B ecause she could ju st use h er pow ers to m ake th e girl die fro m n atu ra l causes.’ She tu rn e d to m e. ‘M r B u rto n , n ow you are a stranger here. Perhaps you can find a solution to this p ro b lem .’ I smiled. ‘T h e best solution I have had was a dream . In my dream it all fitted together. U nfortunately w hen I w oke up the w hole th in g was nonsense!’ ‘H o w interesting. D o please tell me about the nonsense!’ ‘O h , it all started w ith the silly phrase “N o sm oke w ith o u t fire.” A nd then I got it m ixed up w ith o ther phrases: smoke screens, to rn bits o f paper, telephone messages — N o, that was an o th er dream .’ ‘A nd w hat was th at dream ? ’

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‘W ell, Elsie H olland, the S ym m ingtons’ governess, was getting m arried to D r G riffith and the vicar here was reading the service in Latin, and then M rs D an e-C alth ro p got up and said it had got to be stopped! B ut that part,’ I smiled, ‘was true. I w oke up and found you standing over m e saying it.’ ‘A nd I was quite right,’ said M rs D ane-C althrop. ‘B ut w here did a telephone message com e in ? ’ asked Miss M arple. ‘O h , I’d forgotten, that w asn’t in the dream . I cam e th ro u g h the hall and noticed Joanna had w ritten dow n a message to be given to som eone if they rang up.’ Miss M arple looked at Joanna. ‘W ill you th in k m e very rude if I ask ju st w hat that message w as?’ ‘I do n ’t m ind,’ Joanna said. ‘I can’t rem em ber anything about it myself.’ I repeated the message as best I could, w orried that it was going to disappoint Miss M arple, bu t she smiled. ‘I th o u g h t it m ight be som ething like that.’ M rs D an e-C alth ro p said sharply, ‘Like w hat, Jan e ?’ ‘S om ething quite ordinary.’ Miss M arple had begun k n ittin g again. ‘You know, to com m it a successful m urder m ust be very m uch like doing a m agic trick. You’ve got to m ake people look at the w ro n g th in g and in the w ro n g place.’ ‘W ell,’ I replied. ‘So far everybody seems to have looked in the w ro n g place for o ur m ad person.’ ‘I myself,’ said Miss M arple, ‘w ould probably look for som ebody very sane.’ ‘T h a t’s w hat N ash said,’ I told her. ‘H e also said they w ould be very respectable.’ ‘Yes,’ agreed Miss M arple. ‘T h a t’s im portant.’ She looked at Joanna. ‘Have you had a letter, Miss B u rto n ?’

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Joanna laughed, ‘O h, yes! It said the most awful things.’ ‘I’m afraid,’ said Miss M arple, ‘that people w ho are young and pretty are likely to be chosen by the writer.’ ‘T hat’s why I think it’s odd that Elsie H olland hasn’t had any,’ I said. ‘Is that the Sym m ingtons’ governess — the one you dream t about, M r B urton?’ Miss M arple asked. ‘Yes.’ ‘She’s probably had one and w on’t say so,’ said Joanna. ‘N o,’ I said, ‘I believe her. So does Nash.’ ‘Dear me,’ said Miss M arple. ‘N ow that’s very interesting. T hat’s the most interesting thing I’ve heard yet.’ II

It was tw o nights later that I was driving back from having dinner w ith an old friend, and it was already dark before I got into Lymstock. Som ething was w rong w ith the car lights, so I got out and m anaged to fix them. T he road was empty. T he first few houses were just ahead, and amongst them was the W om en’s Institute building. Som ething made me want to go and have a look at it. A short path led up to the door. I stood for a m om ent w ondering w hat I was doing there. T hen suddenly I heard a slight sound, like the movement of a w om an’s skirt, so I turned and w ent round the corner o f the building towards where the sound had come from. I couldn’t see anybody, so I w ent on and round the back of the house where there was an open window. I moved nearer to it and listened. I could hear nothing, but I felt sure that there was someone there. M y back still wasn’t very good, but I m anaged to climb up and drop dow n inside. T hen I moved forward, until I heard a

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faint sound ahead o f me. I had a torch in m y pocket and sw itched it on. At once a low, sharp voice said, ‘Switch that off.’ A nd I obeyed, for I had im m ediately recognized the voice. I felt S uperintendent N ash take m y arm and guide m e th ro u g h a door and into a passage. H ere, w here there was no w indow , he sw itched on a lamp and looked at m e m ore in sadness than in anger. ‘You would have to in terru p t just at that m inute, M r B u rto n .’ ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘B ut I had a feeling that som ething was happening.’ ‘A nd it probably was. Som ebody came round the house before you. T h ey stopped by the w indow , then m oved on quickly — because they heard you, probably.’ I apologized again. ‘B ut w hy are you here?’ N ash said, ‘I believe that the w riter o f the letters w ill w ant to keep them looking the same. She’s got the cu t-o u t pages o f that book, and can go on using them . B ut she’ll w ant to type the envelopes on the same m achine. So, I w orked out that she w ould com e to the Institute after dark to get at the typew riter.’ For the th ird tim e I apologized for m y unw anted presence and w ent out into the night. Som eone was standing beside m y car. ‘H ello !’ M egan said. ‘W h a t have you been doing?’ ‘W h a t are you doing is m uch m ore to the p o in t?’ I said. ‘I’m out for a walk. I like w alking at night. N obody stops you and says silly things, and I like the stars.’ ‘A ll o f that is true,’ I said. ‘B ut only cats and w itches w alk in the dark. A nd your fam ily w ill w orry about you.’ ‘N o , they w o n ’t. T hey never w orry w here I am or w hat I’m doing.’

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‘Well, get in the car and I’ll drive you hom e.’ It was not quite true w hat M egan had said. Sym m ington was standing on the doorstep as we drove up. ‘Hello, is M egan there?’ he called. ‘Yes, I’ve brought her hom e.’ Sym m ington said sharply, ‘You m ustn’t go off like this w ithout telling us, M egan. Miss Holland has been very w orried about you.’ M egan said som ething I couldn’t hear and w ent past him into the house.

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T he next day I went mad. Looking back on it, that is really the only explanation I can find. It was tim e for my m onthly visit to my London doctor, M arcus Kent. To my surprise Joanna decided to stay behind. Usually she was keen to come and we w ould stay there for tw o days. This time, however, I intended to return the same day. T he station of Lymstock is half a m ile outside Lymstock itself, and as I was driving there I saw M egan w andering along the road. So I stopped. ‘Hello, w hat are you doing?’ ‘J ust out for a walk.’ ‘N ot your usual sort o f healthy walk.’ ‘W ell, I wasn’t going anywhere particular.’ ‘T hen you’d better come and wave goodbye to me at the station.’ I opened the door o f the car and M egan jum ped in. W hen we arrived, I parked the car and w ent in to buy my ticket. ‘W ould you lend me some m oney so that I can get some chocolate out of the m achine?’ M egan asked. ‘Here you are,’ I said, handing her a coin. She w ent off to the chocolate machine, and I looked after her w ith a feeling of annoyance. She was wearing m uddy shoes, and thick stockings and a shapeless woollen top. I said as she came back, ‘W hy do you wear those awful stockings?’ ‘W hat’s the m atter w ith them ?’ ‘Everything. And why do you . . .’ At this m inute the train arrived, so I got in and leaned out of the w indow to continue the conversation. M egan asked me why I was so cross. 74

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‘I’m not cross.’ I lied. ‘I just hate you not caring about how you look.’ ‘I can’t look nice, anyway, so what does it m atter?’ ‘M y goodness,’ I said. ‘I’d like to take you to London and buy you a completely new set o f clothes.’ ‘I wish you could,’ said M egan. The train began to move. I looked dow n into her sad face. A nd then, as I have said, madness came upon me. I opened the door, took M egan’s arm and pulled her into the train. ‘W hat on earth did you do that for? ’ she asked. ‘Because’ I said, ‘I’m going to show you w hat you can look like if you try.’ ‘O h !’ said M egan in an excited whisper. T he ticket collector came along and I bought her a return ticket. W e arrived in London w ith half an hour to spare before m y appointm ent at m y doctor’s. So we took a taxi straight to Joanna’s dressmaker, M ary Grey, w ho is a clever and very pleasant wom an. I said to M egan. ‘I’ll say you are a relation o f m ine.’ ‘W hy?’ ‘D on’t argue,’ I said. I took M ary Grey aside. ‘I’ve brought a young relation along. Joanna was going to accompany her but was prevented at the last m inute. She said I could leave it all to you. You see what the girl looks like now ?’ ‘I certainly do,’ said M ary Grey. ‘W ell, I w ant her dressed perfectly from head to foot. Stockings, shoes, underw ear, everything! By the way, the man w ho does Joanna’s hair is near here, isn’t he?’ ‘Antoine? R o un d the corner. I’ll arrange that too. I shall enjoy it.’ M ary looked at M egan. ‘She’s got a lovely figure.’

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‘You are a true professional,’ I said. ‘She looks completely shapeless to me. R ight, I’ll come back and collect her at about six.’ II

M arcus Kent was pleased w ith m y progress. ‘It’s w onderful what country air, no late nights, and no excitem ent w ill do for a m an.’ ‘T he first tw o are true,’ I said. ‘But don’t think that the country is free from excitement. W e’ve had a lot.’ ‘W hat sort o f excitement? ’ ‘M urder,’ I said. Marcus Kent whistled. ‘Some country love story? Farm boy kills his girl?’ ‘N ot at all. A clever, determ ined killer.’ ‘I haven’t read anything about it. W hen did they arrest him? ’ ‘They haven’t, and it’s a she!’ ‘W hew! I’m not sure that Lymstock’s the right place for you, B urton.’ I said firmly, ‘Yes, it is. And you’re not going to get me out o f it.’ ‘O h, all right. It certainly hasn’t done you any harm . W hat about having dinner w ith me this evening? You can tell me all about this m urder.’ ‘Sorry. I’m already doing som ething.’ ‘W ith a lady, eh? You’re definitely getting better.’ ‘I suppose you could call her that,’ I said, rather amused at the idea o f M egan described in that way. I was at the dressmaker’s at six o’clock and M ary Grey came to m eet me. ‘You’re going to have a shock! I’ve done some good w ork.’ I w ent into the m ain room . M egan was standing looking at herself in a long m irror. I hardly recognized her! Tall and stylish 76

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w ith lovely legs in fine silk stockings. H er hair had been cut and it shone, also like silk. She did not wear m ake-up, or if she did it was so light that it did not show. And there was som ething about her that I had never seen before, a new innocent pride in the way she looked at me w ith a small shy smile. ‘I do look — rather nice, don’t I?’ ‘Nice? ’ I said. ‘N ice isn’t the word! Com e on out to dinner and if every m an doesn’t tu rn round to look at you I’ll be surprised.’ M egan was not beautiful, but she was unusual and she had personality. She walked into the restaurant ahead o f me and, as the waiter hurried towards us, I felt a strange pride. W e had cocktails first. T hen we ate. A nd later we danced. For some reason I hadn’t thought M egan w ould dance well. But she did. H er body and feet followed the rhythm perfectly. ‘G osh!’ I said. ‘You can dance!’ ‘W ell, o f course I can. W e had dancing class every week at school.’ ‘It takes m ore than dancing class to make a dancer,’ I said. It was a perfect evening and I was still behaving in a rather m ad way. M egan brought me back to reality w hen she said, ‘Shouldn’t we be going hom e?’ ‘Goodness!’ I said, and knew that the last train had gone. So I ordered a taxi to come round as soon as possible. It was very late w hen we arrived at Lymstock. Sym m ington’s house was dark and silent. O n M egan’s advice, we w ent round to the back and threw stones at R ose’s window. Eventually she came dow n to let us in. ‘W ell now, Miss M egan, I thought you’d gone to bed.’ I said that bed was w here M egan should go now. ‘G ood night,’ she said, ‘and thank you. It’s been the loveliest day I’ve ever had.’

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So I was also driven hom e and as the car left, the front door opened and Joanna said, ‘It’s you at last, is it?’ ‘W ere you w orried about m e?’ I asked, going inside. W o rried about you? N o, o f course not. I thought you had decided to stay in London and have fun.’ ‘I have had fun —o f a kind.’ I smiled and then began to laugh. Joanna asked w hat I was laughing at and I told her all about the fun I’d had w ith M egan. ‘But Jerry, you can’t do things like that — not in Lymstock. It w ill be all round the tow n tom orrow .’ ‘I suppose it will. But M egan’s only a child.’ ‘She isn’t. She’s twenty. You can’t take a girl o f tw enty to London and buy her clothes w ithout a most awful scandal. Goodness, Jerry, you’ll probably have to m arry the girl.’ Joanna was half-serious, half-laughing. It was at that m om ent that I made a very im portant discovery. ‘I don’t m ind if I do,’ I said. ‘In fact — I’d like it.’ A strange expression appeared on Joanna’s face. As she w ent towards the stairs she said, ‘Yes, I’ve know n that for some tim e . . . ’

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Chapter 12 I w ent along to the Sym m ingtons’ house at eleven o’clock the next m orning, rang the bell, and asked to see M egan. Rose put me in the little m orning room and w hen the door opened M egan was in her old clothes again but she had m anaged to m ake them look completely different. She grinned. ‘H ello!’ It’s wonderful w hat the knowledge of her ow n attractiveness can do for a girl. M egan, I knew suddenly, had grow n up. I said, ‘You didn’t get into trouble about yesterday, I hope?’ ‘O h, n o ’ she said. ‘W ell, yes, I think I did. I m ean, they said a lot of things — but you know how excited people can get about nothing.’ ‘I came round this m orning,’ I said, ‘because I like you a lot, and I think you like me . . .’ ‘Very m uch!’ said M egan. ‘A nd we get on very well together, so I think it w ould be a good idea if we got m arried.’ ‘O h,’ said M egan. ‘You mean, you’re in love w ith m e?’ ‘I’m in love w ith you.’ H er eyes were serious. She said, ‘I think you’re the nicest person in the world — but I’m not in love w ith you.’ ‘I’ll make you love m e.’ ‘T hat w ouldn’t work. I’m not the right wife for you. I’m better at hating than loving.’ I said, ‘Hate doesn’t last. Love does.’ ‘Is that true?’

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‘It’s w hat I believe.’ I paused. ‘So it’s “N o,” is it?’ ‘Yes, it’s no.’ II

I walked away from the house feeling confused. I had felt so certain that M egan was right for me that I had expected her to feel the same. But I was not giving up. O h no! M egan was my w om an and I was going to have her. W hen I got hom e Joanna was out and she did not return for lunch. It was half-past three w hen she walked into the sitting room . I had heard a car stop outside, but Joanna came in alone. She seemed upset. ‘W hat’s the m atter?’ I asked. She sat down. ‘I’ve had the most awful day. I’ve done the most unbelievable thing.’ ‘But w hat —’ ‘I w ent out for a walk. I walked for miles, then in a small valley I saw a farmhouse. I was thirsty, so I wandered into the yard to ask for some water, but then the door opened and O w en came out.’ ‘Yes?’ ‘H e thought I m ight be the nurse. There was a w om an in there having a baby and things were going wrong. So he said to me. “Com e on, you can help me — better than nobody.” I said I couldn’t, that I’d never done anything like that — ‘H e said what did that matter? He said, “You’re a wom an, aren’t you? D on’t you want to help another w om an?” And he rem inded me that I’d m entioned I m ight be interested in becom ing a doctor. “Just silly talk, I suppose! You didn’t m ean

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anything real by it, but this is real and you’re going to behave like a decent hum an being and not like a useless half-brain!” N ow I’ve done the most unbelievable things, Jerry Held instrum ents and boiled them and handed things to him . I’m so tired I can hardly stand up. But he saved her — and the baby. It was born alive. O h dear!’ Joanna covered her face w ith her hands. I said, ‘T here’s a letter for you in the hall. From your ex­ boyfriend Paul, I think.’ I w ent out into the hall and brought Joanna her letter. She opened it, looked at it then dropped it on the floor. ‘O w en was really rather wonderful. The way he fought to save the baby, the way he w ouldn’t be beaten! He was rude and awful to me — but he was w onderful.’

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Things never come w hen they are expected. M y m ind was full o f Joanna’s and my personal affairs and I was shocked the next m orning w hen N ash’s voice said over the telephone, ‘W e’vegot her, M r Burton! Can you come dow n to the police station?’ I left im m ediately and w hen I got there I was taken to a room where Nash and Sergeant Parkins were waiting. ‘It’s been a long chase,’ Nash said, smiling. ‘But w e’re there at last.’ H e passed a letter across the table. This tim e it was all typew ritten and com pared to the others, almost gentle. It’s no use thinking you’re going to step into a dead woman’s 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 now and stay out.

‘Miss Holland received that this m orning,’ said Nash. ‘W ho w rote it?’ I asked. Some o f the pleasure left N ash’s face. ‘A im ee Griffith.’ II

Nash and Parkins w ent to the Griffiths’ house that afternoon, and I w ent w ith them. ‘The doctor hasn’t many friends here,’ Nash said. ‘Perhaps you could help him deal w ith the shock.’

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We rang the bell, asked for Miss Griffith, and were shown into the sitting room . Elsie Holland, M egan and Sym m ington were there having tea. Nash asked Aimee if he could speak to her privately for a mom ent. ‘N ot in trouble over m y car lights again, I hope?’ She led us across the hall into a small study. As I closed the drawing room door, I saw Sym m ington raise his head sharply. I supposed that because of his legal training he had recognized som ething in N ash’s manner. Nash told Aim ee that she must come w ith him to the police station. And he read out the charge. It was about the letters, not m urder yet. Aim ee Griffith laughed loudly. ‘W hat nonsense! As though I’d w rite disgusting things like that. You must be m ad.’ Nash showed the letter to Elsie Holland. ‘D o you swear you did not w rite this, Miss G riffith?’ ‘O f course I do. I’ve never seen it before.’ Nash said, ‘I must tell you, Miss Griffith, that you were seen typing that letter on the m achine at the W om en’s Institute betw een eleven and eleven-thirty p.m. on the night before last. Yesterday you entered the post office w ith several letters in your hand . . .’ ‘I never posted this.’ ‘N o, you did not. W hile w aiting for stamps, you dropped it on the floor, so that somebody else would pick it up and post it.’ T he door opened and Sym m ington came in. ‘W hat’s going on? Aimee, if there is anything wrong, you ought to be legally represented. If you wish me . . .’ She lost control then. She covered her face w ith her hands and said, ‘Go away, Dick. I don’t w ant you to know — about this. N ot you!’

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‘T h en I’ll ask m y p artn er M ildm ay to do it.’ S ym m ington w ent out o f the room . In the doorw ay he bum ped into O w en G riffith. ‘W h a t’s this?’ said O w en. ‘M y sister - you th in k she was responsible for those letters?’ ‘I’m afraid there is no doubt o f it,’ said Nash. H e tu rn ed to A im ee, ‘You m ust com e w ith us now, please.’ She w alked past O w en w ith o u t looking at him . ‘D o n ’t say anything. A nd please don’t look at m e!’ T h ey w ent out and O w e n ju st stood there unable to move. I w aited a bit, then said. ‘If there’s anything I can do . . .’ H e said, ‘Aim ee? I don’t believe it.’ ‘It m ay be a m istake,’ I suggested weakly. ‘She w ou ld n ’t behave like that i f it was a m istake.’ H e sat dow n on a chair. I m ade m yself useful by p o u rin g a strong d rin k and b rin g in g it to him . It seem ed to do him good. H e said, ‘I’m all rig h t now. T hanks, B urton, bu t there’s n o th in g you can do. N o th in g anyone can do.’ T h e door opened and Joanna came in, w en t over to O w en and looked at me. ‘G et out, Jerry. T his is m y business.’ As I w ent out o f the door, I saw her sit dow n on the floor by his feet.

Ill I can’t rem em ber exactly w hat happened over the n ext tw entyfour hours. B ut I do k now that Joanna came hom e looking very tired and saying, ‘H e says he w on’t have m e, Jerry. H e ’s very, very p ro u d !’ A nd I said, ‘M y girl w on’t have me, either . . .’ To w hich she replied, ‘T h e B u rto n fam ily isn’t exactly in dem and at the m o m ent!’

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So I said, ‘Never m ind, we still have each other,’ and Joanna said, ‘Somehow, Jerry, that doesn’t com fort me m uch just now.’ But O w en called the next day and w ent on and on about how w onderful Joanna was, that she was w illing to m arry him — at once if he liked. But he wasn’t going to let her do that. No, she was too good to be associated w ith the kind o f scandal that would soon be in the papers. I then w ent dow n to Lymstock, first to the police station where Nash told me they had completed the case against Aimee. W hen they had searched her house they had found the cut pages of Em ily B arton’s book — in the cupboard under the stairs. ‘The lady seems to have liked that particular hiding-place,’ I said. The vicarage had been one of the last places to hear the news, and Miss M arple was very upset by it. ‘It isn’t true, M r B urton.’ ‘It is, I’m afraid. The police actually saw her type that letter.’ ‘Yes, yes — perhaps they did. Yes, I can understand that.’ ‘A nd the printed pages from which the letters were cut were found in her house.’ Miss M arple looked at me. ‘But that is really evil. W h a t can one do ? There must be something. But I am so old and so stupid.’ I felt rather embarrassed and was glad w hen Mrs D aneCalthrop took her friend away for a cup o f tea. But I saw Miss M arple again that afternoon, m uch later w hen I was on my way home. She was standing near the little bridge at the end of the village, talking to M egan. I walked quickly towards them , but as I came close, M egan turned away and w ent off in the other direction. It made me angry and I w ould have followed her, but Miss M arple stopped me.

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‘N o, don’t go after M egan now. It w ouldn’t be wise.’ I was just going to give her a sharp reply w hen she continued, ‘That girl has great courage —very great courage. D on’t try and see her now. She needs to keep her courage strong.’ There was som ething in her words that frightened me. It was as though she knew som ething that I didn’t. I was afraid and didn’t know why. I w ent back into the H igh Street and w andered around. I don’t know what I was w aiting for, nor what I was thinking about . . . but then I saw Miss M arple for the third time. She was com ing out o f the police station. IV

W here do one’s fears come from? W here do they shape themselves? W here do they hide before com ing out into the open? N ow in my m ind there was one short phrase that I had heard and had never forgotten, ‘Take me away — it’s so awful being here — feeling so e v il. . .’ W hy had M egan said that? There could be nothing in Mrs Sym m ington’s death to m ake M egan feel evil. But did she feel responsible in some way? Megan? Impossible! M egan couldn’t have had anything to do w ith those letters —

Owen Griffith had known a case in the north o f England — a schoolgirl. . . N o, no, not Megan.

‘I’m not the wife for you. I’m better at hating than loving.’ This is w hat M egan had told me. O h, my M egan, not that] But Miss M arple suspects you. She says you have courage. Courage to do what ? 86

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I w anted to see M egan — I w anted to see her very m uch. A t half-past nine that night I left the house and w ent dow n to the tow n and along to the Sym m ingtons’. It was then that a new idea came into m y m ind. T he idea o f a w om an w hom nobody had considered for a m om ent. W ildly unlikely, but not impossible. I walked faster. It was now even m ore im portant to see M egan soon. I passed through the Sym m ingtons’ gate and up to the house. It was a dark, cloudy night. I saw a line o f light from one o f the windows. The little m orning room? I paused for a m om ent, then instead o f going up to the front door, I turned and w ent very quietly up to the w indow beside a large bush. The light came from betw een the curtains which were not quite closed. It was easy to look through and see the strangely peaceful scene. Sym m ington in a big armchair, and Elsie Holland, her head bent, sewing. I could hear as well as see for the w indow was open at the top. Elsie H olland was speaking. ‘But I do think, really, M r Sym m ington, that the boys are old enough to go away to school. I shall hate leaving them , o f course, because I’m very fond of them both.’ Sym m ington said, ‘I think perhaps you’re right about Brian. I’ve decided that he shall start next term at W inhays — where I w ent as a boy. But C olin is a little young. I’d prefer him to wait another year.’ ‘W ell, C olin is perhaps a little young for his age . . .’ It was quiet hom ely talk — a quiet homely scene — T hen the door opened and M egan cam e in. She stood very straight in the doorw ay, and I was aware at once of som ething different about her. H er eyes w ere bright and determ ined.

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She said to S y m m ington, ‘I w o u ld like to speak to you, please. A lone.’ S y m m ington looked surprised and n o t very pleased. B ut M egan tu rn e d to Elsie H olland and said, ‘D o you m in d , E lsie?’ ‘O h , o f course n o t,’ Elsie H olland ju m p ed up, and w en t to the door. T hen, just for a m om ent stood there looking over her shoulder, one hand stretched out, the other holding her sewing. I co u ld n ’t breath, so strong was the pow er o f her beauty. T h en she was gone. S ym m ington said rather crossly, ‘W ell, M egan, w hat do you want? ’ M egan had com e right up to the table. She stood there lo o k in g dow n at him . ‘I w ant some m oney.’ S ym m ington said sharply, ‘D o n ’t you th in k your allowance is big enough? ’ M egan said, ‘I w ant a lot o f m oney.’ S ym m ington sat up straight. ‘You w ill be tw en ty -o n e in a few m onths’ tim e. T h en you w ill receive the m oney left you by yo u r grandm other.’ M egan said, ‘You d o n ’t understand. I w ant m oney from you. N o b o d y ’s ever told m e m uch about m y father, b u t I do k n o w th at he w ent to prison and I kn o w why. It was for b lack m ail!’ She paused. ‘W ell, I’m his daughter, and perhaps I’m like h im . Anyway, I’m asking you to give m e m oney because i f you d o n ’t . . .’ she stopped and then w ent on very slowly, ‘i f you don’t, I shall say what I saw you doing to the pills that day in my mother’s room.’

T h ere was a silence. T h en S ym m ington said, ‘I don’t know w hat you m ean.’ M egan said, ‘I th in k you do.’ A nd she smiled. It was n o t a nice smile.

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Sym m ington got up and w ent over to the desk. H e took a cheque book from his pocket, w rote out a cheque and held it out to M egan. ‘You’re grow n up now,’ he said. ‘I can understand that you may w ant to buy some nice clothes. I don’t know w hat you were talking about. But here’s a cheque.’ M egan looked at it. ‘T hank you. T hat w ill be enough for the present.’ She turned and w ent out o f the room. Sym m ington stood looking at the closed door, then he turned round and as I saw his face I made a quick m ovem ent forward. But suddenly the large bush by the w indow stopped being a bush and Superintendent N ash’s arms w ent round me and Superintendent N ash’s voice breathed in my ear, ‘Q uiet, Burton. Q uiet!’ Then, very carefully he m ade his way back to the path, taking me w ith him . ‘T hat girl isn’t safe,’ I said. ‘You saw his face? W e’ve got to get her out of here.’ Nash held my arm firmly. ‘Now, M r B urton, you’ve got to listen.’

V W ell, I listened. I didn’t like it — but I said I’d do as he wanted. So I w ent w ith N ash and Parkins into the house by the back door. A nd I w aited w ith N ash upstairs behind a curtain u n til w e could hear the clocks striking tw o, and Sym m ington’s door opened and he w ent along the passage and into M egan’s room . And I did not move because I knew that Sergeant Parkins was there behind her door, and I knew that Parkins was good at his job, and I knew that I couldn’t have trusted myself to keep quiet and not go mad.

A g ath a C h ristie

A nd I saw S ym m ington com e out o f the room w ith M egan in his arms and carry her dow nstairs, as N ash and I follow ed at a careful distance beh in d him . H e carried her th ro ugh to the kitchen and he had just arranged her w ith her head in the oven and had tu rn ed on the gas w hen N ash sw itched on the light. A nd that was the end o f R ich ard Sym m ington. Even w hile I was pu llin g M egan out o f the oven and tu rn in g o ff the gas, I saw th at he was finished. H e did n ’t even try to fight. VI Upstairs I sat by M egan’s bed w aiting for her to w ake up. ‘H o w do you k now she’s going to be all rig h t?’ I said to Nash. ‘It was too big a risk.’ N ash was very calm. ‘H e just put a gentle sleeping pow der in the w ater by her bed. H e tho u g h t the w hole th in g was finished w ith Miss G riffith’s arrest. H e couldn’t risk another m ysterious death. B ut if a rather unhappy girl put her head in the gas oven and co m m itted suicide —well, people w ill just say that the shock o f h er m o th er’s death had been too m uch for her.’ I said, w atching M egan, ‘She’s taking a long tim e to wake up.’ ‘You heard w hat D r G riffith said? H er heart is perfectly all rig h t — she’ll ju st sleep and w ake naturally.’ T h en M egan m oved and said som ething. So Superintendent N ash left the room . She opened her eyes. ‘J erry.’ ‘H ello, m y dear.’ ‘D id I do it well? ’ ‘You m ight have been blackm ailing ever since you w ere b o rn !’

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The M oving Finger

M egan closed her eyes again. ‘Last night I was w riting to you —in case anything w ent —w ent w rong. B ut I was too sleepy to finish. It’s over there.’ I w ent across to the desk. ‘M y dear Jerry,’ the letter began, ‘I was reading m y school Shakespeare and the sonnet that begins: So are you to my thoughts as food to life O r as sweet-seasoned showers are to the ground.

and I know that I am in love w ith you after all, because that is w hat I fe e l. .

91

C hapter 14 ‘So you see,’ said M rs D an e-C alth ro p , ‘I was quite right to call in an expert.’ I looked at her, surprised. ‘B ut did you? W h o was it? W h at did he d o ?’ W e w ere all at the vicarage. T h e rain was p o u rin g dow n outside and there was a pleasant w ood fire. ‘It w asn’t a he,’ said M rs D an e-C alth ro p and tu rn ed to w here Miss M arple sat k n itting. ‘T h a t’s m y expert. Jane M arple. She know s m ore about h u m an evil than anyone I’ve ever k n o w n .’ ‘I don’t th in k you should put it quite like that, dear,’ said Miss M arple. ‘B ut you do.’ So Miss M arple put dow n her k n ittin g and explained to us w hat she had learned about m urder. ‘M ost crim es are very simple. This one was. T h e tru th was really so obvious. You saw it, M r B u rto n .’ ‘I did not.’ ‘B ut you did. To begin w ith, that phrase “N o smoke w ith o u t fire.” It annoyed you, because you understood w hat it was — a smoke screen. E verybody looking at the w ro n g th in g — the anonym ous letters. B ut the w hole point was that there weren’t any anonym ous letters!’ ‘B ut Miss M arple, there were. I had one.’ ‘O h yes, but they w eren’t real. Even in Lym stock there are plenty o f scandals, and any w om an living in the place w ould have k n o w n about th em and used them . B ut a m an isn’t usually interested in gossip — especially a m an like M r Sym m ington. So i f you look th ro u g h the smoke and com e to the fire you see that ju st one th in g happened — M rs S ym m ington died.

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The M oving Finger

‘So then, naturally, one thinks of w ho m ight have wanted Mrs Sym m ington dead, and o f course the first person one thinks of is, I am afraid, the husband. And one asks is there any reason? for example, another woman? ‘A nd the very first thing I hear is that there is a very attractive young governess in the house. So clear, isn’t it? I’m afraid that w hen older gentlemen fall in love, they get the disease very badly. It’s a madness. A nd for M r Sym m ington, only his w ife’s death would solve his problem , because he w anted to m arry Elsie. He w anted everything, his hom e, his children, his respectability. A nd the price he w ould have to pay for that was murder. ‘But he knew that if a wife dies unexpectedly, the first suspect is the husband. So he created a death w hich seemed to be the result o f som ething else. He created an anonymous letter writer. A nd the clever thing was that the police were certain to suspect a woman — and they were quite right in a way. All the letters were a w om an’s letters; he copied them from the letters in the case in the north o f England that D r Griffith had told him about. He took words and phrases from them and m ixed them up, and the result was that the letters definitely represented a w om an’s mind. ‘H e knew all the tricks that the police use, handw riting and typew riting tests. So he typed all the envelopes before he gave away the typew riter to the W om en’s Institute, and he cut the pages from the book at Little Furze w hen he was waiting in the sitting room one day. People don’t open books of sermons much! A n d finally, w hen he had got his false Poison Pen established, he organized the real thing. A sunny afternoon when the governess and the boys and his stepdaughter would be out, and the servants were having their regular day off. H e couldn’t know that Agnes would quarrel w ith her boyfriend and come back to the house.’

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A g ath a C h ristie

Jo an n a asked, ‘B ut w hat did Agnes see? ’ ‘I do n ’t know. B ut I w ould guess that she saw n o th in g .’ ‘So she im agined it all?’ ‘N o, no, m y dear, I m ean that she stood at the w in d o w all the afternoon w aiting for her boyfriend to com e and say sorry and th at — surprisingly — she saw nothing. T h at is, no one came to the house at all, n o t the postm an, n o r anybody else. A nd afterwards she understood that this was very strange — because M rs S ym m ington had received an anonym ous letter that afternoon.’ ‘D id n ’t M rs S ym m ington receive o n e?’ I asked, confused. ‘B ut o f course not! H e r husband just m ixed the cyanide w ith the pills she took every day after lunch. All S ym m ington had to do was to get hom e as usual, call his wife, get no answer, go up to her room , drop a little cyanide in the glass o f w ater she had used to swallow the pills, th ro w the anonym ous letter into the fireplace, and put by her hand the to rn bit o f paper w ith “I can’t go on” w ritten on it.’ Miss M arple tu rn ed to me. ‘You w ere quite rig h t about that, too, M r B urton. A “to rn bit o f paper” was all w rong. People don’t leave suicide notes on to rn bits o f paper. T h ey use a sheet o f paper. Yes, the to rn paper was w ro n g and you k n ew it.’ ‘You are rating m e too hig h ,’ I said. ‘I knew n o th in g .’ ‘B ut you did, M r B urton. O therw ise w hy w ere you im m ediately interested in the message your sister left on the telephone pad?’ I repeated slowly, ‘ “ Say that I can’t go on Friday” — I see! I can’t go on ?’ Miss M arple sm iled at me. ‘Exactly. M r S ym m ington saw a sim ilar message that his w ife had w ritten and understood how he m ig h t use it. So he tore o ff the words he w anted for w hen the tim e came — a message in his w ife’s handw riting.’

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The M oving Finger

‘Was there anything else clever that I did? ’ I asked. Again Miss M arple smiled at me. ‘You told me the most im portant thing o f all — that Elsie Holland had never received any anonymous letters.’ ‘D o you know,’ I said, ‘last night I thought that was why she must be the letter w riter.’ ‘O h dear, me, no. . . The person w ho writes anonymous letters almost always sends them to herself as well. N o, no, the fact interested me for another reason. Because it was M r Sym m ington’s one weakness. He couldn’t bear to w rite an unpleasant letter to the girl he loved. And that is how I knew he had killed his wife.’ Joanna said, ‘A nd he killed Agnes. W hy?’ ‘H e probably heard her telephoning Partridge, saying that she was w orried about M rs Sym m ington’s death. He couldn’t risk the idea that she m ight know som ething.’ ‘But he was at his office all that afternoon?’ ‘I think he killed her before he went. Miss H olland was in the kitchen. H e just opened and shut the front door as though he had gone out, then slipped into the little cloakroom and waited there until Agnes was alone in the house.’ Joanna said, ‘But what about Aimee Griffith? The police actually saw her w rite that letter.’ ‘Yes, o f course,’ said Miss M arple. ‘She did w rite that letter.’ ‘But why?’ ‘O h, m y dear, Miss G riffith had been in love w ith Sym m ington all her life. She probably thought, after Mrs Sym m ington’s death, that perhaps — well —’ Miss M arple coughed delicately. ‘And then the gossip began spreading about Elsie H olland and I expect that upset her badly. So she thought, why not add one more anonymous letter, and frighten the girl away? ’ ‘W ell,’ said Joanna. ‘W hat happened next?’

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A g ath a C h ristie

‘I th in k ,’ said Miss M arple, ‘that w hen Miss H olland showed that letter to S ym m ington he k n ew at once w ho had w ritten it, and he saw a chance to m ake h im self safe. So he to o k the fam ily to tea at the G riffiths’s house and easily m anaged to hide the to rn -o u t b o o k pages under the stairs. W h ich was also a very clever detail as it rem inded everyone o f w here Agnes’s body had been found.’ ‘R ig h t,’ I said. ‘B ut there’s one th in g I can’t forgive you for, Miss M arple - using M egan.’ Miss M arple looked at m e over her glasses. ‘M r B urton, something had to be done. T here was no p ro o f against this very unpleasant m an. I needed som eone to help me, som eone clever and w ith great courage.’ ‘It was very dangerous for her.’ ‘Yes, it was dangerous, but w e are n o t put into this world, M r B u rto n , to avoid danger w hen an innocent person’s life is at risk. You understand m e?’ I understood.

Chapter 15 It was m orning in the H igh Street. Miss Em ily B arton came out of a shop. H er face was pink and her eyes were excited. ‘O h dear, M r B urton, I am going on a holiday at last!’ ‘I hope you’ll enjoy it.’ ‘O h, I’m sure I shall. For a long tim e I’ve felt unable to sell Little Furze as I couldn’t bear the idea o f strangers there. But now that you have bought it and are going to live there w ith M egan — it is quite different. A nd although I would never have dared to go by myself, dear Aim ee, after her terrible experience, has agreed to come w ith me! It w ill do her so m uch good. Because she has also just heard that her brother is getting m arried. But how nice to think you are both going to stay in Lymstock! ’ I w ent along to the Sym m ingtons’ house and M egan came out to m eet me. It was not a rom antic m eeting because a very big dog came out w ith M egan and nearly knocked me over. ‘Isn’t he sweet? ’ she said. ‘A little energetic. Is he ours?’ ‘Yes, he’s a w edding present from Joanna. W e have had nice w edding presents, haven’t we? T hat knitted w oollen thing that we don’t know w hat it’s for from Miss M arple, and the lovely china bowl from M r Pye, and Elsie has sent me a cake-stand —’ ‘H ow typical,’ I said. ‘She’s got a job w ith an accountant and is very happy. And w hat was I talking about?’ ‘W edding presents. D on’t forget if you change your m ind, you’ll have to send them all back.’

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A g ath a C h ristie

‘I w o n ’t change m y m ind. W h a t else have w e got? O h , yes, th ere’s one th in g I don’t understand. As well as the dog’s ow n collar and lead. Joanna has sent an extra collar and lead. W h a t do you th in k th at’s for? ’ ‘T h at,’ I said, ‘is Jo an n a’s little jo k e.’

C h a r a c t e r l is t

Jerry Burton: a young man injured in flying accident - now renting

Little Furze in Lymstock while he recovers Marcus Kent: Jerry Burton’s London doctor Joanna Burton: Jerry Burton’s sister Miss Emily Barton: elderly owner of Little Furze Miss Partridge: a middle-aged servant at Little Furze Beatrice: a servant girl at Little Furze D r Owen Griffith: a young doctor who lives in Lymstock Miss Megan Hunter: Mrs Symmington’s twenty-year old daughter from

her first marriage Miss Aim ee G riffith: Dr Griffith's older sister Richard Sym m ington: a lawyer who lives in Lymstock Miss Ginch: Mr Symmington’s middle-aged secretary Miss Elsie Holland: the governess who looks after the two Symmington

boys Mr Pye: the owner of Prior’s End, a large house in Lymstock Mrs Sym m ington: Mr Symmington’s wife Colonel Appleton: a friend of the Symmingtons’ who lives in a village

nearby Brian and Colin Sym m ington: Mr and Mrs Symmington’s two

young sons

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C h a ra c te r list

Mrs Baker: Beatrice’s mother George: Beatrice’s boyfriend Mrs Cleat: a woman known as the village witch Th e Reverend Caleb D ane-Calthrop: vicar of Lymstock Mrs Maud Dane-Calthrop: the vicar’s wife Superintendent Nash: the policeman inquiring into the deaths Inspector Craves: an expert on anonymous letters Agnes W oddell: a young servant at the Symmington’s house Florence: a former servant of Emily Barton, who has now given her

rooms in her house Rose: an older servant at the Symmingtons’ house Miss Jane Marple: elderly friend of Mrs Dane-Calthrop

IOO

C u ltu r a l n o t es

O rigin o f the b oo k’s title The Moving Finger

The book’s title comes from a book of Persian Poetry written in the 11th or 12th century. The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it. The meaning of the phrase The Moving Finger’ is that whatever you do in your life, it is your own responsibility and cannot be changed. The structure o f the police in England

The different levels of police officer in Britain, starting at the lowest, are: Police Constable, Sergeant, Inspector, Chief Inspector, Superintendent, Chief Superintendent. In the story, Superintendent Nash takes control of the investigation. Normally something like the issueofanonymous letters would be handled by a lower ranking officer,butthedeath of Mrs Symmington makes the case more serious. Inspector Craves is a middle ranking officer. In the story, some people in the village are not happy about talking to the police. They don’t want to get involved and they think that if they talk to the police, they will end up in trouble themselves. Inquest

In cases of sudden, violent or suspicious death, it is common to hold a public inquiry called an inquest to find out why the person died. The coroner is the person in charge of the inquest, and the official cause of

IOI

C ultural notes

death is decided by a selected group of twelve people known as the jury. At the inquest the coroner and the jury hear medical evidence, as well as evidence from any other people that may be relevant. The family of the person who died, and members of the public can also attend the inquest. Once all the evidence has been heard, the jury gives its verdict - for example, ‘natural death’, ‘accidental death', ‘suicide while temporarily insane’, or ‘murder by person or persons unknown’. Poison fo r killing wasps

At the time Agatha Christie was writing, it was common for people in the country to keep cyanide in the garden shed to put on wasps’ nests to kill them all quickly. Now, it is against the law to possess these kinds of poisons. Servants

In a typical large house at the time of the story, the family often employed several servants. Some lived in the house, some lived nearby. Servants included a cook, and a housemaid who did the cleaning. There could also be a gardener, and for larger, richer families, a driver or chauffeur. In the story, Faithful Florence is often mentioned as the former servant of Emily Barton who now offers Miss Barton a room in her house. Governess

Wealthy people sometimes employed a governess, a teacher to live with the family and educate the children at home, rather than going to school. In the story, the governess Elsie Holland has more responsibilities, including taking the children out and organising their meals. N o smoke without fire

This is a British proverb meaning that there may be something true behind a rumour. In other words, if you see evidence of something (i.e. the smoke), you assume that there is the cause (i.e. the fire)

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C u ltu ra l notes

somewhere, even if you cannot see it. In the story, this theme runs throughout. People in the village assume that there is something true in the accusations in the anonymous letters. Stepchildren/parents

If someone marries someone who already has children from a previous marriage, the children are called stepchildren, and the new ‘parent’ is called stepfather or stepmother. Shelley, Keats, Wordsworth

In Chapter 2, Megan refers to three of England’s greatest poets of the 18th and early 19th centuries, whose poems are often studied at school. These poets often wrote about their feelings for nature and the English countryside. In particular she refers to the famous poem by William Wordsworth entitled ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud’ (1804) in which he writes about a field full of daffodils, the tall yellow flower. Shakespeare - K in g Lear - Co n eril and Regan

King Lear is one of Shakespeare’s most famous plays. In the story, Megan refers to Goneril and Regan, the two elder daughters of King Lear. Shakespeare’s sonnets

In chapter 13, Megan quotes a couple of lines from one of Shakespeare’s sonnets - these were 154 poems written towards the end of the 16 th century. She makes a romantic connection between her love for Jerry and how rain (sweet-seasoned showers) is vital to the ground it falls on. Freud and Jung

At the time that the story was written, the psychoanalytical theories of Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung were becoming more widely known. Agatha Christie was probably interested in these ideas about the mind. In the story, people wonder how someone could write such horrible anonymous letters and what the person is hiding and thinking.

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C u ltu ra l notes

Witches

In the story, Mrs Cleat is referred to as a witch. Witches were persecuted and often killed during the medieval period in Britain, because it was believed they were involved in devil worship. At the time that the story was written, people were still suspicious of people who they believed might be witches. Cocktails

These strong alcoholic drinks became popular in the 1920s amongst the upper classes. They were different mixtures of spirits with other drinks, and given special names. George Stephenson

George Stephenson (17 8 1-18 4 8 ) is regarded as the inventor of the railway train. In the story he is referred to by Jerry Burton, incorrectly, as the person that invented the steam engine - using the power of steam from boiling water. This is in fact credited to James Watt, an 1 8thcentury Scottish engineer. It is said that he had the idea by watching the lid of a kettle moving as the water boiled inside. What Jerry Burton is trying to say is that great ideas sometimes come from someone who is not working at the time. Th e Women’s Institute

This is a British, community-based organization for women. It was formed in 1915 with two main aims: to develop country communities and to encourage women to become more involved in producing food during the First World War. Since then the organization’s aims have broadened and it is now the largest women’s voluntary organization in the UK. The organization celebrated its 95th anniversary in 2 0 10 and currently has approximately 2 0 5 ,0 0 0 members in 6 ,500 individual locations. The Red Cross

This is an international organization formed in the 19 th century in order to provide medical help to soldiers wounded in battles. It takes its name

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C u ltu ra l notes

from its flag - a red cross on a white background. It now has a much wider international role and is involved in humanitarian aid throughout the world. In the story, the local Red Cross Society was raising money through local events and activities. Village life

An English village is a small group of houses in the countryside, usually with a church at its centre. Sometimes there is a very large house in a village where rich people live who may own the local farm land and the houses of farm workers. A village often has a post office, an inn (or pub), and a shop. It may also have a local doctor. Historically, village life was quieter and slower than life in a town and everyone knew who everyone else was, even if they did not meet socially. They also knew quite a lot about each other's lives. In this story there is much discussion amongst the characters about the personal lives of certain individuals. This often negative and critical gossip means that rumours can circulate quickly round a small village. At the time that this story was written, village life was very traditional and conservative. Few people had cars, so ordinary village people led quite isolated lives, especially if they were far from large towns or cities. The train was the only means of long distance transport for most people. The Church o f England

Many English villages have a church belonging to the Church of England. The administrative area of the church and the surrounding villages is called a parish. Each parish is looked after by a vicar, which is the name for a priest in the Church of England. The vicar leads church services, during which he gives a sermon - a talk about spiritual and religious matters. The vicar is responsible for taking care of the spiritual needs of the people of the village, so he often visits

105

C u ltu r a l notes

those who are ill or have other worries. The vicar will carry out baptisms, marriage ceremonies and funerals. People will often ask the vicar for advice regarding personal matters. In the story, the reverend DaneCalthorp and his wife were considered important and respectable leaders of the local community.

106

G lo ssa r y

Key

n = noun v = verb phr v = phrasal verb adj = adjective adv = adverb excl = exclamation exp = expression adultery (n)

to be married and have sex with someone that you are not married to allowance (n)

money that is given regularly to someone anonymous (adj)

unknown anxious (adj) to very much want something awful (adj)

bad awkward (adj) embarrassed and shy bait (n) food which you put on a hook or in a trap in order to catch fish or animals

107

G lossary

blackm ail (v) to threaten do something unpleasant to someone unless they do what you want them to do bridge (n) a card game for four players brighten up (v)

to suddenly look happier bump into (phr v) to meet someone by chance bum ping (v)

to hit something while moving call (v) to make a short visit case (n)

a crime or mystery that the police are investigating cheque (n)

a printed form on which you write an amount of money and say who it is to be paid to cold-blooded (adj) without showing pity or emotion collar (n)

a leather band which is put round the neck of a dog or cat Co lo n el (n)

a senior military officer

108

G lossary

coroner (n)

the person who is responsible for investigating sudden or unusual deaths crack (v)

to hit and break curled up (phr v) to bring your arms, legs and head in towards your stomach daffodil (n)

a yellow flower that blooms in the spring (see Cultural notes: Shelley, Keats, Wordsworth) dare (v)

to have enough courage d ogs’ dinner (n) a mess or muddle drawing room (n)

a room, especially a large room in a large house, where people sit and relax dreadful (adj)

very unpleasant drive som eone to do som ething (exp)

to force someone to do something fellow (n)

a man or boy feel a fool (exp)

feel silly

109

Glossary

fierce (adj)

aggressive or angry fingerprint (n)

a mark made by a person’s finger which shows the lines on the skin and can be used to identify criminals fishing rod (n)

a long thin pole which has a line and hook attached to it and which is used for catching fish fix(v) to repair floating (v)

to move slowly and smoothly gasp (v)

to take a short, quick breath through your mouth Cosh! (exp)

used to show surprise or shock gossip (n)

informal conversation, often about other people’s private affairs governess (n)

a woman employed to teach children in a private household (see Cultural notes) grin (v)

to smile widely

no

Glossary

guilty (adj)

to have committed a crime or offence hatred (n)

an extremely strong feeling of dislike for someone or something how dare he (exp)

an expression you use when you are shocked and angry about something that someone has done idleness (n)

having no job or work and doing nothing im m orality (n)

behaviour which is morally wrong income (n) the money that a person or organization earns or receives inquest (n) a meeting where evidence is heard about someone’s death to find out why they died insane (adj)

having a mind that does not work in a normal way instrument (n) a tool or device that is used to do a particular task Irish stew (n)

a traditional dish made from lamb, or mutton, as well as potatoes, carrots, onions, and parsley knitting (n) something, such as a piece of clothing, that is being knitted

hi

G lossary

lawn (n) an area of grass that is kept cut short and is usually part of a garden or park lead (n)

a long chain or piece of leather attached to the dog’s collar so that you can control the dog lid (n) the top of a container which you open to reach inside load (v) to put a large quantity of things or heavy things into something lung (n) one of two organs inside your chest which you use for breathing mend (v)

something that is damaged or broken is repaired so that it works properly or can be used Messrs (n)

is used as the plural of Mr in front of the names of two or more men narrow som ething down (phr v) to reduce the number of things included N o smoke without fire (exp)

if people are saying that someone has done something bad but no one knows whether it is true, it probably is true (see Cultural notes) nonsense (n)

something that you think is untrue or silly

112

Glossary

pattern (n) a particular way in which something is usually or repeatedly done plump (adj)

a person who is rather fat Poison Pen (n) a person who writes unpleasant, unsigned letters to upset someone or

to cause trouble pride (n) a feeling of satisfaction which you have because you or people close to you have done something good or possess something good quarrel (n)

have an angry argument with someone receiver (n)

the part of a telephone that you hold near to your ear and speak into recover (v) to become well again rem ark (n)

what someone has said about something respectability (n)

liked or admired by other people and considered to be morally correct roughly (adv)

using too much force rude (adj)

not polite

113

G lossary

scandal (n)

a situation, event, or someone’s behaviour that shocks a lot of people because they think it is immoral selfish (adj)

caring only about yourself, and not about other people sensitive (adj)

easily worried and offended sermon (n)

a talk on a religious or moral subject given during a church service sew (v)

to use a needle and thread to make or mend something such as clothes shave (n)

to cut hair from your face or body using a razor or shaver shed (n)

a small building used for storing things such as garden tools silk (n)

a very smooth, fine cloth made from a substance produced by a kind of moth skull (n) the bony part of your head which holds your brain stab (v)

to push a knife or sharp object into something stiff (adj)

not moving as easily as normal

114

Glossary

stockings (n)

item of women’s clothing which fit closely over their feet and legs. Stockings are usually made of nylon or silk and are held in place by suspenders. stylish (adj)

smart, elegant, and fashionable suicide (n)

the act of deliberately killing yourself superintendent (n)

a senior police officer of the rank above an inspector (see Cultural notes) suspect (v)

to believe that something is true but you want to make it sound less strong or direct swear (v) to promise switch o ff (phr v) to make something stop working by operating a switch (opposite of ‘switch on’) switch on (phr v) to make something start working by operating a switch tearful (adj)

used to describe someone when their face or voice shows signs that they have been crying or that they want to cry tenant (n)

someone who pays rent for the place they live in, or for land or buildings that they use

115

G lossary

torch (n)

a small, battery-powered electric light which you carry in your hand torn (v)

past participle of ‘tear’ - to cut something roughly or by accident treasures (n)

valuable objects, especially works of art and items of historical value typewritten (adj)

written using a typewriter or word processor typewriter (n)

a machine with keys which are pressed in order to print letters, numbers, or other characters onto paper unbelievable (adj) extreme, impressive, or shocking uneasiness (adj)

feeling that something is wrong valuable (adj)

useful veranda (n)

a platform with a roof along the outside wall of a house verdict (n)

the decision that is given by the jury or judge at the end of a trial vicar (n)

an Anglican priest who is in charge of a church and the area it is in

116

Glossary

vicarage (n) a house in which a vicar lives victim (n)

someone who has been hurt or killed violent (adj)

someone who uses physical force or weapons to hurt or kill other people wander (v)

to walk around in no special direction wasp (n)

a small insect with a painful sting. It has yellow and black stripes across its body. whistle (v) to make sounds by forcing your breath out between your lips or teeth witch (n)

a woman who has magic powers (see Cultural notes) woods (n)

a large area of trees growing near each other

117

Collins English Readers ALSO IN THE AGATHA CHRISTIE SERIES

The Mysterious Affair at Styles Recently, there have been some strange things happening at Styles, a large country house in Essex. Evelyn Howard, a loyal friend to the family for years, leaves the house after an argument with Mrs Inglethorp. Mrs Inglethorp then suddenly falls ill and dies. Has she been poisoned? It is up to the famous Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot, to find out what happened.

The Man in the Brown Suit Pretty, young Anne Beddingfeld comes to London looking for adventure. But adventure finds her when she sees a man fall off an Underground platform and die on the rails. The police think the death was an accident. But who was the man in the brown suit who examined the body before running away? Anne has only one clue, but she is determined to find the mysterious killer. Anne’s adventure takes her on a cruise ship all the way to Cape Town and on into Africa . . .

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd Roger Ackroyd was a man who knew too much. He knew the woman he loved had poisoned her first husband. He knew someone was blackmailing her - and now she has killed herself. When Roger Ackroyd is found murdered Hercule Poirot is called in to find out who the killer is.

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The Murder at the Vicarage When Colonel Protheroe is found murdered in the vicar’s study, it seems that almost everyone in the village of St Mary Mead had a reason to kill him. This is the first case for Agatha Christie’s famous female detective, Miss Marple. She needs to use all her powers of observation and deduction to solve the mystery.

Peril at End House Hercule Poirot is on holiday in the south of England when he meets a young woman called Nick Buckley. Nick has had a lot of mysterious ‘accidents’. First, her car brakes failed. Then, a large rock just missed her when she was walking, and later, a painting almost fell on her while she was asleep. Finally, Poirot finds a bullet hole in her hat! Nick is in danger and needs Poirot’s help. Can he find the guilty person before Nick is harmed?

Why Didn’t They Ask Evans? Bobby Jones is playing g o lf... terribly. As his ball disappears over the edge of a cliff, he hears a cry. The ball is lost, but on the rocks below he finds a dying man. With his final breath the man opens his eyes and says, ‘Why didn’t they ask Evans?’ Bobby and his adventureseeking friend Lady Frances, set out to solve the mystery of the dying man’s last words, but put their own lives in terrible danger. . .

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Death in the Clouds Hercule Poirot is travelling from France to England by plane. During the journey a passenger is murdered. Someone on the flight is guilty of the crime - but who could have a reason to kill an elderly lady? And how is it possible that no one saw it happen?

Appointment with Death Mrs Boynton, cruel and hated by her family, is found dead while on holiday in the ancient city of Petra in Jordan. Was it just a weak heart and too much sun that killed her, or was she murdered? By chance, the great detective Hercule Poirot is visiting the country. He has 24 hours to solve the case.

N or M? it is World War II and a British secret agent has been murdered. The murderers are Nazi agents living somewhere in England. They are known only as N and M, and could be anyone. The only clue as to where they are hiding points to the seaside village of Leahampton and its busy guesthouse, Sans Souci. Tommy and Tuppence Beresford, Britain’s most unlikely spies, accept the mission to find N and M. No one can be trusted . . .

COLLINS ENGLISH READERS

T h e A g a t h a C h r is t ie S e r ie s The Mysterious Affair at Styles The Man in the Brown Suit The Murder of Roger Ackroyd The Murder at the Vicarage Peril at End House Why Didn’t They Ask Evans? Death in the Clouds Appointment with Death N o rM? The Moving Finger Sparkling Cyanide Crooked House They Came to Baghdad They Do It With Mirrors A Pocket Full of Rye After the Funeral Destination Unknown Hickory Dickory Dock 4.50 From Paddington Cat Among the Pigeons

Visit www.collinselt.com/agathachristie for language activities and teacher’s notes based on this story.

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