A Murder Is Announced_ A Miss Marple Mystery - Agatha Christie [68]
“Does nobody know?”
“Nobody here. Harry”—her voice changed—“my son, he doesn’t know. I don’t want him to know. I don’t want him to know—ever.”
“Then let me tell you that you’re taking a very big risk, Mrs. Haymes. When the boy is old enough to understand, tell him the truth. If he finds out by himself some day—it won’t be good for him. If you go on stuffing him up with tales of his father dying like a hero—”
“I don’t do that. I’m not completely dishonest. I just don’t talk about it. His father was—killed in the war. After all, that’s what it amounts to—for us.”
“But your husband is still alive?”
“Perhaps. How should I know?”
“When did you see him last, Mrs. Haymes?”
Phillipa said quickly:
“I haven’t seen him for years.”
“Are you quite sure that’s true? You didn’t, for instance, see him about a fortnight ago?”
“What are you suggesting?”
“It never seemed to me very likely that you met Rudi Scherz in the summerhouse here. But Mitzi’s story was very emphatic. I suggest, Mrs. Haymes, that the man you came back from work to meet that morning was your husband.”
“I didn’t meet anybody in the summerhouse.”
“He was hard up for money, perhaps, and you supplied him with some?”
“I’ve not seen him, I tell you. I didn’t meet anybody in the summerhouse.”
“Deserters are often rather desperate men. They often take part in robberies, you know. Hold-ups. Things of that kind. And they have foreign revolvers very often that they’ve brought back from abroad.”
“I don’t know where my husband is. I haven’t seen him for years.”
“Is that your last word, Mrs. Haymes?”
“I’ve nothing else to say.”
II
Craddock came away from his interview with Phillipa Haymes feeling angry and baffled.
“Obstinate as a mule,” he said to himself angrily.
He was fairly sure that Phillipa was lying, but he hadn’t succeeded in breaking down her obstinate denials.
He wished he knew a little more about ex-Captain Haymes. His information was meagre. An unsatisfactory Army record, but nothing to suggest that Haymes was likely to turn criminal.
And anyway Haymes didn’t fit in with the oiled door.
Someone in the house had done that, or someone with easy access to it.
He stood looking up the staircase, and suddenly he wondered what Julia had been doing up in the attic. An attic, he thought, was an unlikely place for the fastidious Julia to visit.
What had she been doing up there?
He ran lightly up to the first floor. There was no one about. He opened the door out of which Julia had come and went up the narrow stairs to the attic.
There were trunks there, old suitcases, various broken articles of furniture, a chair with a leg off, a broken china lamp, part of an old dinner service.
He turned to the trunks and opened the lid of one.
Clothes. Old-fashioned, quite good-quality women’s clothes. Clothes belonging, he supposed, to Miss Blacklock, or to her sister who had died.
He opened another trunk.
Curtains.
He passed to a small attaché-case. It had papers in it and letters. Very old letters, yellowed with time.
He looked at the outside of the case which had the initials C.L.B. on it. He deduced correctly that it had belonged to Letitia’s sister Charlotte. He unfolded one of the letters. It began
Dearest Charlotte.
Yesterday Belle felt well enough to go for a picnic. R.G. also took a day off. The Asvogel flotation has gone splendidly, R.G. is terribly pleased about it. The Preference shares are at a premium.
He skipped the rest and looked at the signature:
Your loving sister, Letitia.
He picked up another.
Darling Charlotte.
I wish you would sometimes make up your mind to see people. You do exaggerate, you know. It isn’t nearly as bad as you think. And people really don’t mind things like that. It’s not the disfigurement you think it is.
He nodded his head. He remembered Belle Goedler saying that Charlotte Blacklock had a disfigurement or deformity of some kind. Letitia had, in the end, resigned her job, to go and look after her sister. These letters