By the Pricking of My Thumbs - Agatha Christie [93]
‘What a silly woman you are,’ said Mrs Lancaster, ‘to want it this way.’
Her left arm shot out and she caught Tuppence’s shoulder. Her right hand came from behind her back. In it was a long thin stiletto blade. Tuppence struggled. She thought, ‘I can stop her easily. Easily. She’s an old woman. Feeble. She can’t–’
Suddenly in a cold tide of fear she thought, ‘But I’m an old woman too. I’m not as strong as I think myself. I’m not as strong as she is. Her hands, her grasp, her fingers. I suppose because she’s mad and mad people, I’ve always heard, are strong.’
The gleaming blade was approaching near her. Tuppence screamed. Down below she heard shouts and blows. Blows now on the doors as though someone were trying to force the doors or windows. ‘But they’ll never get through,’ thought Tuppence. ‘They’ll never get through this trick doorway here. Not unless they know the mechanism.’
She struggled fiercely. She was still managing to hold Mrs Lancaster away from her. But the other was the bigger woman. A big strong woman. Her face was still smiling but it no longer had the benignant look. It had the look now of someone enjoying herself.
‘Killer Kate,’ said Tuppence.
‘You know my nickname? Yes, but I’ve sublimated that. I’ve become a killer of the Lord. It’s the Lord’s will that I should kill you. So that makes it all right. You do see that, don’t you? You see, it makes it all right.’
Tuppence was pressed now against the side of a big chair. With one arm Mrs Lancaster held her against the chair, and the pressure increased–no further recoil was possible. In Mrs Lancaster’s right hand the sharp steel of the stiletto approached.
Tuppence thought, ‘I mustn’t panic–I mustn’t panic–’ But following that came with sharp insistence, ‘But what can I do?’ To struggle was unavailing.
Fear came then–the same sharp fear of which she had the first indication in Sunny Ridge–
‘Is it your poor child?’
That had been the first warning–but she had misunderstood it–she had not known it was a warning.
Her eyes watched the approaching steel but strangely enough it was not the gleaming metal and its menace that frightened her into a state of paralysis; it was the face above it–it was the smiling benignant face of Mrs Lancaster–smiling happily, contentedly–a woman pursuing her appointed task, with gentle reasonableness.
‘She doesn’t look mad,’ thought Tuppence–‘That’s what’s so awful–Of course she doesn’t because in her own mind she’s sane. She’s a perfectly normal, reasonable human being–that’s what she thinks–Oh Tommy, Tommy, what have I got myself into this time?’
Dizziness and limpness submerged her. Her muscles relaxed–somewhere there was a great crash of broken glass. It swept her away, into darkness and unconsciousness.
II
‘That’s better–you’re coming round–drink this, Mrs Beresford.’
A glass pressed against her lips–she resisted fiercely–Poisoned milk–who had said that once–something about ‘poisoned milk’? She wouldn’t drink poisoned milk…No, not milk–quite a different smell–
She relaxed, her lips opened–she sipped–
‘Brandy,’ said Tuppence with recognition.
‘Quite right! Go on–drink some more–’
Tuppence sipped again. She leaned back against cushions, surveyed her surroundings. The top of a ladder showed through the window. In front of the window there was a mass of broken glass on the floor.
‘I heard the glass break.’
She pushed away the brandy glass and her eyes followed up the hand and arm to the face of the man who had been holding it.
‘El Greco,’ said Tuppence.
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
She looked round the room.
‘Where is she–Mrs Lancaster, I mean?’
‘She’s–resting–in the next room–’
‘I see.’ But she wasn’t sure that she did see. She would see better presently. Just now only one idea would come at a time–
‘Sir Philip Starke.’ She said it slowly and doubtfully. ‘That’s right?’
‘Yes–Why did you say El Greco?’
‘Suffering.’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘The picture–In Toledo–Or in the Prado–I thought so a long time ago–no, not very long ago–’ She thought about it–made