Death Comes as End - Agatha Christie [69]
‘Is that the truth, Henet? Do you ever speak the truth?’
‘I swear it’s the truth, Renisenb. I was afraid…’
Renisenb looked at her curiously. ‘You’re shaking, Henet. You look as though you were afraid now.’
‘Yes, I am afraid…I’ve reason to be.’
‘Why? Tell me.’
Henet licked her thin lips. She glanced sideways, behind her. Her eyes came back like a hunted animal’s.
‘Tell me,’ said Renisenb.
Henet shook her head. She said in an uncertain voice:
‘There’s nothing to tell.’
‘You know too much, Henet. You’ve always known too much. You’ve enjoyed it, but now it’s dangerous. That’s it, isn’t it?’
Henet shook her head again. Then she laughed maliciously.
‘You wait, Renisenb. One day I shall hold the whip in this house–and crack it. Wait and see.’
Renisenb drew herself up. ‘You will not harm me, Henet. My mother will not let you harm me.’
Henet’s face changed–the eyes burned.
‘I hated your mother,’ she said. ‘I always hated her…And you who have her eyes–and her voice–her beauty and her arrogance–I hate you, Renisenb.’
Renisenb laughed. ‘And at last–I’ve made you say it!’
IV
Old Esa limped wearily into her room.
She was perplexed and very weary. Age, she realized, was at last taking toll of her. So far she had acknowledged her weariness of body, but had been conscious of no weariness of mind. But now she had to admit that the strain of remaining mentally alert was taxing her bodily resources.
If she knew now, as she believed she did, from what quarter danger impended–yet that knowledge permitted of no mental relaxation. Instead she had to be more than ever on her guard since she had deliberately drawn attention to herself. Proof–proof–she must get proof…But how?
It was there, she realized, that her age told against her. She was too tired to improvise–to make the mental creative effort. All she was capable of was defence–to remain alert, watchful, guarding herself.
For the killer–she had no illusions about that–would be quite ready to kill again.
Well, she had no intention of being the next victim. Poison, she felt sure, was the vehicle that would be employed. Violence was not conceivable since she was never alone, but was always surrounded by servants. So it would be poison. Well, she could counter that. Renisenb should cook her food and bring it to her. She had a wine stand and jar brought to her room and after a slave had tasted it, she waited twenty-four hours to make sure that no evil results followed. She made Renisenb share her food and her wine–although she had no fear for Renisenb–yet. It might be that there was no fear for Renisenb–ever. But of that one could not be sure.
Between whiles she sat motionless, driving her weary brain to devise means of proving the truth or watching her little maid starching and pleating her linen dresses, or re-stringing necklaces and bracelets. This evening she was very weary. She had joined Imhotep at his request to discuss the question of Renisenb’s marriage before he himself spoke to his daughter.
Imhotep, shrunken and fretful, was a shadow of his former self. His manner had lost its pomposity and assurance. He leaned now on his mother’s indomitable will and determination.
As for Esa, she had been fearful–very fearful–of saying the wrong thing. Lives might hang on an injudicious word.
Yes, she said at last, the idea of marriage was wise. And there was no time to go far afield for a husband amongst more important members of the family clan. After all, the female line was the important one–her husband would be only the administrator of the inheritance that came to Renisenb and Renisenb’s children.
So it came to a question of Hori–a man of integrity, of old and long-approved friendship, the son of a small