Destination Unknown - Agatha Christie [16]
‘I know you.’
‘Yes, Mrs Betterton, you know me. Will you tell me anything you can about your husband?’
‘No.’
Her eyelids fell again. Jessop turned quietly and left the room. The doctor looked across at Hilary. He said very softly:
‘C’est la fin! ’
The dying woman’s eyes opened again. They travelled painfully round the room, then they remained fixed on Hilary. Olive Betterton made a very faint motion with her hand, and Hilary instinctively took the white cold hand between her own. The doctor, with a shrug of his shoulders and a little bow, left the room. The two women were alone together. Olive Betterton was trying to speak:
‘Tell me–tell me–’
Hilary knew what she was asking, and suddenly her own course of action opened clearly before her. She leaned down over the recumbent form.
‘Yes,’ she said, her words clear and emphatic. ‘You are dying. That’s what you want to know, isn’t it? Now listen to me. I am going to try and reach your husband. Is there any message you want me to give him if I succeed?’
‘Tell him–tell him–to be careful. Boris–Boris–dangerous…’
The breath fluttered off again with a sigh. Hilary bent closer.
‘Is there anything you can tell me to help me–help me in my journey, I mean? Help me to get in contact with your husband?’
‘Snow.’
The word came so faintly that Hilary was puzzled. Snow? Snow? She repeated it uncomprehendingly. A faint, ghost-like little giggle came from Olive Betterton. Faint words came tumbling out.
Snow, snow, beautiful snow!
You slip on a lump, and over you go!
She repeated the last word. ‘Go…Go? Go and tell him about Boris. I didn’t believe it. I wouldn’t believe it. But perhaps it’s true…If so, if so…’ a kind of agonized question came into her eyes which stared up into Hilary’s ‘…take care…’
A queer rattle came to her throat. Her lips jerked.
Olive Betterton died.
II
The next five days were strenuous mentally, though inactive physically. Immured in a private room in the hospital, Hilary was set to work. Every evening she had to pass an examination on what she had studied that day. All the details of Olive Betterton’s life, as far as they could be ascertained, were set down on paper and she had to memorize and learn them by heart. The house she had lived in, the daily woman she had employed, her relations, the names of her pet dog and her canary, every detail of the six months of her married life with Thomas Betterton. Her wedding, the names of her bridesmaids, their dresses. The patterns of curtains, carpets and chintzes. Olive Betterton’s tastes, predilections, and day by day activities. Her preferences in food and drink. Hilary was forced to marvel at the amount of seemingly meaningless information that had been massed together. Once she said to Jessop:
‘Can any of this possibly matter?’
And to that he had replied quietly:
‘Probably not. But you’ve got to make yourself into the authentic article. Think of it this way, Hilary. You’re a writer. You’re writing a book about a woman. The woman is Olive. You describe scenes of her childhood, her girlhood; you describe her marriage, the house she lived in. All the time that you do it she becomes more and more of a real person to you. Then you go over it a second time. You write it this time as an autobiography. You write it in the first person. Do you see what I mean?’ She nodded slowly, impressed in spite of herself.
‘You can’t think of yourself as Olive Betterton until you are Olive Betterton. It would be better if you had time to learn it up, but we can’t afford time. So I’ve got to cram you. Cram you like a schoolboy–like a student who is going in for an important examination.’ He added, ‘You’ve got a quick brain and a good memory, thank the Lord.’
He looked at her in cool appraisement.
The passport descriptions of Olive Betterton and Hilary Craven were almost identical, but actually the two faces were entirely different. Olive Betterton had had a quality of rather commonplace and insignificant