Hickory Dickory Dock - Agatha Christie [40]
“Good lord no!” Nigel stared at him. “I never thought of anything of that kind. I don’t believe it.”
“But it’s a possibility, Mr. Chapman.”
“But nobody could possibly have known.”
“I should say,” said the inspector drily, “that in a place of this kind a great deal more is known than you yourself might believe possible.”
“Snooping, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps you’re right there.”
“Which of the students might normally, at any time, be in your room?”
“Well, I share it with Len Bateson. Most of the men here have been in it now and again. Not the girls, of course. The girls aren’t supposed to come to the bedroom floors on our side of the house. Propriety. Pure living.”
“They’re not supposed to, but they might do so, I suppose?”
“Anyone might,” said Nigel. “In the daytime. The afternoon, for instance, there’s nobody about.”
“Does Miss Lane ever come to your room?”
“I hope you don’t mean that the way it sounds, Inspector. Pat comes to my room sometimes to replace some socks she’s been darning. Nothing more than that.”
Leaning forward, Inspector Sharpe said:
“You do realise, Mr. Chapman, that the person who could most easily have taken some of that poison out of the bottle and substituted something else for it, was yourself?”
Nigel looked at him, his face suddenly hard and haggard.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ve seen that just a minute and a half ago. I could have done just exactly that. But I’d no reason on earth for putting that girl out of the way, Inspector, and I didn’t do it. Still, there it is—I quite realise that you’ve only got my word for it.”
Chapter Eleven
The story of the bet and the disposal of the poison was confirmed by Len Bateson and by Colin McNabb. Sharpe retained Colin McNabb after the others had gone.
“I don’t want to cause you any more pain than I can help, Mr. McNabb,” he said. “I can realise what it means to you for your fiancée to have been poisoned on the very night of your engagement.”
“There’ll be no need to go into that aspect of it,” said Colin McNabb, his face immovable. “You’ll not need to concern yourself with my feelings. Just ask me any questions you like which you think may be useful to you.”
“It was your considered opinion that Celia Austin’s behaviour had a psychological origin?”
“There’s no doubt about it at all,” said Colin McNabb. “If you’d like me to go into the theory of the thing. . . .”
“No, no,” said Inspector Sharpe hastily. “I’m taking your word for it as a student of psychology.”
“Her childhood had been particularly unfortunate. It had set up an emotional block. . . .”
“Quite so, quite so.” Inspector Sharpe was desperately anxious to avoid hearing the story of yet another unhappy childhood. Nigel’s had been quite enough.
“You had been attracted to her for some time?”
“I would not say precisely that,” said Colin, considering the matter conscientiously. “These things sometimes surprise you by the way they dawn upon you suddenly, like. Subconsciously no doubt, I had been attracted, but I was not aware of the fact. Since it was not my intention to marry young, I had no doubt set up a considerable resistance to the idea in my conscious mind.”
“Yes. Just so. Celia Austin was happy in her engagement to you? I mean, she expressed no doubts? Uncertainties? There was nothing she felt she ought to tell you?”
“She made a very full confession of all she’d been doing. There was nothing more in her mind to worry her.”
“And you were planning to get married—when?”
“Not for a considerable time. I’m not in a position at the moment to support a wife.”
“Had Celia any enemies here? Anyone who did not like her?”
“I can hardly believe so. I’ve given that point of view a great deal of thought, Inspector. Celia was well-liked here. I’d say, myself, it was not a personal matter at all which brought about her end.”
“What do you mean by ‘not a personal matter?’ ”
“I do not wish to be very precise at the moment. It’s only a vague kind of idea I have and I’m not clear about it myself.”
From that position the inspector could not budge him.
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