Hickory Dickory Dock - Agatha Christie [61]
“Any idea who is the brains behind it?”
“I could make a guess—I might be wrong. Yes—I might be wrong!”
Chapter Sixteen
I
“Hickory, dickory, dock,” said Nigel, “the mouse ran up the clock. The police said ‘Boo,’ I wonder who, will eventually stand in the Dock?”
He added:
“To tell or not to tell? That is the question!”
He poured himself out a fresh cup of coffee and brought it back to the breakfast table.
“Tell what?” asked Len Bateson.
“Anything one knows,” said Nigel, with an airy wave of the hand.
Jean Tomlinson said disapprovingly:
“But of course! If we have any information that may be of use, of course we must tell the police. That would be only right.”
“And there speaks our bonnie Jean,” said Nigel.
“Moi je n’aime pas les flics,” said René, offering his contribution to the discussion.
“Tell what?” Leonard Bateson said again.
“The things we know,” said Nigel. “About each other, I mean,” he said helpfully. His glance swept round the breakfast table with a malicious gleam.
“After all,” he said cheerfully, “we all do know lots of things about each other, don’t we? I mean, one’s bound to, living in the same house.”
“But who is to decide what is important or not? There are many things no business of the police at all,” said Mr. Achmed Ali. He spoke hotly, with an injured remembrance of the inspector’s sharp remarks about his collection of postcards.
“I hear,” said Nigel, turning towards Mr. Akibombo, “that they found some very interesting things in your room.”
Owing to his colour, Mr. Akibombo was not able to blush, but his eyelids blinked in a discomfited manner.
“Very much superstition in my country,” he said. “My grandfather give me things to bring here. I keep out of feeling of piety and respect. I, myself, am modern and scientific; not believe in voodoo, but owing to imperfect command of language I find very difficult to explain to policeman.”
“Even dear little Jean has her secrets, I expect,” said Nigel, turning his gaze back to Miss Tomlinson.
Jean said hotly that she wasn’t going to be insulted.
“I shall leave this place and go to the YWCA,” she said.
“Come now, Jean,” said Nigel. “Give us another chance.”
“Oh, cut it out, Nigel!” said Valerie wearily. “The police have to snoop, I suppose, under the circumstances.”
Colin McNabb cleared his throat, preparatory to making a remark.
“In my opinion,” he said judicially, “the present position ought to be made clear to us. What exactly was the cause of Mrs. Nick’s death?”
“We’ll hear at the inquest, I suppose,” said Valerie, impatiently.
“I very much doubt it,” said Colin. “In my opinion they’ll adjourn the inquest.”
“I suppose it was her heart, wasn’t it?” said Patricia. “She fell down in the street.”
“Drunk and incapable,” said Len Bateson. “That’s how she got taken to the police station.”
“So she did drink,” said Jean. “You know, I always thought so. When the police searched the house they found cupboards full of empty brandy bottles in her room, I believe,” she added.
“Trust our Jean to know all the dirt,” said Nigel approvingly.
“Well, that does explain why she was sometimes so odd in her manner,” said Patricia.
Colin cleared his throat again.
“Ahem!” he said. “I happened to observe her going into The Queen’s Necklace on Saturday evening, when I was on my way home.”
“That’s where she got tanked up, I suppose,” said Nigel.
“I suppose she just died of drink, then?” said Jean.
Len Bateson shook his head.
“Cerebral haemorrhage? I rather doubt it.”
“For goodness’ sake, you don’t think she was murdered too, do you?” said Jean.
“I bet she was,” said Sally Finch. “Nothing would surprise me less.”
“Please,” said Mr. Akibombo. “It is thought someone killed her? Is that right?”
He looked from face to face.
“We’ve no reason to suppose anything of the sort yet,” said Colin.
“But who would want to kill her?” demanded Genevieve. “Had she much money to leave? If she was rich it is possible, I suppose.”
“She was