Hickory Dickory Dock - Agatha Christie [9]
“Tchah!” said Mrs. Hubbard crossly. “I’ve no patience with superstitious nonsense. Just some ordinary human being making a nuisance of themselves. That’s all there is to it.”
Sally’s mouth curved up in a wide catlike grin.
“The emphasis,” she said, “is on ordinary. I’ve a sort of feeling that there’s a person in this house who isn’t ordinary.”
Mrs. Hubbard went on down the stairs. She turned into the students’ common room on the ground floor. There were four people in the room. Valerie Hobhouse, prone on a sofa with her narrow, elegant feet stuck up over the arm of it; Nigel Chapman sitting at a table with a heavy book open in front of him; Patricia Lane leaning against the mantelpiece, and a girl in a mackintosh who had just come in and who was pulling off a woolly cap as Mrs. Hubbard entered. She was a stocky, fair girl with brown eyes set wide apart and a mouth that was usually just a little open so that she seemed perpetually startled.
Valerie, removing a cigarette from her mouth, said in a lazy, drawling voice:
“Hallo, Ma, have you administered soothing syrup to the old devil, our revered proprietress?”
Patricia Lane said:
“Has she been on the warpath?”
“And how?” said Valerie and chuckled.
“Something very unpleasant has happened,” said Mrs. Hubbard. “Nigel, I want you to help me.”
“Me, ma’am?” Nigel looked at her and shut his book. His thin, malicious face was suddenly illuminated by a mischievous but surprisingly sweet smile. “What have I done?”
“Nothing, I hope,” said Mrs. Hubbard. “But ink has been deliberately and maliciously spilt all over Elizabeth Johnston’s notes, and it’s green ink. You write with green ink, Nigel.”
He stared at her, his smile disappearing.
“Yes, I use green ink.”
“Horrid stuff,” said Patricia. “I wish you wouldn’t, Nigel. I’ve always told you I think it’s horribly affected of you.”
“I like being affected,” said Nigel. “Lilac ink would be even better, I think. I must try and get some. But are you serious, Mum? About the sabotage, I mean?”
“Yes, I am serious. Was it your doing, Nigel?”
“No, of course not. I like annoying people, as you know, but I’d never do a filthy trick like that—and certainly not to Black Bess who minds her own business in a way that’s an example to some people I could mention. Where is that ink of mine? I filled my pen yesterday evening, I remember. I usually keep it on the shelf over there.” He sprang up and went across the room. “You’re right. The bottle’s nearly empty. It should be practically full.”
The girl in the mackintosh gave a little gasp.
“Oh dear,” she said. “Oh dear, I don’t like it—”
Nigel wheeled at her accusingly.
“Have you got an alibi, Celia?” he said menacingly.
The girl gave a gasp.
“I didn’t do it. I really didn’t do it. Anyway, I’ve been at the hospital all day. I couldn’t—”
“Now, Nigel,” said Mrs. Hubbard. “Don’t tease Celia.”
Patricia Lane said angrily:
“I don’t see why Nigel should be suspected. Just because his ink was taken—”
Valerie said cattishly:
“That’s right, darling, defend your young.”
“But it’s so unfair—”
“But really I didn’t have anything to do with it,” Celia protested earnestly.
“Nobody thinks you did, infant,” said Valerie impatiently. “All the same, you know,” her eyes met Mrs. Hubbard’s and exchanged a glance, “all this is getting beyond a joke. Something will have to be done about it.”
“Something is going to be done,” said Mrs. Hubbard grimly.
Chapter Four
“Here you are, M. Poirot.”
Miss Lemon laid a small brown paper parcel before Poirot. He removed the paper and looked appraisingly at a well-cut silver evening shoe.
“It was at Baker Street just