Listerdale Mystery - Agatha Christie [45]
‘Eh–what’s that?’ he asked abruptly.
‘A decision–you have a decision to make. You must be very careful–very, very careful…If you were to make a mistake–the smallest mistake–’
‘Yes?’
The fortune-teller shivered. Inspector Evans knew it was all nonsense, but he was nevertheless impressed. ‘I warn you–you must not make a mistake. If you do, I see the result clearly–a death…’
Odd, damned odd. A death. Fancy her lighting upon that!
‘If I make a mistake a death will result? Is that it?’
‘Yes.’
‘In that case,’ said Evans, rising to his feet and handing over half a crown, ‘I mustn’t make a mistake, eh?’
He spoke lightly enough, but as he went out of the tent, his jaw set determinedly. Easy to say–not so easy to be sure of doing. He mustn’t make a slip. A life, a vulnerable human life depended on it.
And there was no one to help him. He looked across at the figure of his friend Haydock in the distance. No help there. ‘Leave things alone,’ was Haydock’s motto. And that wouldn’t do here.
Haydock was talking to a woman. She moved away from him and came towards Evans and the inspector recognized her. It was Mrs Merrowdene. On an impulse he put himself deliberately in her path.
Mrs Merrowdene was rather a fine-looking woman. She had a broad serene brow, very beautiful brown eyes, and a placid expression. She had the look of an Italian madonna which she heightened by parting her hair in the middle and looping it over her ears. She had a deep rather sleepy voice.
She smiled up at Evans, a contented welcoming smile.
‘I thought it was you, Mrs Anthony–I mean Mrs Merrowdene,’ he said glibly.
He made the slip deliberately, watching her without seeming to do so. He saw her eyes widen, heard the quick intake of her breath. But her eyes did not falter. She gazed at him steadily and proudly.
‘I was looking for my husband,’ she said quietly. ‘Have you seen him anywhere about?’
‘He was over in that direction when I last saw him.’
They went side by side in the direction indicated, chatting quietly and pleasantly. The inspector felt his admiration mounting. What a woman! What self-command. What wonderful poise. A remarkable woman–and a very dangerous one. He felt sure–a very dangerous one.
He still felt very uneasy, though he was satisfied with his initial step. He had let her know that he recognized her. That would put her on her guard. She would not dare attempt anything rash. There was the question of Merrowdene. If he could be warned…
They found the little man absently contemplating a china doll which had fallen to his share in the penny dip. His wife suggested going home and he agreed eagerly. Mrs Merrowdene turned to the inspector:
‘Won’t you come back with us and have a quiet cup of tea, Mr Evans?’
Was there a faint note of challenge in her voice? He thought there was.
‘Thank you, Mrs Merrowdene. I should like to very much.’
They walked there, talking together of pleasant ordinary things. The sun shone, a breeze blew gently, everything around them was pleasant and ordinary.
Their maid was out at the fête, Mrs Merrowdene explained, when they arrived at the charming old-world cottage. She went into her room to remove her hat, returning to set out tea and boil the kettle on a little silver lamp. From a shelf near the fireplace she took three small bowls and saucers.
‘We have some very special Chinese tea,’ she explained. ‘And we always drink it in the Chinese manner–out of bowls, not cups.’
She broke off, peered into a bowl and exchanged it for another with an exclamation of annoyance.
‘George–it’s too bad of you. You’ve been taking these bowls again.’
‘I’m sorry, dear,’ said the professor apologetically. ‘They’re such a convenient size. The ones I ordered haven’t come.’
‘One of these days you’ll poison us all,’ said his wife with a half-laugh. ‘Mary finds them in the laboratory and brings them back here, and never troubles to wash them out unless they’ve anything very noticeable in them. Why, you were using one of them for potassium cyanide the other day. Really, George,