Ordeal by Innocence - Agatha Christie [42]
All these thoughts had not taken very much time. Mr. Marshall came out of his little reverie to see Micky’s eyes fixed on him with a mocking gleam in them.
“So that’s your verdict, is it, Mr. Marshall?” Micky said. “The outsider, the unknown intruder, the bad character who murders, robs and gets away with it?”
“It seems,” said Mr. Marshall, “as though that is what we will have to accept.”
Micky threw himself back in his chair and laughed.
“That’s our story, and we’re going to stick to it, eh?”
“Well, yes, Michael, that is what I should advise.” There was a distinct note of warning in Mr. Marshall’s voice.
Micky nodded his head.
“I see,” he said. “That’s what you advise. Yes. Yes, I dare say you’re quite right. But you don’t believe it, do you?”
Mr. Marshall gave him a very cold look. That was the trouble with people who had no legal sense of discretion. They inisted on saying things which were much better not said.
“For what it is worth,” he said, “that is my opinion.”
The finality of his tone held a world of reproof. Micky looked round the table.
“What do we all think?” he asked generally. “Eh, Tina, my love, looking down your nose in your quiet way, haven’t you any ideas? Any unauthorized versions, so to speak? And you, Mary? You haven’t said much.”
“Of course I agree with Mr. Marshall,” said Mary rather sharply. “What other solution can there be?”
“Philip doesn’t agree with you,” said Micky.
Mary turned her head sharply to look at her husband. Philip Durrant said quietly:
“You’d better hold your tongue, Micky. No good ever came of talking too much when you’re in a tight place. And we are in a tight place.”
“So nobody’s going to have any opinions, are they?” said Micky. “All right. So be it. But let’s all think about it a bit when we go up to bed tonight. It might be advisable, you know. After all, one wants to know where one is, so to speak. Don’t you know a thing or two, Kirsty? You usually do. As far as I remember, you always knew what was going on, though I will say for you, you never told.”
Kirsten Lindstrom said, not without dignity:
“I think, Micky, that you should hold your tongue. Mr. Marshall is right. Too much talking is unwise.”
“We might put it to the vote,” said Micky. “Or write a name on a piece of paper and throw it into a hat. That would be interesting, wouldn’t it; to see who got the votes?”
This time Kirsten Lindstrom’s voice was louder.
“Be quiet,” she said. “Do not be a silly, reckless little boy as you used to be. You are grown up now.”
“I only said let’s think about it,” said Micky, taken aback.
We shall think about it,” said Kirsten Lindstrom.
And her voice was bitter.
Eleven
I
Night settled down on Sunny Point.
Sheltered by its walls, seven people retired to rest, but none of them slept well….
II
Philip Durrant, since his illness and his loss of bodily activity, had found more and more solace in mental activity. Always a highly intelligent man, he now became conscious of the resources opening out to him through the medium of intelligence. He amused himself sometimes by forecasting the reactions of those around him to suitable stimuli. What he said and did was often not a natural outpouring, but a calculated one, motivated simply and solely to observe the response to it. It was a kind of game that he played; when he got the anticipated response,