Ordeal by Innocence - Agatha Christie [44]
Mary was brushing her long fair hair in front of the mirror. Something about her calm remoteness irritated him.
He said: “Got your story pat for tomorrow, Polly?”
She turned astonished eyes upon him.
“Superintendent Huish is coming. He’ll ask you all over again just what your movements were on the evening of November 9th.”
“Oh, I see. It’s so long ago now. One can hardly remember.”
“But he can, Polly. That’s the point. He can. It’s all written down somewhere in a nice little police notebook.”
“Is it? Do they keep these things?”
“Probably keep everything in triplicate for ten years! Well, your movements are very simple, Polly. There weren’t any. You were here with me in this room. And if I were you I shouldn’t mention that you left it between seven and seven-thirty.”
“But that was only to go to the bathroom. After all,” said Mary reasonably, “everyone has to go to the bathroom.”
“You didn’t mention the fact to him at the time. I do remember that.”
“I suppose I forgot about it.”
“I thought it might have been an instinct of self-preservation … Anyway, I remember backing you up. We were together here, playing picquet from six-thirty until Kirsty gave the alarm. That’s our story and we’re sticking to it.”
“Very well, darling.” Her agreement was placid—uninterested.
He thought: “Has she no imagination? Can’t she foresee that we’re in for a sticky time?”
He leaned forward.
“It’s interesting, you know … Aren’t you interested in who killed her? We all know—Micky was quite right there—that it’s one of us. Aren’t you interested to know which?”
“It wasn’t you or I,” said Mary.
“And that’s all that interests you? Polly, you’re wonderful!”
She flushed slightly.
“I don’t see what’s so odd about that?”
“No, I can see you don’t … Well, I’m different. I’m curious.”
“I don’t suppose we ever shall know. I don’t suppose the police will ever know.”
“Perhaps not. They’ll certainly have precious little to go upon. But we’re in rather a different position to the police.”
“What do you mean, Philip?”
“Well, we’ve got a few bits of inside knowledge. We know our little lot from inside—have a fairly good idea of what makes them tick. You should have, anyway. You’ve grown up with them all. Let’s hear your views. Who do you think it was?”
“I’ve no idea, Philip.”
“Then just make a guess.”
Mary said sharply:
“I’d rather not know who did it. I’d rather not even think about it.”
“Ostrich,” said her husband.
“Honestly, I don’t see the point of—guessing. It’s much better not to know. Then we can all go on as usual.”
“Oh no, we can’t,” said Philip. “That’s where you’re wrong, my girl. The rot’s set in already.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, take Hester and her young man—earnest young Doctor Donald. Nice chap, serious, worried. He doesn’t really think she did it—but he’s not really sure she didn’t do it! And so he looks at her, anxiously, when he thinks she isn’t noticing. But she notices all right. So there you are! Perhaps she did do it—you’d know better than I would—but if she didn’t, what the hell can she do about her young man? Keep on saying: ‘Please, it wasn’t me?’ But that’s what she’d say anyway.”
“Really, Philip. I think you’re imagining things.”
“You can’t imagine at all, Polly. Then take poor old Leo. Marriage bells with Gwenda are receding into the distance. The girl’s horribly upset about it. Haven’t you noticed?”
“I really don’t see what Father wants to marry again for at his age.”
“He sees all right! But he also sees that any hint of a