Ordeal by Innocence - Agatha Christie [50]
“I was even more of a cripple then than I am now,” said Philip. “I’d only just got out of hospital.”
“Quite so.” Huish turned back to Leo. “All of you—being—?”
“My wife and myself, my daughter Hester, Miss Vaughan and Miss Lindstrom.”
“And then? Just tell me in your own words.”
“After tea I came back in here with Miss Vaughan. We were at work upon a chapter of my book on Medieval Economics which I was revising. My wife went to her sitting room and office, which is on the ground floor. She was, as you know, a very busy woman. She was looking over some plans for a new children’s playground which she was intending to present to the Council here.”
“Did you hear your son Jack’s arrival?”
“No. That is, I did not know that it was he. I heard, we both heard, the front doorbell. We did not know who it was.”
“Who did you think it was, Mr. Argyle?”
Leo looked faintly amused.
“I was in the fifteenth century at the time, not the twentieth. I didn’t think at all. It could have been anybody or anything. My wife and Miss Lindstrom and Hester and possibly one of our daily helps would all be downstairs. Nobody,” said Leo simply, “ever expected me to answer a bell.”
“After that?”
“Nothing. Until my wife came in a good deal later.”
“How much later?”
Leo frowned.
“By now I really couldn’t tell you. I must have given you my estimate at the time. Half an hour—no, more—perhaps three-quarters.”
“We finished tea just after half past five,” said Gwenda. “I think it was about twenty minutes to seven when Mrs. Argyle came into the library.”
“And she said?”
Leo sighed. He spoke distastefully.
“We have had all this so many times. She said Jacko had been with her, that he was in trouble, that he had been violent and abusive, demanding money and saying that unless he had some money at once it would be a matter of prison. That she had refused definitely to give him a penny. She was worried as to whether she had done right or not.”
“Mr. Argyle, may I ask you a question. Why, when the boy made these demands for money, did your wife not call you? Why only tell you afterwards? Did that not seem odd to you?”
“No, it did not.”
“It seems to me that that would have been the natural thing to do. You were not—on bad terms?”
“Oh no. It was simply that my wife was accustomed to dealing with all practical decisions single-handed. She would often consult me beforehand as to what I thought and she usually discussed the decisions she had taken with me afterwards. In this particular matter she and I had talked very seriously together about the problem of Jacko—what to do for the best. So far, we had been singularly unfortunate in our handling of the boy. She had paid out very considerable sums of money several times to protect him from the consequences of his actions. We had decided that if there was a next time, it would be best for Jacko to learn the hard way.”
“Nevertheless, she was upset?”
“Yes. She was upset. If he had been less violent and threatening, I think she might have been broken down and helped him once more, but his attitude only stiffened her resolution.”
“Had Jacko left the house by then?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Do you know that of your own knowledge, or did Mrs. Argyle tell you?”
“She told me. She said he had gone away swearing, and threatening to come back, and that he’d said she’d better have some cash ready for him then.”
“Were you—this is important—were you alarmed at the thought of the boy’s return?”
“Of course not. We were quite used to what I can only call Jacko’s bluster.”
“It never entered your head that he would return and attack her.”
“No. I told you so at the time. I was dumbfounded.”
“And it seems you were quite right,” said Huish softly. “It wasn’t he who attacked her. Mrs. Argyle left you—when exactly?”
“That I do remember. We’ve been over it so often. Just before seven—about seven minutes to.”
Huish turned to Gwenda Vaughan.
“You confirm that?”
“Yes.