Ordeal by Innocence - Agatha Christie [65]
“All tragic histories in a way,” said Philip. “All poor unwanted little devils.”
“Yes,” said Leo. “That’s what made Rachel feel so passionately about them all. She was determined to make them feel wanted, to give them a real home, be a real mother to them.”
“It was a fine thing to do,” said Philip.
“Only—only it can never work out exactly as she hoped it might,” said Leo. “It was an article of faith with her that the blood tie didn’t matter. But the blood tie does matter, you know. There is usually something in one’s own children, some kink of temperament, some way of feeling that you recognize and can understand without having to put into words. You haven’t got that tie with children you adopt. One has no instinctive knowledge of what goes on in their minds. You judge them, of course, by yourself, by your own thoughts and feelings, but it’s wise to recognize that those thoughts and feelings may be very widely divergent from theirs.”
“You understood that, I suppose, all along,” said Philip.
“I warned Rachel about it,” said Leo, “but of course she didn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it. She wanted them to be her own children.”
“Tina’s always the dark horse, to my mind,” said Philip. “Perhaps it’s the half of her that isn’t white. Who was the father, do you know?”
“He was a seaman of some kind, I believe. Possibly a Lascar. The mother,” added Leo dryly, “was unable to say.”
“One doesn’t know how she reacts to things, or what she thinks about. She says so little.” Philip paused, and then shot out a question: “What does she know about this business that she isn’t telling?”
He saw Leo Argyle’s hand, that had been turning over papers, stop. There was a moment’s pause, and then Leo said:
“Why should you think she isn’t telling everything she knows?”
“Come now, sir, it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”
“It’s not obvious to me,” said Leo.
“She knows something,” said Philip. “Something damaging, do you think, about some particular person?”
“I think, Philip, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, that it is rather unwise to speculate about these things. One can easily imagine so much.”
“Are you warning me off, sir?”
“Is it really your business, Philip?”
“Meaning I’m not a policeman?”
“Yes, that’s what I meant. Police have to do their duty. They have to enquire into things.”
“And you don’t want to enquire into them?”
“Perhaps,” said Leo, “I’m afraid of what I should find.”
Philip’s hand tightened excitedly in his chair. He said softly:
“Perhaps you know who did it. Do you, sir?”
“No.”
The abruptness and vigour of Leo’s reply startled Philip.
“No,” said Leo, bringing his hand down on the desk. He was suddenly no longer the frail, attenuated, withdrawn personality that Philip knew so well. “I don’t know who did it! D’you hear? I don’t know. I haven’t the least idea. I don’t—I don’t want to know.”
Seventeen
“And what are you doing, Hester, my love?” asked Philip.
In his wheelchair he was propelling himself along the passage. Hester was leaning out of the window halfway along it. She started and drew her head in.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said.
“Are you observing the universe, or considering suicide?” asked Philip.
She looked at him defiantly.
“What makes you say a thing like that?”
“Obviously it was in your mind,” said Philip. “But, frankly, Hester, if you are contemplating such a step, that window is no good. The drop’s not deep enough. Think how unpleasant it would be for you with a broken arm and a broken leg, say, instead of the merciful oblivion you are craving?”
“Micky used to climb down the magnolia tree from this window. It was his secret way in and out. Mother never knew.”
“The things parents never know! One could write a book about it. But if it’s suicide you are contemplating, Hester, just by the summerhouse