Ordeal by Innocence - Agatha Christie [71]
“Yes,” said Calgary, “I can well imagine that.”
“There’s so much unhappiness,” said Hester, “that I can’t help feeling perhaps there’s the murderer’s unhappiness too. And that might be the worst of all … Do you think that’s likely?”
“It’s possible, I suppose,” said Calgary, “and yet I doubt—of course I’m not an expert—I doubt if a murderer is ever really unhappy.”
“But why not? I should think it would be the most terrible thing to be, to know you’d killed someone.”
“Yes,” said Calgary, “it is a terrible thing and therefore I think a murderer must be one of two kinds of people. Either a person to whom it has not been terrible to kill anyone, the kind of person who says to himself, ‘Well, of course it was a pity to have to do that but it was necessary for my own well being. After all, it’s not my fault. I just—well, just had to do it.’ Or else—”
“Yes?” said Hester, “what’s the other kind of murderer?”
“I’m only guessing, mind you, I don’t know, but I think if you were what you call the other kind of murderer, you wouldn’t be able to live with your unhappiness over what you’d done. You’d either have to confess it or else you’d have to rewrite the story for yourself, as it were. Putting the blame on someone else, saying ‘I should never have done such a thing unless—’ such and such a thing had happened. ‘I’m not really a murderer because I didn’t mean to do it. It just happened, and so really it was fate and not myself.’ Do you understand a little what I am trying to say?”
“Yes,” said Hester, “and I think it’s very interesting.” She half-closed her eyes. “I’m just trying to think—”
“Yes, Hester,” said Calgary, “think. Think as hard as you can because if I’m ever going to be able to help you I’ve got to see things through your mind.”
“Micky hated Mother,” said Hester slowly. “He always did … I don’t know why. Tina, I think, loved her. Gwenda didn’t like her. Kirsten was always loyal to Mother though she didn’t always think that Mother was right in all the things she did. Father—” She paused for a long time.
“Yes?” Calgary prompted her.
“Father’s gone a long way away again,” said Hester. “After Mother died, you know, he was quite different. Not so—what shall I call it—remote. He’s been more human, more alive. But now he’s gone back to some—some sort of shadowy place where you can’t get at him. I don’t know what he felt about Mother, really. I suppose he loved her when he married her. They never quarrelled, but I don’t know what he felt about her. Oh”—her hands flew out again—“one doesn’t know what anyone feels, does one, really? I mean, what goes on behind their faces, behind their nice everyday words? They may be ravaged with hate or love or despair, and one wouldn’t know! It’s frightening … Oh, Dr. Calgary, it’s frightening!”
He took both her hands in his.
“You’re not a child any longer,” he said. “Only children are frightened. You’re grown-up, Hester. You’re a woman.” He released her hands and said in a matter-of-fact tone: “Is there anywhere you can stay in London?”
Hester looked slightly bewildered.
“I suppose so. I don’t know. Mother usually stayed at Curtis’s.”
“Well, that’s a very nice, quiet hotel. I should go there and book a room if I were you.”
“I’ll do anything you tell me to do,” said Hester.
“Good girl,” said Calgary. “What’s the time?” He looked up at the clock. “Hallo, it’s about seven o’clock already. Supposing you go and book yourself a room, and I’ll come along about quarter to eight to take you out to dinner. How would that suit you?”
“It sounds wonderful,” said Hester. “Do you really mean it?”
“Yes,” said Calgary, “I really mean it.”
“But after that? What’s going to happen next? I can’t go on staying, can I, at Curtis’s for ever?”
“Your horizon always seems bounded by infinity,” said Calgary.
“Are