Ordeal by Innocence - Agatha Christie [81]
“I’m willing to take risks,” said Gwenda. “I’ve never minded taking risks. I’m willing to gamble on happiness. But Leo—”
“Yes? Leo?”
“Leo,” said Gwenda, “will probably die as he has lived, the husband of Rachel Argyle.”
The anger and bitterness in her eyes startled him.
“She might just as well be alive,” said Gwenda. “She’s here—in the house—all the time….”
Twenty-two
I
Tina parked her car on the grass by the churchyard wall. She removed the paper carefully from the flowers she had brought, then she walked in through the cemetery gates and along the main path. She did not like the new cemetery. She wished it had been possible for Mrs. Argyle to have been buried in the old churchyard which surrounded the church. There seemed an old-world peace there. The yew tree and the moss-grown stones. In this cemetery, so new, so well arranged, with its main walk and the paths radiating off it, everything seemed as slick and mass-produced as the contents of a supermarket.
Mrs. Argyle’s grave was well kept. It had a square marble surround filled with granite chips, a granite cross rising from the back of it.
Tina, holding her carnations, bent to read the inscription. “In loving memory of Rachel Louise Argyle.” Below it was the text:
“Her children shall rise up and call her blessed.”
There was a footstep behind her and Tina turned her head, startled.
“Micky!”
“I saw your car. I followed you. At least—I was coming here anyway.”
“You were coming here? Why?”
“I don’t know. Just to say good-bye, perhaps.”
“Good-bye to—her?”
He nodded.
“Yes. I’ve taken that job with the oil company I told you about. I’m going off in about three weeks.”
“And you came here to say good-bye to Mother first?”
“Yes. Perhaps to thank her and to say I’m sorry.”
“What are you sorry for, Micky?”
“I’m not sorry that I killed her if that’s what you’re trying to imply. Have you been thinking I killed her, Tina?”
“I was not sure.”
“You can’t be sure now, either, can you? I mean it’s no good my telling you that I didn’t kill her.”
“Why are you sorry?”
“She did a lot for me,” said Micky slowly. “I was never the least bit grateful. I resented every single damn thing she did. I never gave her a kind word, or a loving look. I wish now that I had, that’s all.”
“When did you stop hating her? After she was dead?”
“Yes. Yes, I suppose so.”
“It wasn’t her you hated, was it?”
“No—no. You were right about that. It was my own mother. Because I loved her. Because I loved her and she didn’t care a button for me.”
“And now you’re not even angry about that?”
“No. I don’t suppose she could help it. After all, you’re born what you are. She was a sunny, happy sort of creature. Too fond of men and too fond of the bottle, and she was nice to her kids when she felt like being nice. She wouldn’t have let anyone else hurt them. All right, so she didn’t care for me! All these years I refused to live with that idea. Now I’ve accepted it.” He stretched out a hand. “Give me just one of your carnations, will you, Tina?” He took it from her and bending down, laid it on the grave below the inscription. “There you are, Mum,” he said. “I was a rotten son to you, and I don’t think you were a very wise mother to me. But you meant well.” He looked at Tina. “Is that a good enough apology?”
“I think it will do,” said Tina.
She bent down and put her own bunch of carnations there.
“Do you often come here and put flowers?”
“I come here once a year,” said Tina.
“Little Tina,” said Micky.
They turned together and walked back down the cemetery path.
“I didn’t kill her, Tina,” said Micky. “I swear I didn’t. I want you to believe me.”
“I was there that night,” said Tina.
He wheeled round.
“You were there? You mean at Sunny Point?”
“Yes. I was thinking of changing my job. I wanted to consult Father and Mother about it.”
“Well,” said Micky, “go on.”
When she did not speak, he took her arm and shook her. “Go on, Tina,” he said. “You’ve got to tell me.”
“I haven’t told anyone so far,” said Tina.
“Go on,” said Micky again.
“I drove there. I didn’t take the car right