The Hollow - Agatha Christie [47]
Memory came with a rush. One ugly stark word–Murder!
‘Oh, no,’ thought Midge, ‘it can’t be true. It’s a dream I’ve been having. John Christow, murdered, shot–lying there by the pool. Blood and blue water–like a jacket of a detective story. Fantastic, unreal. The sort of thing that doesn’t happen to oneself. If we were at Ainswick now. It couldn’t have happened at Ainswick.’
The black weight moved from her forehead. It settled in the pit of her stomach, making her feel slightly sick.
It was not a dream. It was a real happening–a News of the World happening–and she and Edward and Lucy and Henry and Henrietta were all mixed up with it.
Unfair–surely unfair–since it was nothing to do with them if Gerda had shot her husband.
Midge stirred uneasily.
Quiet, stupid, slightly pathetic Gerda–you couldn’t associate Gerda with melodrama–with violence.
Gerda, surely, couldn’t shoot anybody.
Again that inward uneasiness rose. No, no, one mustn’t think like that. Because who else could have shot John? And Gerda had been standing there by his body with the revolver in her hand. The revolver she had taken from Henry’s study.
Gerda had said that she had found John dead and picked up the revolver. Well, what else could she say? She’d have to say something, poor thing.
All very well for Henrietta to defend her–to say that Gerda’s story was perfectly possible. Henrietta hadn’t considered the impossible alternatives.
Henrietta had been very odd last night.
But that, of course, had been the shock of John Christow’s death.
Poor Henrietta–who had cared so terribly for John.
But she would get over it in time–one got over everything. And then she would marry Edward and live at Ainswick–and Edward would be happy at last.
Henrietta had always loved Edward very dearly. It was only the aggressive, dominant personality of John Christow that had come in the way. He had made Edward look so–so pale by comparison.
It struck Midge when she came down to breakfast that morning that already Edward’s personality, freed from John Christow’s dominance, had begun to assert itself. He seemed more sure of himself, less hesitant and retiring.
He was talking pleasntly to the glowering and unresponsive David.
‘You must come more often to Ainswick, David. I’d like you to feel at home there and to get to know all about the place.’
Helping himself to marmalade, David said coldly:
‘These big estates are completely farcical. They should be split up.’
‘That won’t happen in my time, I hope,’ said Edward, smiling. ‘My tenants are a contented lot.’
‘They shouldn’t be,’ said David. ‘Nobody should be contented.’
‘If apes had been content with tails–’ murmured Lady Angkatell from where she was standing by the sideboard looking vaguely at a dish of kidneys. ‘That’s a poem I learnt in the nursery, but I simply can’t remember how it goes on. I must have a talk with you, David, and learn all the new ideas. As far as I can see, one must hate everybody, but at the same time give them free medical attention and a lot of extra education (poor things, all those helpless little children herded into schoolhouses every day)–and cod-liver oil forced down babies’ throats whether they like it or not–such nasty-smelling stuff.’
Lucy, Midge thought, was behaving very much as usual.
And Gudgeon, when she passed him in the hall, also looked just as usual. Life at The Hollow seemed to have resumed its normal course. With the departure of Gerda, the whole business seemed like a dream.
Then there was a scrunch of wheels on the gravel outside, and Sir Henry drew up in his car. He had stayed the night at his club and driven down early.
‘Well, dear,’ said Lucy, ‘was everything all right?’
‘Yes. The secretary was there–competent sort of girl. She took charge of things. There’s a sister, it seems. The secretary telegraphed to her.’
‘I knew there would be,’ said Lady Angkatell. ‘At Tunbridge Wells?’
‘Bexhill, I think,’ said Sir