The Hollow - Agatha Christie [57]
Sir Henry asked:
‘Have you any reason to believe that the weapon from which the fatal shot was fired comes from my collection?’
‘No reason at all. But I have got to make sure, shall we say, that it doesn’t.’
Sir Henry nodded his head in confirmation.
‘I appreciate your point. Well, we will get to work. It will take a little time.’
He opened the desk and took out a leather-bound volume.
As he opened it he repeated:
‘It will take a little time to check up–’
Grange’s attention was held by something in his voice. He looked up sharply. Sir Henry’s shoulders sagged a little–he seemed suddenly an older and more tired man.
Inspector Grange frowned.
He thought: ‘Devil if I know what to make of these people down here.’
‘Ah–’
Grange spun round. His eyes noted the time by the clock, thirty minutes–twenty minutes–since Sir Henry had said, ‘It will take a little time.’
Grange said sharply:
‘Yes, sir?’
‘A .38 Smith and Wesson is missing. It was in a brown leather holster and was at the end of the rack in this drawer.’
‘Ah!’ The inspector kept his voice calm, but he was excited. ‘And when, sir, to your certain knowledge, did you last see it in its proper place?’
Sir Henry reflected for a moment or two.
‘That is not very easy to say, Inspector. I last had this drawer open about a week ago and I think–I am almost certain–that if the revolver had been missing then I should have noticed the gap. But I should not like to swear definitely that I saw it there.’
Inspector Grange nodded his head.
‘Thank you, sir, I quite understand. Well, I must be getting on with things.’
He left the room, a busy, purposeful man.
Sir Henry stood motionless for a while after the inspector had gone, then he went out slowly through the french windows on to the terrace. His wife was busy with a gardening basket and gloves. She was pruning some rare shrubs with a pair of secateurs.
She waved to him brightly.
‘What did the inspector want? I hope he is not going to worry the servants again. You know, Henry, they don’t like it. They can’t see it as amusing or as a novelty like we do.’
‘Do we see it like that?’
His tone attracted her attention. She smiled up at him sweetly.
‘How tired you look, Henry. Must you let all this worry you so much?’
‘Murder is worrying, Lucy.’
Lady Angkatell considered a moment, absently clipping off some branches, then her face clouded over.
‘Oh, dear–that is the worst of secateurs, they are so fascinating–one can’t stop and one always clips off more than one means. What was it you were saying–something about murder being worrying? But really, Henry, I have never seen why. I mean, if one has to die, it may be cancer, or tuberculosis in one of those dreadful bright sanatoriums, or a stroke–horrid, with one’s face all on one side–or else one is shot or stabbed or strangled perhaps. But the whole thing comes to the same in the end. There one is, I mean, dead! Out of it all. And all the worry over. And the relations have all the difficulties–money quarrels and whether to wear black or not–and who was to have Aunt Selina’s writing-desk–things like that!’
Sir Henry sat down on the stone coping. He said:
‘This is all going to be more upsetting than we thought, Lucy.’
‘Well, darling, we shall have to bear it. And when it’s all over we might go away somewhere. Let’s not bother about present troubles but look forward to the future. I really am happy about that. I’ve been wondering whether it would be nice to go to Ainswick for Christmas–or leave it until Easter. What do you think?’
‘Plenty of time to make plans for Christmas.’
‘Yes, but I like to see things in my mind. Easter, perhaps…yes.’ Lucy smiled happily. ‘She will certainly have got over it by then.’
‘Who?’ Sir Henry was startled.
Lady Angkatell said calmly:
‘Henrietta. I think if they were to have the wedding in October–October of next year, I mean, then we could go and stop for that Christmas. I’ve been thinking, Henry–’
‘I wish you wouldn’t, my dear. You think too much.