The Hollow - Agatha Christie [77]
‘Won’t a lighter do?’
‘Mine’s no good, and anyway it’s difficult to light a gas fire with one. Make yourself at home. There’s an old blind man stands on the corner. I usually get my matches off him. I shan’t be a minute or two.’
Left alone in the studio, Midge wandered round looking at Henrietta’s work. It gave her an eerie feeling to be sharing the empty studio with these creations of wood and bronze.
There was a bronze head with high cheek-bones and a tin hat, possibly a Red Army soldier, and there was an airy structure of twisted ribbon-like aluminium which intrigued her a good deal. There was a vast static frog in pinkish granite, and at the end of the studio she came to an almost life-sized wooden figure.
She was staring at it when Henrietta’s key turned in the door and Henrietta herself came in slightly breathless.
Midge turned.
‘What’s this, Henrietta? It’s rather frightening.’
‘That? That’s The Worshipper. It’s going to the International Group.’
Midge repeated, staring at it:
‘It’s frightening.’
Kneeling to light the gas fire, Henrietta said over her shoulder:
‘It’s interesting your saying that. Why do you find it frightening?’
‘I think–because it hasn’t any face.’
‘How right you are, Midge.’
‘It’s very good, Henrietta.’
Henrietta said lightly:
‘It’s a nice bit of pearwood.’
She rose from her knees. She tossed her big satchel bag and her furs on to the divan, and threw down a couple of boxes of matches on the table.
Midge was struck by the expression on her face–it had a sudden quite inexplicable exultation.
‘Now for tea,’ said Henrietta, and in her voice was the same warm jubilation that Midge had already glimpsed in her face.
It struck an almost jarring note–but Midge forgot it in a train of thought aroused by the sight of the two boxes of matches.
‘You remember those matches Veronica Cray took away with her?’
‘When Lucy insisted on foisting a whole half-dozen on her? Yes.’
‘Did anyone ever find out whether she had matches in her cottage all the time?’
‘I expect the police did. They’re very thorough.’
A faintly triumphant smile was curving Henrietta’s lips. Midge felt puzzled and almost repelled.
She thought: ‘Can Henrietta really have cared for John? Can she? Surely not.’
And a faint desolate chill struck through her as she reflected:
‘Edward will not have to wait very long…’
Ungenerous of her not to let that thought bring warmth. She wanted Edward to be happy, didn’t she? It wasn’t as though she could have Edward herself. To Edward she would be always ‘little Midge’. Never more than that. Never a woman to be loved.
Edward, unfortunately, was the faithful kind. Well, the faithful kind usually got what they wanted in the end.
Edward and Henrietta at Ainswick…that was the proper ending to the story. Edward and Henrietta living happy ever afterwards.
She could see it all very clearly.
‘Cheer up, Midge,’ said Henrietta. ‘You mustn’t let murder get you down. Shall we go out later and have a spot of dinner together?’
But Midge said quickly that she must get back to her rooms. She had things to do–letters to write. In fact, she’d better go as soon as she’d finished her cup of tea.
‘All right. I’ll drive you there.’
‘I could get a taxi.’
‘Nonsense. Let’s use the car, as it’s there.’
They went out into damp evening air. As they drove past the end of the Mews Henrietta pointed out a car drawn in to the side.
‘A Ventnor 10. Our shadow. You’ll see. He’ll follow us.’
‘How beastly it all is!’
‘Do you think so? I don’t really mind.’
Henrietta dropped Midge at her rooms and came back to the Mews and put her car away in the garage.
Then she let herself into the studio once more.
For some minutes she stood abstractedly drumming with her fingers on the mantelpiece. Then she sighed and murmured to herself:
‘Well–to work. Better not waste time.’
She threw off her tweeds and got into her overall.
An hour and a half later she drew back and studied what she had done. There were dabs of clay on