The Hollow - Agatha Christie [93]
The kettle on the gas ring boiled and went on boiling.
Chapter 29
Gerda rolled over to the side of the bed and sat up.
Her head felt a little better now but she was still glad that she hadn’t gone with the others on the picnic. It was peaceful and almost comforting to be alone in the house for a bit.
Elsie, of course, had been very kind–very kind–especially at first. To begin with, Gerda had been urged to stay in bed for breakfast, trays had been brought up to her. Everybody urged her to sit in the most comfortable armchair, to put her feet up, not to do anything at all strenuous.
They were all so sorry for her about John. She had stayed cowering gratefully in that protective dim haze. She hadn’t wanted to think, or to feel, or to remember.
But now, every day, she felt it coming nearer–she’d have to start living again, to decide what to do, where to live. Already Elsie was showing a shade of impatience in her manner. ‘Oh, Gerda, don’t be so slow!’
It was all the same as it had been–long ago, before John came and took her away. They all thought her slow and stupid. There was nobody to say, as John had said: ‘I’ll look after you.’
Her head ached and Gerda thought: ‘I’ll make myself some tea.’
She went down to the kitchen and put the kettle on. It was nearly boiling when she heard a ring at the front door.
The maids had been given the day out. Gerda went to the door and opened it. She was astonished to see Henrietta’s rakish-looking car drawn up to the kerb and Henrietta herself standing on the doorstep.
‘Why, Henrietta!’ she exclaimed. She fell back a step or two. ‘Come in. I’m afraid my sister and the children are out but–’
Henrietta cut her short. ‘Good, I’m glad. I wanted to get you alone. Listen, Gerda, what did you do with the holster?’
Gerda stopped. Her eyes looked suddenly vacant and uncomprehending. She said: ‘Holster?’
Then she opened a door on the right of the hall.
‘You’d better come in here. I’m afraid it’s rather dusty. You see, we haven’t had much time this morning.’
Henrietta interrupted again urgently.
She said: ‘Listen, Gerda, you’ve got to tell me. Apart from the holster everything’s all right–absolutely watertight. There’s nothing to connect you with the business. I found the revolver where you’d shoved it into that thicket by the pool. I hid it in a place where you couldn’t possibly have put it–and there are fingerprints on it which they’ll never identify. So there’s only the holster. I must know what you did with that?’
She paused, praying desperately that Gerda would react quickly.
She had no idea why she had this vital sense of urgency, but it was there. Her car had not been followed–she had made sure of that. She had started on the London road, had filled up at a garage and had mentioned that she was on her way to London. Then, a little farther on, she had swung across country until she had reached a main road leading south to the coast.
Gerda was still staring at her. The trouble with Gerda, thought Henrietta, was that she was so slow.
‘If you’ve still got it, Gerda, you must give it to me. I’ll get rid of it somehow. It’s the only possible thing, you see, that can connect you now with John’s death. Have you got it?’
There was a pause and then Gerda slowly nodded her head.
‘Didn’t you know it was madness to keep it?’ Henrietta could hardly conceal her impatience.
‘I forgot about it. It was up in my room.’
She added: ‘When the police came up to Harley Street I cut it in pieces and put it in the bag with my leather work.’
Henrietta said: ‘That was clever of you.’
Gerda said: ‘I’m not quite so stupid as everybody thinks.’ She put her hand up to her throat. She said: ‘John–John!’ Her voice broke.
Henrietta said: ‘I know, my dear, I know.’
Gerda said: ‘But you can’t know…John wasn’t–he wasn’t–’ She stood there, dumb and strangely pathetic. She raised her eyes suddenly to Henrietta’s face. ‘It was all a lie–everything! All the things I thought he was. I saw his face when he followed that woman out that evening. Veronica Cray. I knew