The Hound of Death - Agatha Christie [35]
Mrs Harter got the impression, why she did not know, that the machine was tuned into somewhere very far away, and then clearly and distinctly a voice spoke, a man’s voice with a faint Irish accent.
‘Mary–can you hear me, Mary? It is Patrick speaking…I am coming for you soon. You will be ready, won’t you, Mary?’
Then, almost immediately, the strains of ‘Annie Laurie’ once more filled the room. Mrs Harter sat rigid in her chair, her hands clenched on each arm of it. Had she been dreaming? Patrick! Patrick’s voice! Patrick’s voice in this very room, speaking to her. No, it must be a dream, a hallucination perhaps. She must just have dropped off to sleep for a minute or two. A curious thing to have dreamed–that her dead husband’s voice should speak to her over the ether. It frightened her just a little. What were the words he had said?
‘I am coming for you soon, Mary. You will be ready, won’t you?’
Was it, could it be a premonition? Cardiac weakness. Her heart. After all, she was getting on in years.
‘It’s a warning–that’s what it is,’ said Mrs Harter, rising slowly and painfully from her chair, and added characteristically:
‘All that money wasted on putting in a lift!’
She said nothing of her experience to anyone, but for the next day or two she was thoughtful and a little pre-occupied.
And then came the second occasion. Again she was alone in the room. The wireless, which had been playing an orchestral selection, died away with the same suddenness as before. Again there was silence, the sense of distance, and finally Patrick’s voice not as it had been in life–but a voice rarefied, far away, with a strange unearthly quality. Patrick speaking to you, Mary. I will be coming for you very soon now…’
Then click, buzz, and the orchestral selection was in full swing again.
Mrs Harter glanced at the clock. No, she had not been asleep this time. Awake and in full possession of her faculties, she had heard Patrick’s voice speaking. It was no hallucination, she was sure of that. In a confused way she tried to think over all that Charles had explained to her of the theory of ether waves.
Could it be Patrick had really spoken to her? That his actual voice had been wafted through space? There were missing wave lengths or something of that kind. She remembered Charles speaking of ‘gaps in the scale’. Perhaps the missing waves explained all the so-called psychological phenomena? No, there was nothing inherently impossible in the idea. Patrick had spoken to her. He had availed himself of modern science to prepare her for what must soon be coming.
Mrs Harter rang the bell for her maid, Elizabeth.
Elizabeth was a tall gaunt woman of sixty. Beneath an unbending exterior she concealed a wealth of affection and tenderness of her mistress.
‘Elizabeth,’ said Mrs Harter when her faithful retainer had appeared, ‘you remember what I told you? The top left-hand drawer of my bureau. It is locked, the long key with the white label. Everything is there ready.’
‘Ready, ma’am?’
‘For my burial,’ snorted Mrs Harter. ‘You know perfectly well what I mean, Elizabeth. You helped me to put the things there yourself.’
Elizabeth’s face began to work strangely.
‘Oh, ma’am,’ she wailed, ‘don’t dwell on such things. I thought you was a sight better.’
‘We have all got to go sometime or another,’ said Mrs Harter practically. ‘I am over my three score years and ten, Elizabeth. There, there, don’t make a fool of yourself. If you must cry, go and cry somewhere else.’
Elizabeth retired, still sniffing.
Mrs Harter looked after her with a good deal of affection.
‘Silly old fool, but faithful,’ she said, ‘very faithful. Let me see, was it a hundred pounds or only fifty I left her? It ought to be a hundred. She has