The Hound of Death - Agatha Christie [83]
So he talked on, leaving Mortimer almost hypnotized by the easy flow. Nothing here, surely, but rather commonplace domesticity. And yet, at that first glimpse of the interior, he had diagnosed something else, some tension, some strain, emanating from one of those five people–he didn’t know which. Mere foolishness, his nerves were all awry! They were all startled by his sudden appearance–that was all.
He broached the question of a night’s lodging, and was met with a ready response.
‘You’ll have to stop with us, Mr Cleveland. Nothing else for miles around. We can give you a bedroom, and though my pyjamas may be a bit roomy, why, they’re better than nothing, and your own clothes will be dry by morning.’
‘It’s very good of you.’
‘Not at all,’ said the other genially. ‘As I said just now, one couldn’t turn away a dog on a night like this. Magdalen, Charlotte, go up and see to the room.’
The two girls left the room. Presently Mortimer heard them moving about overhead.
‘I can quite understand that two attractive young ladies like your daughters might find it dull here,’ said Cleveland.
‘Good lookers, aren’t they?’ said Mr Dinsmead with fatherly pride. ‘Not much like their mother or myself. We’re a homely pair, but much attached to each other. I’ll tell you that, Mr Cleveland. Eh, Maggie, isn’t that so?’
Mrs Dinsmead smiled primly. She had started knitting again. The needles clicked busily. She was a fast knitter.
Presently the room was announced ready, and Mortimer, expressing thanks once more, declared his intention of turning in.
‘Did you put a hot-water bottle in the bed?’ demanded Mrs Dinsmead, suddenly mindful of her house pride.
‘Yes, Mother, two.’
‘That’s right,’ said Dinsmead. ‘Go up with him, girls, and see that there’s nothing else he wants.’
Magdalen went over to the window and saw that the fastenings were secure. Charlotte cast a final eye over the washstand appointments. Then they both lingered by the door.
‘Good night, Mr Cleveland. You are sure there is everything?’
‘Yes, thank you, Miss Magdalen. I am ashamed to have given you both so much trouble. Good night.’
‘Good night.’
They went out, shutting the door behind them. Mortimer Cleveland was alone. He undressed slowly and thoughtfully. When he had donned Mr Dinsmead’s pink pyjamas he gathered up his own wet clothes and put them outside the door as his host had bade him. From downstairs he could hear the rumble of Dinsmead’s voice.
What a talker the man was! Altogether an odd personality–but indeed there was something odd about the whole family, or was it his imagination?
He went slowly back into his room and shut the door. He stood by the bed lost in thought. And then he started–
The mahogany table by the bed was smothered in dust. Written in the dust were three letters, clearly visible, SOS.
Mortimer stared as if he could hardly believe his eyes. It was confirmation of all his vague surmises and forebodings. He was right, then. Something was wrong in this house.
SOS. A call for help. But whose finger had written it in the dust? Magdalen’s or Charlotte’s? They had both stood there, he remembered, for a moment or two, before going out of the room. Whose hand had secretly dropped to the table and traced out those three letters?
The faces of the two girls came up before him. Magdalen’s, dark and aloof, and Charlotte’s, as he had seen it first, wide-eyed, startled, with an unfathomable something in her glance…
He went again to the door and opened it. The boom of Mr Dinsmead’s voice was no longer to be heard. The house was silent.
He thought to himself.
‘I can