The Labors of Hercules - Agatha Christie [49]
Harold paused a minute, then he went in the direction of the sound. The woman was Elsie Clayton and she was sitting on a fallen tree with her face buried in her hands and her shoulders quivering with the violence of her grief.
Harold hesitated a minute, then he came up to her. He said gently:
“Mrs. Clayton—Elsie?”
She started violently and looked up at him. Harold sat down beside her.
He said with real sympathy:
“Is there anything I can do? Anything at all?”
She shook her head.
“No—no—you’re very kind. But there’s nothing that anyone can do for me.”
Harold said rather diffidently:
“Is it to do with—your husband?”
She nodded. Then she wiped her eyes and took out her powder compact, struggling to regain command of herself. She said in a quavering voice:
“I didn’t want Mother to worry. She’s so upset when she sees me unhappy. So I came out here to have a good cry. It’s silly, I know. Crying doesn’t help. But—sometimes—one just feels that life is quite unbearable.”
Harold said:
“I’m terribly sorry.”
She threw him a grateful glance. Then she said hurriedly:
“It’s my own fault, of course. I married Philip of my own free will. It—it’s turned out badly, I’ve only myself to blame.”
Harold said:
“It’s very plucky of you to put it like that.”
Elsie shook her head.
“No, I’m not plucky. I’m not brave at all. I’m an awful coward. That’s partly the trouble with Philip. I’m terrified of him—absolutely terrified—when he gets in one of his rages.”
Harold said with feeling:
“You ought to leave him!”
“I daren’t. He—he wouldn’t let me.”
“Nonsense! What about a divorce?”
She shook her head slowly.
“I’ve no grounds.” She straightened her shoulders. “No, I’ve got to carry on. I spend a fair amount of time with Mother, you know. Philip doesn’t mind that. Especially when we go somewhere off the beaten track like this.” She added, the colour rising in her cheeks, “You see, part of the trouble is that he’s insanely jealous. If—if I so much as speak to another man he makes the most frightful scenes.”
Harold’s indignation rose. He had heard many women complain of the jealousy of a husband, and whilst professing sympathy, had been secretly of the opinion that the husband was amply justified. But Elsie Clayton was not one of those women. She had never thrown him so much as a flirtatious glance.
Elsie drew away from him with a slight shiver. She glanced up at the sky.
“The sun’s gone in. It’s quite cold. We’d better get back to the hotel. It must be nearly lunch time.”
They got up and turned in the direction of the hotel. They had walked for perhaps a minute when they overtook a figure going in the same direction. They recognized her by the flapping cloak she wore. It was one of the Polish sisters.
They passed her, Harold bowing slightly. She made no response but her eyes rested on them both for a minute and there was a certain appraising quality in the glance which made Harold feel suddenly hot. He wondered if the woman had seen him sitting by Elsie on the tree trunk. If so, she probably thought. . . .
Well, she looked as though she thought . . . A wave of indignation overwhelmed him! What foul minds some women had!
Odd that the sun had gone in and that they should both have shivered—perhaps just at the moment that that woman was watching them. . . .
Somehow, Harold felt a little uneasy.
IV
That evening, Harold went to his room a little after ten. The English maid had arrived and he had received a number of letters, some of which needed immediate answers.
He got into his pyjamas and a dressing gown and sat down at the desk to deal with his correspondence. He had written three letters and was just starting on the fourth when the door was suddenly flung open and Elsie Clayton staggered into the room.
Harold jumped up, startled. Elsie had pushed the door to behind her and was standing clutching at the chest of drawers. Her breath was coming in great gasps, her face was the colour of chalk. She looked frightened to death.
She gasped out: “It’s my husband! He arrived unexpectedly. I—I think he’ll