The Labors of Hercules - Agatha Christie [51]
Harold said slowly:
“I can confirm Elsie’s story.”
Mrs. Rice said:
“Yes, and she can confirm yours. That—that is just it!”
Harold’s brain, naturally a keen and cautious one, saw her point. He reviewed the whole thing and appreciated the weakness of their position.
He and Elsie had spent a good deal of their time together. Then there was the fact that they had been seen together in the pinewoods by one of the Polish women under rather compromising circumstances. The Polish ladies apparently spoke no English, but they might nevertheless understand it a little. The woman might have known the meaning of words like “jealousy” and “husband” if she had chanced to overhear their conversation. Anyway it was clear that it was something she had said to Clayton that had aroused his jealousy. And now—his death. When Clayton had died, he, Harold, had been in Elsie Clayton’s room. There was nothing to show that he had not deliberately assaulted Philip Clayton with the paperweight. Nothing to show that the jealous husband had not actually found them together. There was only his word and Elsie’s. Would they be believed?
A cold fear gripped him.
He did not imagine—no, he really did not imagine—that either he or Elsie was in danger of being condemned to death for a murder they had not committed. Surely, in any case, it could be only a charge of manslaughter brought against them. (Did they have manslaughter in these foreign countries?) But even if they were acquitted of blame there would have to be an inquiry—it would be reported in all the papers. An English man and woman accused—jealous husband—rising politician. Yes, it would mean the end of his political career. It would never survive a scandal like that.
He said on an impulse:
“Can’t we get rid of the body somehow? Plant it somewhere?”
Mrs. Rice’s astonished and scornful look made him blush. She said incisively:
“My dear Harold, this isn’t a detective story! To attempt a thing like that would be quite crazy.”
“I suppose it would.” He groaned. “What can we do? My God, what can we do?”
Mrs. Rice shook her head despairingly. She was frowning, her mind working painfully.
Harold demanded:
“Isn’t there anything we can do? Anything to avoid this frightful disaster?”
There, it was out—disaster! Terrible—unforeseen—utterly damning.
They stared at each other. Mrs. Rice said hoarsely:
“Elsie—my little girl. I’d do anything . . . It will kill her if she has to go through a thing like this.” And she added: “You too, your career—everything.”
Harold managed to say:
“Never mind me.”
But he did not really mean it.
Mrs. Rice went on bitterly:
“And all so unfair—so utterly untrue! It’s not as though there had ever been anything between you. I know that well enough.”
Harold suggested, catching at a straw:
“You’ll be able to say that at least—that it was all perfectly all right.”
Mrs. Rice said bitterly:
“Yes, if they believe me. But you know what these people out here are like!”
Harold agreed gloomily. To the Continental mind, there would undoubtedly be a guilty connection between himself and Elsie, and all Mrs. Rice’s denials would be taken as a mother lying herself black in the face for her daughter.
Harold said gloomily:
“Yes, we’re not in England, worse luck.”
“Ah!” Mrs. Rice lifted her head. “That’s true . . . It’s not England. I wonder now if something could be done—”
“Yes?” Harold looked at her eagerly.
Mrs. Rice said abruptly:
“How much money have you got?”
“Not much with me.” He added, “I could wire for money, of course.”
Mrs. Rice said grimly:
“We may need a good deal. But I think it’s worth trying.”
Harold felt a faint lifting of despair. He said:
“What is your idea?”
Mrs. Rice spoke decisively.
“We haven’t a chance of concealing the death ourselves, but I do think there’s just a chance of hushing it up officially!”
“You really think so?” Harold was hopeful but slightly incredulous.
“Yes, for one thing the manager of the hotel will be on our side. He’d much rather