The Moving Finger - Agatha Christie [25]
“But now,” I said, “we shall be able to have all sorts of interesting discussions—about Goneril and Regan and things like that.”
Megan’s face lit up.
“I’ve been thinking about that, and I think I know the answer. It was because that awful old father of theirs always insisted on such a lot of sucking up. When you’ve always got to be saying thank you and how kind and all the rest of it, it would make you go a bit rotten and queer inside, and you’d just long to be able to be beastly for a change—and when you got the chance, you’d probably find it went to your head and you’d go too far. Old Lear was pretty awful, wasn’t he? I mean, he did deserve the snub Cordelia gave him.”
“I can see,” I said, “that we are going to have many interesting discussions about Shakespeare.”
“I can see you two are going to be very highbrow,” said Joanna. “I’m afraid I always find Shakespeare terribly dreary. All those long scenes where everybody is drunk and it’s supposed to be funny.”
“Talking of drink,” I said turning to Megan. “How are you feeling?”
“Quite all right, thank you.”
“Not at all giddy? You don’t see two of Joanna or anything like that?”
“No. I just feel as though I’d like to talk rather a lot.”
“Splendid,” I said. “Obviously you are one of our natural drinkers. That is to say, if that really was your first cocktail.”
“Oh, it was.”
“A good strong head is an asset to any human being,” I said.
Joanna took Megan upstairs to unpack.
Partridge came in, looking sour, and said she had made two cup custards for lunch and what should she do about it?
Six
I
The inquest was held three days later. It was all done as decorously as possible, but there was a large attendance and, as Joanna observed, the beady bonnets were wagging.
The time of Mrs. Symmington’s death was put at between three and four o’clock. She was alone in the house, Symmington was at his office, the maids were having their day out, Elsie Holland and the children were out walking and Megan had gone for a bicycle ride.
The letter must have come by the afternoon post. Mrs. Symmington must have taken it out of the box, read it—and then in a state of agitation she had gone to the potting shed, fetched some of the cyanide kept there for taking wasps’ nests, dissolved it in water and drunk it after writing those last agitated words, “I can’t go on….”
Owen Griffith gave medical evidence and stressed the view he had outlined to us of Mrs. Symmington’s nervous condition and poor stamina. The coroner was suave and discreet. He spoke with bitter condemnation of people who write those despicable things, anonymous letters. Whoever had written that wicked and lying letter was morally guilty of murder, he said. He hoped the police would soon discover the culprit and take action against him or her. Such a dastardly and malicious piece of spite deserved to be punished with the utmost rigour of the law. Directed by him, the jury brought in the inevitable verdict. Suicide whilst temporarily insane.
The coroner had done his best—Owen Griffith also, but afterwards, jammed in the crowd of eager village women, I heard the same hateful sibilant whisper I had begun to know so well, “No smoke without fire, that’s what I say!” “Must ’a been something in it for certain sure. She wouldn’t never have done it otherwise….”
Just for a moment I hated Lymstock and its narrow boundaries, and its gossiping whispering women.
II
It is difficult to remember things in their exact chronological order. The next landmark of importance, of course, was Superintendent Nash’s visit. But it was before that, I think, that we received calls from various members of the community, each of which was interesting in its way and shed some light on the characters and personalities of the people involved.
Aimée Griffith came on the morning after the inquest. She was looking, as always, radiant with health and vigour and succeeded, also as usual, in putting my back up almost immediately. Joanna and Megan were out,