The Moving Finger - Agatha Christie [29]
“They were sent for a purpose, certainly,” I said grimly.
“No, no, Mr. Burton, you misunderstood me. I’m not talking of the misguided creature who wrote them—someone quite abandoned that must be. I mean that they have been permitted—by Providence! To awaken us to a sense of our shortcomings.”
“Surely,” I said, “the Almighty could choose a less unsavoury weapon.”
Miss Emily murmured that God moved in a mysterious way.
“No,” I said. “There’s too much tendency to attribute to God the evils that man does of his own free will. I might concede you the Devil. God doesn’t really need to punish us, Miss Barton. We’re so very busy punishing ourselves.”
“What I can’t make out is why should anyone want to do such a thing?”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“A warped mentality.”
“It seems very sad.”
“It doesn’t seem to me sad. It seems to me just damnable. And I don’t apologize for the word. I mean just that.”
The pink had gone out of Miss Barton’s cheeks. They were very white.
“But why, Mr. Burton, why? What pleasure can anyone get out of it?”
“Nothing you and I can understand, thank goodness.”
Emily Barton lowered her voice.
“They say that Mrs. Cleat—but I really cannot believe it.”
I shook my head. She went on in an agitated manner:
“Nothing of this kind has ever happened before—never in my memory. It has been such a happy little community. What would my dear mother have said? Well, one must be thankful that she has been spared.”
I thought from all I had heard that old Mrs. Barton had been sufficiently tough to have taken anything, and would probably have enjoyed this sensation.
Emily went on:
“It distresses me deeply.”
“You’ve not—er—had anything yourself?”
She flushed crimson.
“Oh, no—oh, no, indeed. Oh! that would be dreadful.”
I apologized hastily, but she went away looking rather upset.
I went into the house. Joanna was standing by the drawing room fire which she had just lit, for the evenings were still chilly.
She had an open letter in her hand.
She turned her head quickly as I entered.
“Jerry! I found this in the letter box—dropped in by hand. It begins, “You painted trollop….”
“What else does it say?”
Joanna gave a wide grimace.
“Same old muck.”
She dropped it on to the fire. With a quick gesture that hurt my back I jerked it off again just before it caught.
“Don’t,” I said. “We may need it.”
“Need it?”
“For the police.”
V
Superintendent Nash came to see me the following morning. From the first moment I saw him I took a great liking to him. He was the best type of C.I.D. county superintendent. Tall, soldierly, with quiet reflective eyes and a straightforward unassuming manner.
He said: “Good morning, Mr. Burton, I expect you can guess what I’ve come to see you about.”
“Yes, I think so. This letter business.”
He nodded.
“I understand you had one of them?”
“Yes, soon after we got here.”
“What did it say exactly?”
I thought a minute, then conscientiously repeated the wording of the letter as closely as possible.
The superintendent listened with an immovable face, showing no signs of any kind of emotion. When I had finished, he said:
“I see. You didn’t keep the letter, Mr. Burton?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t. You see, I thought it was just an isolated instance of spite against newcomers to the place.”
The superintendent inclined his head comprehendingly.
He said briefly: “A pity.”
“However,” I said, “my sister got one yesterday. I just stopped her putting it in the fire.”
“Thank you, Mr. Burton, that was thoughtful of you.”
I went across to my desk and unlocked the drawer in which I had put it. It was not, I thought, very suitable for Partridge’s eyes. I gave it to Nash.
He read it through. Then he looked up and asked me:
“Is this the same in appearance as the last one?”
“I think so—as far as I can remember.”
“The same difference between the envelope and the text?”
“Yes,” I said. “The envelope was typed. The letter itself had printed words pasted on to a sheet of paper.”
Nash nodded and put