The Moving Finger - Agatha Christie [32]
He went out, leaving that question unanswered.
“How does she feel, Griffith?” I asked. It seemed to me the answer was in his province.
“God knows. Remorseful, perhaps. On the other hand, it may be that she’s enjoying her power. Mrs. Symmington’s death may have fed her mania.”
“I hope not,” I said, with a slight shiver. “Because if so, she’ll—”
I hesitated and Nash finished the sentence for me.
“She’ll try it again? That, Mr. Burton, would be the best thing that could happen, for us. The pitcher goes to the well once too often, remember.”
“She’d be mad to go on with it,” I exclaimed.
“She’ll go on,” said Graves. “They always do. It’s a vice, you know, they can’t let it alone.”
I shook my head with a shudder. I asked if they needed me any longer, I wanted to get out into the air. The atmosphere seemed tinged with evil.
“There’s nothing more, Mr. Burton,” said Nash. “Only keep your eyes open, and do as much propaganda as you can—that is to say, urge on everyone that they’ve got to report any letter they receive.” I nodded.
“I should think everyone in the place has had one of the foul things by now,” I said.
“I wonder,” said Graves. He put his sad head a little on one side and asked, “You don’t know, definitely, of anyone who hasn’t had a letter?”
“What an extraordinary question! The population at large isn’t likely to take me into their confidence.”
“No, no, Mr. Burton, I didn’t mean that. I just wondered if you knew of anyone person who quite definitely, to your certain knowledge, has not received an anonymous letter.”
“Well, as a matter of fact,” I hesitated, “I do, in a way.”
And I repeated my conversation with Emily Barton and what she had said.
Graves received the information with a wooden face and said: “Well, that may come in useful. I’ll note it down.”
I went out into the afternoon sunshine with Owen Griffith. Once in the street, I swore aloud.
“What kind of place is this for a man to come to lie in the sun and heal his wounds? It’s full of festering poison, this place, and it looks as peaceful and as innocent as the Garden of Eden.”
“Even there,” said Owen dryly, “there was one serpent.”
“Look here, Griffith, do they know anything? Have they got any idea?”
“I don’t know. They’ve got a wonderful technique, the police. They’re seemingly so frank, and they tell you nothing.”
“Yes. Nash is a nice fellow.”
“And a very capable one.”
“If anyone’s batty in this place, you ought to know it.” I said accusingly.
Griffith shook his head. He looked discouraged. But he looked more than that—he looked worried. I wondered if he had an inkling of some kind.
We had been walking along the High Street. I stopped at the door of the house agents.
“I believe my second instalment of rent is due—in advance. I’ve got a good mind to pay it and clear out with Joanna right away. Forfeit the rest of the tenancy.”
“Don’t go,” said Owen.
“Why not?”
He didn’t answer. He said slowly after a minute or two,
“After all—I dare say you’re right. Lymstock isn’t healthy just now. It might—it might harm you or—or your sister.”
“Nothing harms Joanna,” I said. “She’s tough. I’m the weakly one. Somehow this business makes me sick.”
“It makes me sick,” said Owen.
I pushed the door of the house agents half open.
“But I shan’t go,” I said. “Vulgar curiosity is stronger than pusillanimity. I want to know the solution.”
I went in.
A woman who was typing got up and came towards me. She had frizzy hair and simpered, but I found her more intelligent than the spectacled youth who had previously held sway in the outer office.
A minute or two later something familiar about her penetrated through to my consciousness. It was Miss Ginch, lately Symmington’s lady clerk. I commented on the fact.
“You were with Galbraith and Symmington, weren’t you?” I said.
“Yes. Yes, indeed. But I thought it was better to leave. This is quite a good post, though not quite so well paid. But there are things that are more valuable than money, don’t you think so?”
“Undoubtedly,” I said.
“Those awful letters,” breathed Miss