The Moving Finger - Agatha Christie [37]
Joanna was looking intelligent and deeply interested.
I felt a moment’s qualm. It was really too bad of Joanna. Griffith was too good a chap to be played fast and loose with. Women really were devils.
Then I caught a sideways view of Griffith, his long purposeful chin and the grim set of his lips, and I was not so sure that Joanna was going to have it her own way after all. And anyway, a man has no business to let himself be made a fool of by a woman. It’s his own look out if he does.
Then Joanna said:
“Do change your mind and stay to lunch with us, Dr. Griffith,” and Griffith flushed a little and said he would, only his sister would be expecting him back—
“We’ll ring her up and explain,” said Joanna quickly and went out into the hall and did so.
I thought Griffith looked a little uneasy, and it crossed my mind that he was probably a little afraid of his sister.
Joanna came back smiling and said that that was all right.
And Owen Griffith stayed to lunch and seemed to enjoy himself. We talked about books and plays and world politics, and about music and painting and modern architecture.
We didn’t talk about Lymstock at all, or about anonymous letters, or Mrs. Symmington’s suicide.
We got right away from everything, and I think Owen Griffith was happy. His dark sad face lighted up, and he revealed an interesting mind.
When he had gone I said to Joanna:
“That fellow’s too good for your tricks.”
Joanna said:
“That’s what you say! You men all stick together!”
“Why were you out after his hide, Joanna? Wounded vanity?”
“Perhaps,” said my sister.
IV
That afternoon we were to go to tea with Miss Emily Barton at her rooms in the village.
We strolled down there on foot, for I felt strong enough now to manage the hill back again.
We must actually have allowed too much time and got there early, for the door was opened to us by a tall rawboned fierce-looking woman who told us that Miss Barton wasn’t in yet.
“But she’s expecting you, I know, so if you’ll come up and wait, please.”
This was evidently Faithful Florence.
We followed her up the stairs and she threw open a door and showed us into what was quite a comfortable sitting room, though perhaps a little over-furnished. Some of the things, I suspected, had come from Little Furze.
The woman was clearly proud of her room.
“It’s nice, isn’t it?” she demanded.
“Very nice,” said Joanna warmly.
“I make her as comfortable as I can. Not that I can do for her as I’d like to and in the way she ought to have. She ought to be in her own house, properly, not turned out into rooms.”
Florence, who was clearly a dragon, looked from one to the other of us reproachfully. It was not, I felt, our lucky day. Joanna had been ticked off by Aimée Griffith and Partridge and now we were both being ticked off by the dragon Florence.
“Parlourmaid I was for fifteen years there,” she added.
Joanna, goaded by injustice, said:
“Well, Miss Barton wanted to let the house. She put it down at the house agents.”
“Forced to it,” said Florence. “And she living so frugal and careful. But even then, the government can’t leave her alone! Has to have its pound of flesh just the same.”
I shook my head sadly.
“Plenty of money there was in the old lady’s time,” said Florence. “And then they all died off one by one, poor dears. Miss Emily nursing of them one after the other. Wore herself out she did, and always so patient and uncomplaining. But it told on her, and then to have worry about money on top of it all! Shares not bringing in what they used to, so she says, and why not, I should like to know? They ought to be ashamed of themselves. Doing down a lady like her who’s got no head for figures and can’t be up to their tricks.”
“Practically everyone has been hit that way,” I said, but Florence remained unsoftened.
“It’s all right for some as can look after themselves, but not for her. She needs looking