The Moving Finger - Agatha Christie [44]
“How was she killed?”
“She was first stunned by a blow on the back of the head. Afterwards an ordinary kitchen skewer, sharpened to a fine point, was thrust in the base of the skull, causing instantaneous death.”
I lit a cigarette. It was not a nice picture.
“Pretty cold-blooded,” I said.
“Oh yes, yes, that was indicated.”
I inhaled deeply.
“Who did it?” I said. “And why?”
“I don’t suppose,” said Nash slowly, “that we shall ever know exactly why. But we can guess.”
“She knew something?”
“She knew something.”
“She didn’t give anyone here a hint?”
“As far as I can make out, no. She’s been upset, so the cook says, ever since Mrs. Symmington’s death, and according to this Rose, she’s been getting more and more worried, and kept saying she didn’t know what she ought to do.”
He gave a short exasperated sigh.
“It’s always the way. They won’t come to us. They’ve got that deep-seated prejudice against ‘being mixed up with the police.’ If she’d come along and told us what was worrying her, she’d be alive today.”
“Didn’t she give the other woman any hint?”
“No, or so Rose says, and I’m inclined to believe her. For if she had, Rose would have blurted it out at once with a good many fancy embellishments of her own.”
“It’s maddening,” I said, “not to know.”
“We can still guess, Mr. Burton. To begin with, it can’t be anything very defionite. It’s got to be the sort of thing that you think over, and as you think it over, your uneasiness grows. You see what I mean?”
“Yes.”
“Actually, I think I know what it was.”
I looked at him with respect.
“That’s good work, superintendent.”
“Well, you see, Mr. Burton, I know something that you don’t. On the afternoon that Mrs. Symmington committed suicide both maids were supposed to be out. It was their day out. But actually Agnes came back to the house.”
“You know that?”
“Yes. Agnes has a boyfriend—young Rendell from the fish shop. Wednesday is early closing and he comes along to meet Agnes and they go for a walk, or to the pictures if it’s wet. That Wednesday they had a row practically as soon as they met. Our letter writer had been active, suggesting that Agnes had other fish to fry, and young Fred Rendell was all worked up. They quarrelled violently and Agnes bolted back home and said she wasn’t coming out unless Fred said he was sorry.”
“Well?”
“Well, Mr. Burton, the kitchen faces the back of the house but the pantry looks out where we are looking now. There’s only one entrance gate. You come through it and either up to the front door, or else along the path at the side of the house to the back door.”
He paused.
“Now I’ll tell you something. That letter that came to Mrs. Symmington that afternoon didn’t come by post. It had a used stamp affixed to it, and the postmark faked quite convincingly in lampblack, so that it would seem to have been delivered by the postman with the afternoon letters. But actually it had not been through the post. You see what that means?”
I said slowly: “It means that it was left by hand, pushed through the letter box some time before the afternoon post was delivered, so that it should be amongst the other letters.”
“Exactly. The afternoon post comes round about a quarter to four. My theory is this. The girl was in the pantry looking through the window (it’s masked by shrubs but you can see through them quite well) watching out for her young man to turn up and apologize.”
I said: “And she saw whoever it was deliver that note?”
“That’s my guess, Mr. Burton. I may be wrong, of course.”
“I don’t think you are… It’s simple—and convincing—and it means that Agnes knew who the anonymous letter writer was.”
“Yes.”
“But then why didn’t she—?”
I paused, frowning.
Nash said quickly:
“As I see it, the girl didn’t realize what she had seen. Not at first. Somebody had left a letter at the house, yes—but that somebody was nobody she would dream of connecting with the anonymous letters. It was somebody, from that point of view, quite above suspicion.
“But the more she thought about it,