The Moving Finger - Agatha Christie [48]
“You didn’t think anything was wrong because she wasn’t up that afternoon?”
“Oh, no, I never dreamed of such a thing. Mr. Symmington was hanging up his coat in the hall and I said, ‘Tea’s not quite ready, but the kettle’s nearly boiling,’ and he nodded and called out, ‘Mona, Mona!’—and then as Mrs. Symmington didn’t answer he went upstairs to her bedroom, and it must have been the most terrible shock to him. He called me and I came, and he said, ‘Keep the children away,’ and then he phoned Dr. Griffith and we forgot all about the kettle and it burnt the bottom out! Oh dear, it was dreadful, and she’d been so happy and cheerful at lunch.”
Nash said abruptly: “What is your own opinion of that letter she received, Miss Holland?”
Elsie Holland said indignantly:
“Oh, I think it was wicked—wicked!”
“Yes, yes, I don’t mean that. Did you think it was true?”
Elsie Holland said firmly:
“No, indeed I don’t. Mrs. Symmington was very sensitive—very sensitive indeed. She had to take all sorts of things for her nerves. And she was very—well, particular.” Elsie flushed. “Anything of that sort—nasty, I mean—would have given her a great shock.”
Nash was silent for a moment, then he asked:
“Have you had any of these letters, Miss Holland?”
“No. No, I haven’t had any.”
“Are you sure? Please”—he lifted a hand—“don’t answer in a hurry. They’re not pleasant things to get, I know. And sometimes people don’t like to admit they’ve had them. But it’s very important in this case that we should know. We’re quite aware that the statements in them are just a tissue of lies, so you needn’t feel embarrassed.”
“But I haven’t, superintendent. Really I haven’t. Not anything of the kind.”
She was indignant, almost tearful, and her denials seemed genuine enough.
When she went back to the children, Nash stood looking out of the window.
“Well,” he said, “that’s that! She says she hasn’t received any of these letters. And she sounds as though she’s speaking the truth.”
“She did certainly. I’m sure she was.”
“H’m,” said Nash. “Then what I want to know is, why the devil hasn’t she?”
He went on rather impatiently, as I stared at him.
“She’s a pretty girl, isn’t she?”
“Rather more than pretty.”
“Exactly. As a matter of fact, she’s uncommonly good-looking. And she’s young. In fact she’s just the meat an anonymous letter writer would like. Then why has she been left out?”
I shook my head.
“It’s interesting, you know. I must mention it to Graves. He asked if we could tell him definitely of anyone who hadn’t had one.”
“She’s the second person,” I said. “There’s Emily Barton, remember.”
Nash gave a faint chuckle.
“You shouldn’t believe everything you’re told, Mr. Burton. Miss Barton had one all right—more than one.”
“How do you know?”
“That devoted dragon she’s lodging with told me—her late parlourmaid or cook. Florence Elford. Very indignant she was about it. Would like to have the writer’s blood.”
“Why did Miss Emily say she hadn’t had any?”
“Delicacy. Their language isn’t nice. Little Miss Barton has spent her life avoiding the coarse and unrefined.”
“What did the letters say?”
“The usual. Quite ludicrous in her case. And incidentally insinuated that she poisoned off her old mother and most of her sisters!”
I said incredulously:
“Do you mean to say there’s really this dangerous lunatic going about and we can’t spot her right away?”
“We’ll spot her,” said Nash, and his voice was grim. “She’ll write just one letter too many.”
“But, my goodness, man, she won’t go on writing these things—not now.”
He looked at me.
“Oh yes she will. You see, she can’t stop now. It’s a morbid craving. The letters will go on, make no mistake about that.”
Nine
I
I went and found Megan before leaving the house. She was in the garden and seemed almost back to her usual self. She greeted me quite cheerfully.
I suggested that she should