The Sittaford Mystery - Agatha Christie [39]
‘What was his name?’ asked the Inspector. ‘Did he come from this part of the world?’
‘Now, what was his name? Cullen—I think. No—it was Smythe. How stupid of me. I really can’t remember. You know how it is on board ship, Inspector, you get to know people so well and plan to meet again—and a week after you’ve landed, you can’t even be sure of their names!’
She laughed.
‘But he was such a nice boy—not good-looking, reddish hair, but a delightful smile.’
‘And on the strength of that you decided to take a house in these parts?’ said the Inspector smiling.
‘Yes, wasn’t it mad of us?’
‘Clever,’ thought Narracott. ‘Distinctly clever.’ He began to realize Mrs Willett’s methods. She always carried the war into the enemy’s country.
‘So you wrote to the house agents and inquired about a house?’
‘Yes—and they sent us particulars of Sittaford. It sounded just what we wanted.’
‘It wouldn’t be my taste at this time of year,’ said the Inspector with a laugh.
‘I daresay it wouldn’t be ours if we lived in England,’ said Mrs Willett brightly.
The Inspector rose.
‘How did you know the name of a house agent to write to in Exhampton?’ he asked. ‘That must have presented a difficulty.’
There was a pause. The first pause in the conversation. He thought he caught a glimpse of vexation, more, of anger in Mrs Willett’s eyes. He had hit upon something to which she had not thought out the answer. She turned towards her daughter.
‘How did we, Violet? I can’t remember.’
There was a different look in the girl’s eyes. She looked frightened.
‘Why, of course,’ said Mrs Willett. ‘Delfridges. Their information bureau. It’s too wonderful. I always go and inquire there about everything. I asked them the name of the best agent here and they told me.’
‘Quick,’ thought the Inspector. ‘Very quick. But not quite quick enough. I had you there, madam.’
He made a cursory examination of the house. There was nothing there. No papers, no locked drawers or cupboards.
Mrs Willett accompanied him talking brightly. He took his leave, thanking her politely.
As he departed he caught a glimpse of the girl’s face over her shoulder. There was no mistaking the expression on her face.
It was fear he saw on her countenance. Fear written there plainly at this moment when she thought herself unobserved.
Mrs Willett was still talking.
‘Alas. We have one grave drawback here. The domestic problem, Inspector. Servants will not stand these country places. All of mine have been threatening to leave us for some time, and the news of the murder seems to have unsettled them utterly. I don’t know what I shall do. Perhaps men servants would answer the case. That is what the Registry Office in Exeter advised.’
The Inspector answered mechanically. He was not listening to her flow of talk. He was thinking of the expression he had surprised on the girl’s face.
Mrs Willett had been clever—but not quite clever enough.
He went away cogitating on his problem.
If the Willetts had nothing to do with Captain Trevelyan’s death, why was Violet Willett afraid?
He fired his last shot. With his foot actually over the threshold of the front door he turned back.
‘By the way,’ he said, ‘you know young Pearson, don’t you?’
There was no doubt of the pause this time. A dead silence of about a second. Then Mrs Willett spoke:
‘Pearson?’ she said. ‘I don’t think—’
She was interrupted. A queer sighing breath came from the room behind her and then the sound of a fall. The Inspector was over the threshold and into the room in a flash.
Violet Willett had fainted.
‘Poor child,’ cried Mrs Willett. ‘All this strain and shock. That dreadful table-turning business and the murder on the top of it. She isn’t strong. Thank you so much, Inspector. Yes, on the sofa please. If you would ring the bell. No, I don’t think there is anything more you can do. Thank you so much.’
The Inspector went down the drive with his lips set in a grim line.
Jim Pearson was engaged, he knew, to that extremely charming-looking girl he had seen in London.
Why then should Violet Willett faint at the mention