The Sittaford Mystery - Agatha Christie [43]
She passed the gates of Sittaford House on her right and shortly after that the lane took a sharp turn to the right and ran steeply up hill and came out on the open moor where it degenerated into a grass track and soon petered out altogether. The morning was a fine one, cold and crisp, and the view was lovely. Emily ascended to the very top of Sittaford Tor, a pile of grey rock of a fantastic shape. From this height she looked down over an expanse of moorland, unbroken as far as she could see without any habitation or any road. Below her, on the opposite side of the Tor, were grey masses of granite boulders and rocks. After considering the scene for a minute or two she turned to view the prospect to the north from which she had come. Just below her lay Sittaford, clustering on the flank of the hill, the square grey blob of Sittaford House, and the dotted cottages beyond it. In the valley below she could see Exhampton.
‘One ought,’ thought Emily confusedly, ‘to see things better when you are high up like this. It ought to be like lifting off the top of a doll’s house and peering in.’
She wished with all her heart that she had met the dead man even if only once. It was so hard to get an idea of people you had never seen. You had to rely on other people’s judgment, and Emily had never yet acknowledged that any other person’s judgment was superior to her own. Other people’s impressions were no good to you. They might be just as true as yours but you couldn’t act on them. You couldn’t, as it were, use another person’s angle of attack.
Meditating vexedly on these questions, Emily sighed impatiently and shifted her position.
She had been so lost in her own thoughts that she had been oblivious to her immediate surroundings. It was with a shock of surprise that she realized that a small elderly gentleman was standing a few feet away from her, his hat held courteously in his hand, while he breathed rather fast.
‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Miss Trefusis, I believe?’
‘Yes,’ said Emily.
‘My name is Rycroft. You must forgive me speaking to you, but in this little community of ours the smallest detail is known, and your arrival here yesterday has naturally gone the round. I can assure you that everyone feels a deep sympathy with your position, Miss Trefusis. We are all, one and all, anxious to assist you in any way we can.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Emily.
‘Not at all, not at all,’ said Mr Rycroft. ‘Beauty in distress, you will pardon my old-fashioned manner of putting it. But seriously, my dear young lady, do count on me if there is any way in which I can possibly assist you. Beautiful view from up here, is it not?’
‘Wonderful,’ agreed Emily. ‘The moor is a wonderful place.’
‘You know that a prisoner must have escaped last night from Princetown.’
‘Yes. Has he been recaptured?’
‘Not yet, I believe. Ah, well, poor fellow, he will no doubt be recaptured soon enough. I believe I am right in saying that no one has escaped successfully from Princetown for the last twenty years.’
‘Which direction is Princetown?’
Mr Rycroft stretched out his arm and pointed southwards over the moor.
‘It lies over there, about twelve miles as the crow flies over unbroken moorland. It’s sixteen miles by road.’
Emily gave a faint shiver. The idea of a desperate hunted man impressed her powerfully. Mr Rycroft was watching her and gave a little nod.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I feel the same myself. It’s curious how one’s instincts rebel at the thought of a man being hunted down, and yet, these men at Princetown are all dangerous and violent criminals, the kind of men whom probably you and I would do our utmost to put there in the first place.’
He gave a little apologetic laugh.
‘You must forgive me, Miss Trefusis, I am deeply interested in the study of crime. A fascinating study. Ornithology and criminology are my two subjects.