The Sittaford Mystery - Agatha Christie [45]
‘What do you think about this table-turning business, Mr Rycroft?’
‘Now, that is very strange. Most strange. I confess, Miss Trefusis, that I am powerfully impressed by it. Iam, as perhaps you may have heard, a believer in psychic things. To a certain degree I am a believer in spiritualism. I have already written out a full account and sent it up to the Society of Psychical Research. A well-authenticated and amazing case. Five people present, none of whom could have the least idea or suspicion that Captain Trevelyan was murdered.’
‘You don’t think—’
Emily stopped. It was not so easy to suggest her own idea to Mr Rycroft that one of the five people might have guilty foreknowledge, as he himself had been one of them. Not that she suspected for a moment that there was anything whatever to connect Mr Rycroft with the tragedy. Still she felt that the suggestion might not be wholly tactful. She pursued her object in a more roundabout manner.
‘It all interested me very much, Mr Rycroft; it is, as you say, an amazing occurrence. You don’t think that any of the people present, with the exception of yourself of course, were in any way psychic?’
‘My dear young lady, I myself am not psychic. I have no powers in that direction. I am only a very deeply interested observer.’
‘What about this Mr Garfield?’
‘A nice lad,’ said Mr Rycroft, ‘but not remarkable in any way.’
‘Well off, I suppose,’ said Emily.
‘Stony broke, I believe,’ said Mr Rycroft. ‘I hope I am using that idiom correctly. He comes down here to dance attendance on an aunt, from whom he has what I call “expectations”. Miss Percehouse is a very sharp lady and I think she knows what these attentions are worth. But as she has a sardonic form of humour of her own she keeps him dancing.’
‘I should like to meet her,’ said Emily.
‘Yes, you must certainly meet her. She will no doubt insist on meeting you. Curiosity—alas, my dear Miss Trefusis—curiosity.’
‘Tell me about the Willetts,’ said Emily.
‘Charming,’ said Mr Rycroft, ‘quite charming. Colonial, of course. No real poise, if you understand me. A little too lavish in their hospitality. Everything a shade on the ornate side. Miss Violet is a charming girl.’
‘A funny place to come for the winter,’ said Emily.
‘Yes, very odd, is it not? But after all it is only logical. We ourselves living in this country long for the sunshine, hot climates, waving palm trees. People who live in Australia or South Africa are enchanted with the idea of an old-fashioned Christmas with snow and ice.’
‘I wonder which of them,’ said Emily to herself, ‘told him that.’
She reflected that it was not necessary to bury yourself in a moorland village in order to obtain an old-fashioned Christmas with snow and ice. Clearly, Mr Rycroft did not see anything suspicious in the Willetts’ choice of a winter resort. But that, she reflected, was perhaps natural in one who was an ornithologist and a criminologist. Sittaford clearly appeared an ideal residence to Mr Rycroft, and he could not conceive of it as an unsuitable environment to someone else.
They had been slowly descending the slope of the hillside and were now wending their way down the lane.
‘Who lives in that cottage?’ asked Emily abruptly.
‘Captain Wyatt—he is an invalid. Rather unsociable I fear.’
‘Was he a friend of Captain Trevelyan’s?’
‘Not an intimate friend in any way. Trevelyan merely made a formal visit to him every now and then. As amatter of fact Wyatt doesn’t encourage visitors. A surly man.’
Emily was silent. She was reviewing the possibility of how she herself might become a visitor. She had no intention of allowing any angle of attack to remain unexplored.
She suddenly remembered