The Sittaford Mystery - Agatha Christie [52]
‘It must have been most spooky,’ said Emily. ‘I wish I had been there to see.’
‘It was rather horrid really. We all pretended that it was—just fun, you know, but it didn’t seem like that. And then Major Burnaby suddenly made up his mind to go over to Exhampton and we all tried to stop him, and said he would be buried in a snowdrift, but he would go. And there we sat, after he had gone, all feeling dreadful and worried. And then, last night—no, yesterday morning, we got the news.’
‘You think it was Captain Trevelyan’s spirit?’ said Emily in an awed voice. ‘Or do you think it was clairvoyance or telepathy?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. But I shall never, never laugh at these things again.’
The parlourmaid entered with a folded piece of paper on a salver which she handed to Violet.
The parlourmaid withdrew and Violet unfolded the paper, glanced over it and handed it to Emily.
‘There you are,’ she said. ‘As a matter of fact you are just in time. This murder business has upset the servants. They think it’s dangerous to live in this out of the way part. Mother lost her temper with them yesterday evening and has sent them all packing. They are going after lunch. We are going to get two men instead—a houseparlourman and a kind of butler-chauffeur. I think it will answer much better.’
‘Servants are silly, aren’t they?’ said Emily.
‘It isn’t even as if Captain Trevelyan had been killed in this house.’
‘What made you think of coming to live here?’ asked Emily, trying to make the question sound artless and girlishly natural.
‘Oh, we thought it would be rather fun,’ said Violet.
‘Don’t you find it rather dull?’
‘Oh, no, I love the country.’
But her eyes avoided Emily’s. Just for a moment she looked suspicious and afraid.
She stirred uneasily in her chair and Emily rose rather reluctantly to her feet.
‘I must be going now,’ she said. ‘Thank you so much, Miss Willett. I do hope your mother will be all right.’
‘Oh, she’s quite well really. It’s only the servants—and all the worry.’
‘Of course.’
Adroitly, unperceived by the other, Emily managed to discard her gloves on a small table. Violet Willett accompanied her to the front door and they took leave of each other with a few pleasant remarks.
The parlourmaid who had opened the door to Emily had unlocked it, but as Violet Willett closed it behind her retreating guest Emily caught no sound of the key being turned. When she reached the gate, therefore, she retraced her steps slowly.
Her visit had more than confirmed the theories she held about Sittaford House. There was something queer going on here. She didn’t think Violet Willett was directly implicated—that is unless she was a very clever actress indeed. But there was something wrong, and that something must have a connection with the tragedy. There must be some link between the Willetts and Captain Trevelyan, and in that link there might lie the clue to the whole mystery.
She came up to the front door, turned the handle very gently and passed across the threshold. The hall was deserted. Emily paused, uncertain what to do next. She had her excuse—the gloves left thoughtfully behind in the drawing-room. She stood stock still listening. There was no sound anywhere except a very faint murmur of voices from upstairs. As quietly as possible Emily crept to the foot of the stairs and stood looking up. Then, very gingerly she ascended a step at a time. This was rather more risky. She could hardly pretend that her gloves had walked of their own accord to the first floor, but she had a burning desire to overhear something of the conversation that was going on upstairs. Modern builders never made their