The Sittaford Mystery - Agatha Christie [61]
It was half past three, and, with his head spinning from the effects of Mrs Curtis’s conversation, Mr Enderby went out for a stroll. His intention was to cultivate the acquaintance of Miss Percehouse’s nephew more closely. Prudent reconnaissance in the neighbourhood of Miss Percehouse’s cottage proved unavailing, but by a stroke of good fortune he ran into that young man just as he was emerging disconsolately from the gates of Sittaford House. He had all the appearance of having been sent away with a flea in his ear.
‘Hello,’ said Charles. ‘I say, isn’t that Captain Trevelyan’s house?’
‘That’s right,’ said Ronnie.
‘I was hoping to get a snapshot of it this morning. For my paper, you know,’ he added. ‘But this weather is hopeless for photography.’
Ronnie accepted this statement in all good faith without reflecting that if photography was only possible on days of brilliant sunshine, the pictures appearing in the daily papers would be few.
‘It must be a very interesting job—yours,’ he said.
‘A dog’s life,’ said Charles faithful to the convention of never showing enthusiasm about one’s work. He looked over his shoulder at Sittaford House. ‘Rather a gloomy place I should imagine.’
‘No end of a difference there since the Willetts moved in,’ said Ronnie. ‘I was down here last year about the same time, and really you would hardly take it for the same place, and yet, I don’t know quite what they have done. Moved the furniture about a bit, I suppose, got cushions and things of that sort about. It’s been a godsend to me their being there, I can tell you.’
‘Can’t be a very jolly spot as a rule, I suppose,’ said Charles.
‘Jolly? If I lived here a fortnight I should pass out altogether. How my aunt manages to cling on to life in the way she does beats me. You haven’t seen her cats, have you? I had to comb one of them this morning and look at the way the brute scratched me.’ He held out a hand and an arm for inspection.
‘Rather rough luck,’ said Charles.
‘I should say it was. I say, are you doing any sleuthing? If so, can I help? Be the Watson to your Sherlock, or anything of that kind?’
‘Any clues in Sittaford House?’ inquired Charles casually. ‘I mean did Captain Trevelyan leave any of his things there?’
‘I don’t think so. My aunt was saying he moved lock, stock and barrel. Took his elephant’s trotters and his hippopotamus’s toothy pegs and all the sporting rifles and what nots.’
‘Almost as though he didn’t mean to come back,’ said Charles.
‘I say—that’s an idea. You don’t think it was suicide, do you?’
‘A man who can hit himself correctly on the back of the head with a sandbag would be something of an artist in the suicide world,’ said Charles.
‘Yes, I thought there wasn’t much in that idea. Looks as if he had a premonition though,’ Ronnie’s face brightened. ‘Look here, what about this? Enemies on his track, he knows they’re coming, so he clears out and passes the buck, as it were, to the Willetts.’
‘The Willetts were a bit of a miracle by themselves,’ said Charles.
‘Yes, I can’t make it out. Fancy planting yourself down here in the country like this. Violet doesn’t seem to mind—actually says she likes it. I don’t know what’s the matter with her today. I suppose it’s the domestic trouble. I can’t think why women worry so about servants. If they cut up nasty, just push them out.’
‘That’s just what they have done, isn’t it?’ said Charles.
‘Yes, I know. But they are in a great stew about it all. Mother lying down with screaming hysterics or something and daughter snapping like a turtle. Fairly pushed me out just now.’
‘They haven’t had the police here, have they?’
Ronnie stared.