The Sittaford Mystery - Agatha Christie [66]
The night was even colder and more unpleasant than he had thought. Did Emily realize all he was about to suffer on her behalf? He hoped so.
His hand went tenderly to a pocket and caressed a hidden flask concealed in a near pocket.
‘The boy’s best friend,’ he murmured. ‘It would be a night like this of course.’
With suitable precautions he introduced himself into the grounds of Sittaford House. The Willetts kept no dog, so there was no fear of alarm from that quarter. A light in the gardener’s cottage showed that it was inhabited. Sittaford House itself was in darkness save for one lighted window on the first floor.
‘Those two women are alone in the house,’ thought Charles. ‘I shouldn’t care for that myself. A bit creepy!’
He supposed Emily had really overheard that sentence, ‘Will tonight never come? ’What did it really mean?
‘I wonder,’ he thought to himself, ‘if they mean to do a flit? Well, whatever happens, little Charles is going to be here to see it.’
He circled the house at a discreet distance. Owing to the foggy nature of the night he had no fears of being observed. Everything as far as he could see appeared to be as usual. A cautious visiting of the outbuildings showed them to be locked.
‘I hope something does happen,’ said Charles as the hours passed. He took a prudent sip from his flask. ‘I’ve never known anything like this cold. “What did you do in the Great War, Daddy?” can’t have been any worse than this.’
He glanced at his watch and was surprised to find that it was still only twenty minutes to twelve. He had been convinced that it must be nearly dawn.
An unexpected sound made him prick up his ears excitedly. It was the sound of a bolt being very gently drawn back in its socket, and it came from the direction of the house. Charles made a noiseless sprint from bush to bush. Yes, he had been quite right, the small side door was slowly opening. A dark figure stood on the threshold. It was peering anxiously out into the night.
‘Mrs or Miss Willett,’ said Charles to himself. ‘The fair Violet, I think.’
After waiting a minute or two, the figure stepped out on the path and closed the door noiselessly behind her and started to walk away from the house in the opposite direction to the front drive. The path in question led up behind Sittaford House, passing through a small plantation of trees and so out on to the open moor.
The path wound quite near the bushes where Charles was concealed, so near that Charles was able to recognize the woman as she passed. He had been quite right, it was Violet Willett. She was wearing a long dark coat and had a beret on her head.
She went on up, and as quietly as possible Charles followed her. He had no fears of being seen, but he was alive to the danger of being overheard. He was particularly anxious not to alarm the girl. Owing to his care in this respect she outdistanced him. For a moment or two he was afraid lest he should lose her, but as he in his turn wound his way anxiously through the plantation of trees he saw her standing a little way ahead of him. Here the low wall which surrounded the estate was broken by a gate. Violet Willett was standing by this gate, leaning over it peering out into the night.
Charles crept up as near as he dared and waited. The time passed. The girl had a small pocket torch with her and once she switched it on for a moment or two, directing it, Charles thought, to see the time by the wrist watch she was wearing, then she leant over the gate again in the same attitude of expectant interest. Suddenly, Charles heard a low whistle twice repeated.
He saw the girl start to sudden attention. She leant farther over the gate and from her lips came the same signal—a low whistle twice repeated.
Then with startling suddenness a man’s figure loomed out of the night. A low exclamation came from the girl. She moved back a pace or two, the gate swung inward and the man joined her. She spoke to him in a low hurried voice. Unable to catch what they said, Charles moved forward somewhat imprudently.