The Sittaford Mystery - Agatha Christie [83]
‘Very true,’ said Mr Rycroft turning his head and examining a bird which flew past and in which he thought he recognized a rare species.
‘How annoying,’ he murmured. ‘I haven’t got my glasses with me.’
‘Eh! I say, talking of Trevelyan, do you think Mrs Willett can have known the old boy better than she says?’
‘Why do you ask that?’
‘Because of the change in her. Have you ever seen anything like it? She’s aged about twenty years in the last week. You must have noticed it.’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Rycroft. ‘I have noticed it.’
‘Well, there you are. Trevelyan’s death must have been the most frightful shock to her in some way or other. Queer if she turned out to be the old man’s long lost wife whom he deserted in his youth and didn’t recognize.’
‘I hardly think that likely, Mr Garfield.’
‘Bit too much of a movie stunt, eh? All the same very odd things happen. I’ve read some really amazing things in the Daily Wire—things you wouldn’t credit if a newspaper didn’t print them.’
‘Are they any more to be credited on that account?’ inquired Mr Rycroft acidly.
‘You have got a down on young Enderby, haven’t you?’ said Ronnie.
‘I dislike ill-bred nosing into affairs that do not concern you,’ said Mr Rycroft.
‘Yes, but then they do concern him,’ Ronnie persisted. ‘I mean nosing about is the poor chap’s job. He seems to have tamed old Burnaby all right. Funny, the old boy can hardly bear the sight of me. I’m like a red rag to a bull to him.’
Mr Rycroft did not reply.
‘By Jove,’ said Ronnie again glancing up at the sky. ‘Do you realize it’s Friday? Just a week ago today at about this time we were trudging up to the Willetts’ just as we are now. But a bit of a change in the weather.’
‘A week ago,’ said Mr Rycroft. ‘It seems infinitely longer.’
‘More like a bally year, doesn’t it? Hullo, Abdul.’
They were passing Captain Wyatt’s gate over which the melancholy Indian was leaning.
‘Good afternoon, Abdul,’ said Mr Rycroft. ‘How’s your master?’
The Indian shook his head.
‘Master bad today, Sahib. Not see anyone. Not see anyone for long time.’
‘You know,’ said Ronnie as they passed on, ‘that chap could murder Wyatt quite easily and no one would know. He could go on for weeks shaking his head and saying the master wouldn’t see anyone and no one would think it the least odd.’
Mr Rycroft admitted the truth of the statement.
‘But there would still be the problem of the disposal of the body,’ he pointed out.
‘Yes, that’s always the snag, isn’t it? Inconvenient thing, a human body.’
They passed Major Burnaby’s cottage. The Major was in his garden looking sternly at a weed which was growing where no weed should be.
‘Good afternoon, Major,’ said Mr Rycroft. ‘Are you also coming to Sittaford House?’
Burnaby rubbed his nose.
‘Don’t think so. They sent a note asking me. But—well—I don’t feel like it. Expect you’ll understand.’
Mr Rycroft bowed his head in token of understanding.
‘All the same,’ he said. ‘I wish you’d come. I’ve got a reason.’
‘A reason. What sort of reason?’
Mr Rycroft hesitated. It was clear that the presence of Ronnie Garfield constrained him. But Ronnie, completely oblivious of the fact, stood his ground listening with ingenuous interest.
‘I’d like to try an experiment,’ he said at last slowly.
‘What sort of experiment?’ demanded Burnaby. Mr Rycroft hesitated.
‘I’d rather not tell you beforehand. But if you come I’ll ask you to back me up in anything I suggest.’
Burnaby’s curiosity was aroused.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll come. You can count on me. Where’s my hat?’
He rejoined them in a minute, hat on head, and all three turned in at the gates of Sittaford House.
‘Hear you are expecting company, Rycroft,’ said Burnaby conversationally.
A shade of vexation passed over the older man’s face.
‘Who told