Three Act Tragedy - Agatha Christie [59]
Miss Wills entered the room so noiselessly that Sir Charles, who was at the moment examining a ridiculously elongated pierrot doll lying across the sofa, did not hear her. Her thin voice saying, ‘How d’you do, Sir Charles. This is really a great pleasure,’ made him spin round.
Miss Wills was dressed in a limp jumper suit which hung disconsolately on her angular form. Her stockings were slightly wrinkled, and she had on very high-heeled patent leather slippers.
Sir Charles shook hands, accepted a cigarette, and sat down on the sofa by the pierrot doll. Miss Wills sat opposite him. The light from the window caught her pince-nez and made them give off little flashes.
‘Fancy you finding me out here,’ said Miss Wills. ‘My mother will be ever so excited. She just adores the theatre—especially anything romantic. That play where you were a Prince at a University—she’s often talked of it. She goes to matinées, you know, and eats chocolates—she’s one of that kind. And she does love it.’
‘How delightful,’ said Sir Charles. ‘You don’t know how charming it is to be remembered. The public memory is short!’ He sighed.
‘She’ll be thrilled at meeting you,’ said Miss Wills. ‘Miss Sutcliffe came the other day, and Mother was thrilled at meeting her.’
‘Angela was here?’
‘Yes. She’s putting on a play of mine, you know: Little Dog Laughed.’
‘Of course,’ said Sir Charles. ‘I’ve read about it. Rather intriguing title.’
‘I’m so glad you think so. Miss Sutcliffe likes it, too. It’s a kind of modern version of the nursery rhyme—a lot of froth and nonsense—Hey diddle diddle and the dish and the spoon scandal. Of course, it all revolves round Miss Sutcliffe’s part—everyone dances to her fiddling—that’s the idea.’
Sir Charles said:
‘Not bad. The world nowadays is rather like a mad nursery rhyme. And the little dog laughed to see such sport, eh?’ And he thought suddenly: ‘Of course this woman’s the Little Dog. She looks on and laughs.’
The light shifted from Miss Will’s pince-nez, and he saw her pale-blue eyes regarding him intelligently through them.
‘This woman,’ thought Sir Charles, ‘has a fiendish sense of humour.’
Aloud he said:
‘I wonder if you can guess what errand has brought me here?’
‘Well,’ said Miss Wills archly, ‘I don’t suppose it was only to see poor little me.’
Sir Charles registered for a moment the difference between the spoken and the written word. On paper Miss Wills was witty and cynical, in speech she was arch.
‘It was really Satterthwaite put the idea into my head,’ said Sir Charles. ‘He fancies himself as being a good judge of character.’
‘He’s very clever about people,’ said Miss Wills. ‘It’s rather his hobby, I should say.’
‘And he is strongly of opinion that if there were anything worth noticing that night at Melfort Abbey you would have noticed it.’
‘Is that what he said?’
‘Yes.’
‘I was very interested, I must admit,’ said Miss Wills slowly. ‘You see, I’d never seen a murder at close hand before. A writer’s got to take everything as copy, hasn’t she?’
‘I believe that’s a well-known axiom.’
‘So naturally,’ said Miss Wills, ‘I tried to notice everything I could.’
This was obviously Miss Will’s version of Beatrice’s ‘poking and prying.’
‘About the guests?’
‘About the guests.’
‘And what exactly did you notice?’
The pince-nez shifted.
‘I didn’t really find out anything—if I had I’d have told the police, of course,’ she added virtuously.
‘But you noticed things.’
‘I always do notice things. I can’t help it. I’m funny that way.’ She giggled.
‘And you noticed—what?’
‘Oh, nothing—that is—nothing that you’d call anything, Sir Charles. Just little odds and ends about people’s characters. I find people so very interesting. So typical, if you know what I mean.’
‘Typical of what?’
‘Of themselves. Oh, I can’t explain. I’m ever so silly at saying things.’
She giggled again.
‘Your pen is deadlier than your tongue,’ said Sir Charles, smiling.
‘I don’t think it’s very nice of you to say deadlier,