Towards Zero - Agatha Christie [65]
How it had hurt him then to think of Mona! He could think of her quite calmly now. She had always been rather a fool. Easily taken by anyone who flattered her or played up to her idea of herself. Very pretty. Yes, very pretty—but no mind, not the kind of woman he had once dreamed about.
But that was beauty, of course—some vague fancied picture of a woman flying through the night with white draperies streaming out behind her…Something like the figurehead of a ship—only not so solid…not nearly so solid….
And then, with dramatic suddenness, the incredible happened! Out of the night came a flying figure. One minute she was not there, the next minute she was—a white figure running—running—to the cliff’s edge. A figure, beautiful and desperate, driven to destruction by pursuing Furies! Running with a terrible desperation…He knew that desperation. He knew what it meant….
He came with a rush out of the shadows and caught her just as she was about to go over the edge!
He said fiercely: “No you don’t….”
It was just like holding a bird. She struggled—struggled silently, and then, again like a bird, was suddenly dead still.
He said urgently:
“Don’t throw yourself over! Nothing’s worth it. Nothing. Even if you are desperately unhappy—”
She made a sound. It was, perhaps, a far-off ghost of a laugh.
He said sharply:
“You’re not unhappy? What is it then?”
She answered him at once with the low softly breathed word:
“Afraid.”
“Afraid?” He was so astonished that he let her go, standing back a pace to see her better.
He realized then the truth of her words. It was fear that had lent that urgency to her footsteps. It was fear that made her small white intelligent face blank and stupid. Fear that dilated those wide-apart eyes.
He said incredulously: “What are you afraid of?”
She replied so low that he hardly heard it.
“I’m afraid of being hanged….”
Yes, she had said just that. He stared and stared. He looked from her to the cliff’s edge.
“So that’s why?”
“Yes. A quick death instead of—” She closed her eyes and shivered. She went on shivering.
MacWhirter was piecing things together logically in his mind.
He said at last:
“Lady Tressilian? The old lady who was murdered?” Then, accusingly: “You’ll be Mrs. Strange—the first Mrs. Strange.”
Still shivering she nodded her head.
MacWhirter went on in his slow careful voice, trying to remember all that he had heard. Rumour had been incorporated with fact.
“They detained your husband—that’s right, isn’t it? A lot of evidence against him—and then they found that that evidence had been faked by someone….”
He stopped and looked at her. She wasn’t shivering any longer. She was standing looking at him like a docile child. He found her attitude unendurably affecting.
His voice went on:
“I see…Yes, I see how it was…He left you for another woman, didn’t he? And you loved him…That’s why—” He broke off. He said, “I understand. My wife left me for another man….”
She flung out her arms. She began stammering wildly, hopelessly:
“It’s n-n-not—it’s n-n-not l-like that. N-not at all—”
He cut her short. His voice was stern and commanding.
“Go home. You needn’t be afraid any longer. D’you hear? I’ll see that you’re not hanged!”
XV
Mary Aldin was lying on the drawing room sofa. Her head ached and her whole body felt worn out.
The inquest had taken place the day before and, after formal evidence of identification, had been adjourned for a week.
Lady Tressilian’s funeral was to take place on the morrow. Audrey and Kay had gone into Saltington in the car to get some black clothes. Ted Latimer had gone with them. Nevile and Thomas Royde had gone for a walk, so except for the servants, Mary was alone in the house.
Superintendent Battle and Inspector Leach had been absent today, and that, too, was a relief. It seemed to Mary