The Hollow

by Agatha Christie

  “Take this down and tell Cook to warm it up.”

  He spoke curtly.

  “Yes, sir.” Lewis, slightly impertinent, managed to convey in the two innocuous words exactly her opinion of a mistress who sat at the dining table watching a joint of meat grow cold.

  Gerda went on rather incoherently:

  “I’m so sorry, dear, it’s all my fault, but first, you see, I thought you were coming, and then I thought, well, if I did send it back….”

  John interrupted her impatiently.

  “Oh, what does it matter? It isn’t important. Not worth making a song and dance about.”

  Then he asked:

  “Is the car here?”

  “I think so. Collie ordered it.”

  “Then we can get away as soon as lunch is over.”

  Across Albert Bridge, he thought, and then over Clapham Common—the shortcut by the Crystal Palace—Croydon—Purley Way, then avoid the main road—take that right-hand fork up Metherly Hill—along Haverston Ridge—get suddenly right of the suburban belt, through Cormerton, and then up Shovel Down—trees golden red—woodland below one everywhere—the soft autumn smell, and down over the crest of the hill.

  Lucy and Henry…Henrietta….

  He hadn’t seen Henrietta for four days. When he had last seen her, he’d been angry. She’d had that look in her eyes. Not abstracted, not inattentive—he couldn’t quite describe it—that look of seeing something—something that wasn’t there—something (and that was the crux of it) something that wasn’t John Christow!

  He said to himself: “I know she’s a sculptor. I know her work’s good. But damn it all, can’t she put it aside sometimes? Can’t she sometimes think of me—and nothing else?”

  He was unfair. He knew he was unfair. Henrietta seldom talked of her work—was indeed less obsessed by it than most artists he knew. It was only on very rare occasions that her absorption with some inner vision spoiled the completeness of her interest in him. But it always roused his furious anger.

  Once he had said, his voice sharp and hard: “Would you give all this up if I asked you to?”

  “All—what?” Her warm voice held surprise.

  “All—this.” He waved a comprehensive hand round the studio.

  And immediately he thought to himself: “Fool! Why did you ask her that?” And again: “Let her say: ‘Of course.’ Let her lie to me! If she’ll only say: ‘Of course I will.’ It doesn’t matter if she means it or not! But let her say it. I must have peace.”

  Instead she had said nothing for some time. Her eyes had gone dreamy and abstracted. She had frowned a little.

  Then she had said slowly:

  “I suppose so. If it was necessary.”

  “Necessary? What do you mean by necessary?”

  “I don’t really know what I mean by it, John. Necessary, as an amputation might be necessary.”

  “Nothing short of a surgical operation, in fact!”

  “You are angry. What did you want me to say?”

  “You know well enough. One word would have done. Yes. Why couldn’t you say it? You say enough things to people to please them, without caring whether they’re true or not. Why not to me? For God’s sake, why not to me?”

  And still very slowly she had answered:

  “I don’t know…really, I don’t know, John. I can’t—that’s all. I can’t.”

  He had walked up and down for a minute or two. Then he said:

  “You will drive me mad, Henrietta. I never feel that I have any influence over you at all.”

  “Why should you want to have?”

  “I don’t know. I do.”

  He threw himself down on a chair.

  “I want to come first.”

  “You do, John.”

  “No. If I were dead, the first thing you’d do, with the tears streaming down your face, would be to start modelling some damned mourning woman or some figure of grief.”

  “I wonder. I believe—yes, perhaps I would. It’s rather horrible.”

  She had sat there looking at him with dismayed eyes.

  II

  The pudding was burnt. Christow raised his eyebrows over it and Gerda hurried into apologies.

  “I’m sorry, dear. I can’t think why that should happen. It’s my fault. Give me the top and you take the underneath.”

  The pudding was burnt because he, John Christow, had stayed sitting in his consulting room for a quarter of an hour after he need, thinking about Henrietta and Mrs. Crabtree and letting ridiculous nostalgic feelings about San Miguel sweep over him. The fault was his. It was idiotic of Gerda to try and take the blame, maddening of her to try and eat the burnt part herself. Why did she always have to make a martyr of herself? Why did Terence stare at him in that slow, interested way? Why, oh why, did Zena have to sniff so continually? Why were they all so damned irritating?

  His wrath fell on Zena.

  “Why on earth don’t you blow your nose?”

  “She’s got a little cold, I think, dear.”

  “No, she hasn’t. You’re always thinking they have colds! She’s all right.”

  Gerda sighed. She had never been able to understand why a doctor, who spent his time treating the ailments of others, could be so indifferent to the health of his own family. He always ridiculed any suggestions of illness.

  “I sneezed eight times before lunch,” said Zena importantly.

  “Heat sneeze!” said John.

  “It’s not hot,” said Terence. “The thermometer in the hall is 55.”

  John got up. “Have we finished? Good, let’s get on. Ready to start, Gerda?”

  “In a minute, John. I’ve just a few things to put in.”

  “Surely you could have done that before. What have you been doing all the morning?”

  He went out of the dining room fuming. Gerda had hurried off into her bedroom. Her anxiety to be quick would make her much slower. But why couldn’t she have been ready? His own suitcase was packed and in the hall. Why on earth—

  Zena was advancing on him, clasping some rather sticky cards.

  “Can I tell your fortune, Daddy? I know how. I’ve told Mother’s and Terry’s and Lewis’s and Jane’s and Cook’s.”

  “All right.”

  He wondered how long Gerda was going to be. He wanted to get away from this horrible house and this horrible street and this city full of ailing, sniffing, diseased people. He wanted to get to woods and wet leaves—and the graceful aloofness of Lucy Angkatell, who always gave you the impression she hadn’t even got a body.

  Zena was importantly dealing out cards.

  “That’s you in the middle, Father, the King of Hearts. The person whose fortune’s told is always the King of Hearts. And then I deal the others face down. Two on the left of you and two on the right of you and one over your head—that has power over you, and one under your feet—you have power over it. And this one—covers you!

  “Now.” Zena drew a deep breath. “We turn them over. On the right of you is the Queen of Diamonds—quite close.”

  “Henrietta,” he thought, momentarily diverted and amused by Zena’s solemnity.

  “And the next one is the knave of clubs—he’s some quiet young man.

  “On the left of you is the eight of spades—that’s a secret enemy. Have you got a secret enemy, Father?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “And beyond is the Queen of Spades—that’s a much older lady.”

  “Lady Angkatell,” he said.

  “Now this is what’s over your head and has power over you—the Queen of Hearts.”

  “Veronica,” he thought. “Veronica!” And then, “What a fool I am! Veronica doesn’t mean a thing to me now.”

  “And this is under your feet and you have power over it—the Queen of Clubs.”

  Gerda hurried into the room.

  “I’m quite ready now, John.”

  “Oh, wait, Mother, wait, I’m telling Daddy’s fortune. Just the last card, Daddy
—the most important of all. The one that covers you.”

  Zena’s small sticky fingers turned it over. She gave a gasp.

  “Oh—it’s the Ace of Spades! That’s usually a death—but—”

  “Your mother,” said John, “is going to run over someone on the way out of London. Come on, Gerda. Good-bye, you two. Try and behave.”

  Six

  I

  Midge Hardcastle came downstairs about eleven on Saturday morning. She had had breakfast in bed and had read a book and dozed a little and then got up.

  It was nice lazing this way. About time she had a holiday! No doubt about it, Madame Alfrege’s got on your nerves.

  She came out of the front door into the pleasant autumn sunshine. Sir Henry Angkatell was sitting on a rustic seat reading The Times. He looked up and smiled. He was fond of Midge.

  “Hallo, my dear.”

  “Am I very late?”

  “You haven’t missed lunch,” said Sir Henry, smiling.

  Midge sat down beside him and said with a sigh:

  “It’s nice being here.”

  “You’re looking rather peaked.”

  “Oh, I’m all right. How delightful to be somewhere where no fat women are trying to get into clothes several sizes too small for them!”

  “Must be dreadful!” Sir Henry paused and then said, glancing down at his wristwatch: “Edward’s arriving by the 12:15.”

  “Is he?” Midge paused, then said: “I haven’t seen Edward for a long time.”

  “He’s just the same,” said Sir Henry. “Hardly ever comes up from Ainswick.”

  “Ainswick,” thought Midge. “Ainswick!” Her heart gave a sick pang. Those lovely days at Ainswick. Visits looked forward to for months! “I’m going to Ainswick.” Lying awake for nights beforehand thinking about it. And at last—the day! The little country station at which the train—the big London express—had to stop if you gave notice to the guard! The Daimler waiting outside. The drive—the final turn in through the gate and up through the woods till you came out into the open and there the house was—big and white and welcoming. Old Uncle Geoffrey in his patchwork tweed coat.

  “Now then, youngsters—enjoy yourselves.” And they had enjoyed themselves. Henrietta over from Ireland. Edward, home from Eton. She herself, from the Northcountry grimness of a manufacturing town. How like heaven it had been.

  But always centring about Edward. Edward, tall and gentle and diffident and always kind. But never, of course, noticing her very much because Henrietta was there.

  Edward, always so retiring, so very much of a visitor so that she had been startled one day when Tremlet, the head gardener, had said:

  “The place will be Mr. Edward’s some day.”

  “But why, Tremlet? He’s not Uncle Geoffrey’s son.”

  “He’s the heir, Miss Midge. Entailed, that’s what they call it. Miss Lucy, she’s Mr. Geoffrey’s only child, but she can’t inherit because she’s a female, and Mr. Henry, as she married, he’s only a second cousin. Not so near as Mr. Edward.”

  And now Edward lived at Ainswick. Lived there alone and very seldom came away. Midge wondered, sometimes, if Lucy minded. Lucy always looked as though she never minded about anything.

  Yet Ainswick had been her home, and Edward was only her first cousin once removed, and over twenty years younger than she was. Her father, old Geoffrey Angkatell, had been a great “character” in the country. He had had considerable wealth as well, most of which had come to Lucy, so that Edward was a comparatively poor man, with enough to keep the place up, but not much over when that was done.

  Not that Edward had expensive tastes. He had been in the diplomatic service for a time, but when he inherited Ainswick he had resigned and come to live on his property. He was of a bookish turn of mind, collected first editions, and occasionally wrote rather hesitating ironical little articles for obscure reviews. He had asked his second cousin, Henrietta Savernake, three times to marry him.

  Midge sat in the autumn sunshine thinking of these things. She could not make up her mind whether she was glad she was going to see Edward or not. It was not as though she were what is called “getting over it.” One simply did not get over anyone like Edward. Edward of Ainswick was just as real to her as Edward rising to greet her from a restaurant table in London. She had loved Edward ever since she could remember….

  Sir Henry’s voice recalled her.

  “How do you think Lucy is looking?”

  “Very well. She’s just the same as ever.” Midge smiled a little. “More so.”

  “Ye—es.” Sir Henry drew on his pipe. He said unexpectedly:

  “Sometimes, you know, Midge, I get worried about Lucy.”

  “Worried?” Midge looked at him in surprise. “Why?”

  Sir Henry shook his head.

  “Lucy,” he said, “doesn’t realize that there are things that she can’t do.”

  Midge stared. He went on:

  “She gets away with things. She always has.” He smiled. “She’s flouted the traditions of Government House—she’s played merry hell with precedence at dinner parties (and that, Midge, is a black crime!). She’s put deadly enemies next to each other at the dinner table, and run riot over the colour question! And instead of raising one big almighty row and setting everyone at loggerheads and bringing disgrace on the British Raj—I’m damned if she hasn’t got away with it! That trick of hers—smiling at people and looking as though she couldn’t help it! Servants are the same—she gives them any amount of trouble and they adore her.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Midge thoughtfully. “Things that you wouldn’t stand from anyone else, you feel are all right if Lucy does them. What is it, I wonder? Charm? Magnetism?”

  Sir Henry shrugged his shoulders.

  “She’s always been the same from a girl—only sometimes I feel it’s growing on her. I mean that she doesn’t realize that there are limits. Why, I really believe, Midge,” he said, amused, “that Lucy would feel she could get away with murder!”

  II

  Henrietta got the Delage out from the garage in the Mews and, after a wholly technical conversation with her friend Albert, who looked after the Delage’s health, she started off.

  “Running a treat, miss,” said Albert.

  Henrietta smiled. She shot away down the Mews, savouring the unfailing pleasure she always felt when setting off in the car alone. She much preferred to be alone when driving. In that way she could realize to the full the intimate personal enjoyment that driving a car brought to her.

  She enjoyed her own skill in traffic, she enjoyed nosing out new shortcuts out of London. She had routes of her own and when driving in London itself had as intimate a knowledge of its streets as any taxi driver.

  She took now her own newly discovered way southwest, turning and twisting through intricate mazes of suburban streets.

  When she came finally to the long ridge of Shovel Down it was half past twelve. Henrietta had always loved the view from that particular place. She paused now just at the point where the road began to descend. All around and below her were trees, trees whose leaves were turning from gold to brown. It was a world incredibly golden and splendid in the strong autumn sunlight.

  Henrietta thought: “I love autumn. It’s so much richer than spring.”

  And suddenly one of those moments of intense happiness came to her—a sense of the loveliness of the world—of her own intense enjoyment of that world.

  She thought: “I shall never be as happy again as I am now—never.”

  She stayed there a minute, gazing out over that golden world that seemed to swim and dissolve into itself, hazy and blurred with its own beauty.

  Then she came down over the crest of the hill, down through the woods, down the long steep road to The Hollow.

  III

  When Henrietta drove in, Midge was sitting on the low wall of the terrace, and waved to her cheerfully. Henrietta was pleased to see Midge, whom she liked.

 
Lady Angkatell came out of the house and said:

  “Oh, there you are, Henrietta. When you’ve taken your car into the stables and given it a bran mash, lunch will be ready.”

  “What a penetrating remark of Lucy’s,” said Henrietta as she drove round the house, Midge accompanying her on the step. “You know, I always prided myself on having completely escaped the horsy taint of my Irish forebears. When you’ve been brought up amongst people who talk nothing but horse, you go all superior about not caring for them. And now Lucy has just shown me that I treat my car exactly like a horse. It’s quite true. I do.”

  “I know,” said Midge. “Lucy is quite devastating. She told me this morning that I was to be as rude as I liked whilst I was here.”

  Henrietta considered this for a moment and then nodded.

  “Of course,” she said. “The shop!”

  “Yes. When one has to spend every day of one’s life in a damnable little box being polite to rude women, calling them Madam, pulling frocks over their heads, smiling and swallowing their damned cheek whatever they like to say to one—well, one does want to cuss! You know, Henrietta, I always wonder why people think it’s so humiliating to go “into service” and that it’s grand and independent to be in a shop. One puts up with far more insolence in a shop than Gudgeon or Simmons or any decent domestic does.”

  “It must be foul, darling. I wish you weren’t so grand and proud and insistent on earning your own living.”

  “Anyway, Lucy’s an angel. I shall be gloriously rude to everyone this weekend.”

  “Who’s here?” said Henrietta as she got out of the car.

  “The Christows are coming.” Midge paused and then went on, “Edward’s just arrived.”

  “Edward? How nice. I haven’t seen Edward for ages. Anybody else?”

  “David Angkatell. That, according to Lucy, is where you are going to come in useful. You’re going to stop him biting his nails.”

  “It sounds very unlike me,” said Henrietta. “I hate interfering with people, and I wouldn’t dream of checking their personal habits. What did Lucy really say?”

  “It amounted to that! He’s got an Adam’s apple, too!”

  “I’m not expected to do anything about that, am I?” asked Henrietta, alarmed.