Midwinter Murder

by Agatha Christie

  He turned his head as Sergeant Kane came into the room.

  ‘Come here, Kane. Look at this.’

  Kane stood behind him and let out a low whistle as he read out, ‘“Three Blind Mice!” Well, I’m dashed!’

  ‘Yes.’ Parminter opened a drawer and took out a half sheet of notepaper which he laid beside the notebook on his desk. It had been found pinned carefully to the murdered woman.

  On it was written, This is the first. Below was a childish drawing of three mice and a bar of music.

  Kane whistled the tune softly. Three Blind Mice, See how they run—

  ‘That’s it, all right. That’s the signature tune.’

  ‘Crazy, isn’t it, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’ Parminter frowned. ‘The identification of the woman is quite certain?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Here’s the report from the fingerprints department. Mrs Lyon, as she called herself, was really Maureen Gregg. She was released from Holloway two months ago on completion of her sentence.’

  Parminter said thoughtfully, ‘She went to Seventy-Four Culver Street calling herself Maureen Lyon. She occasionally drank a bit and she had been known to bring a man home with her once or twice. She displayed no fear of anything or anyone. There’s no reason to believe she thought herself in any danger. This man rings the bell, asks for her, and is told by the landlady to go up to the second floor. She can’t describe him, says only that he was of medium height and seemed to have a bad cold and lost his voice. She went back again to the basement and heard nothing of a suspicious nature. She did not hear the man go out. Ten minutes or so later she took tea to her lodger and discovered her strangled.

  ‘This wasn’t a casual murder, Kane. It was carefully planned.’ He paused and then added abruptly, ‘I wonder how many houses there are in England called Monkswell Manor?’

  ‘There might be only one, sir.’

  ‘That would probably be too much luck. But get on with it. There’s no time to lose.’

  The sergeant’s eye rested appreciatively on two entries in the notebook—74 Culver Street; Monkswell Manor.

  He said, ‘So you think—’

  Parminter said swiftly, ‘Yes. Don’t you?’

  ‘Could be. Monkswell Manor—now where—Do you know, sir, I could swear I’ve seen that name quite lately.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to remember. Wait a minute—Newspaper—Times. Back page. Wait a minute—Hotels and boardinghouses—Half a sec, sir—it’s an old one. I was doing the crossword.’

  He hurried out of the room and returned in triumph, ‘Here you are, sir, look.’

  The inspector followed the pointing finger.

  ‘Monkswell Manor, Harpleden, Berks.’ He drew the telephone towards him. ‘Get me the Berkshire County police.’

  With the arrival of Major Metcalf, Monkswell Manor settled into its routine as a going concern. Major Metcalf was neither formidable like Mrs Boyle, nor erratic like Christopher Wren. He was a stolid, middle-aged man of spruce military appearance, who had done most of his service in India. He appeared satisfied with his room and its furniture, and while he and Mrs Boyle did not actually find mutual friends, he had known cousins of friends of hers—‘the Yorkshire branch,’ out in Poonah. His luggage, however, two heavy pigskin cases, satisfied even Giles’s suspicious nature.

  Truth to tell, Molly and Giles did not have much time for speculating about their guests. Between them, dinner was cooked, served, eaten, and washed up satisfactorily. Major Metcalf praised the coffee, and Giles and Molly retired to bed, tired but triumphant—to be roused about two in the morning by the persistent ringing of a bell.

  ‘Damn,’ said Giles. ‘It’s the front door. What on earth—’

  ‘Hurry up,’ said Molly. ‘Go and see.’

  Casting a reproachful glance at her, Giles wrapped his dressing gown round him and descended the stairs. Molly heard the bolts being drawn back and a murmur of voices in the hall. Presently, driven by curiosity, she crept out of bed and went to peep from the top of the stairs. In the hall below, Giles was assisting a bearded stranger out of a snow-covered overcoat. Fragments of conversation floated up to her.

  ‘Brrr.’ It was an explosive foreign sound. ‘My fingers are so cold I cannot feel them. And my feet—’ A stamping sound was heard.

  ‘Come in here.’ Giles threw open the library door. ‘It’s warm. You’d better wait here while I get a room ready.’

  ‘I am indeed fortunate,’ said the stranger politely.

  Molly peered inquisitively through the banisters. She saw an elderly man with a small black beard and Mephistophelean eyebrows. A man who moved with a young and jaunty step in spite of the gray at his temples.

  Giles shut the library door on him and came quickly up the stairs. Molly rose from her crouching position.

  ‘Who is it?’ she demanded.

  Giles grinned. ‘Another guest for the guesthouse. Car overturned in a snowdrift. He got himself out and was making his way as best he could—it’s a howling blizzard still, listen to it—along the road when he saw our board. He said it was like an answer to prayer.’

  ‘You think he’s—all right?’

  ‘Darling, this isn’t the sort of night for a housebreaker to be doing his rounds.’

  ‘He’s a foreigner, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. His name’s Paravicini. I saw his wallet—I rather think he showed it on purpose—simply crammed with notes. Which room shall we give him?’

  ‘The green room. It’s all tidy and ready. We’ll just have to make up the bed.’

  ‘I suppose I’ll have to lend him pajamas. All his things are in the car. He said he had to climb out through the window.’

  Molly fetched sheets, pillowcases, and towels.

  As they hurriedly made the bed up, Giles said, ‘It’s coming down thick. We’re going to be snowed up, Molly, completely cut off. Rather exciting in a way, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Molly doubtfully. ‘Do you think I can make soda bread, Giles?’

  ‘Of course you can. You can make anything,’ said her loyal husband.

  ‘I’ve never tried to make bread. It’s the sort of thing one takes for granted. It may be new or it may be stale but it’s just something the baker brings. But if we’re snowed up there won’t be a baker.’

  ‘Nor a butcher, nor a postman. No newspapers. And probably no telephone.’

  ‘Just the wireless telling us what to do?’

  ‘At any rate we make our own electric light.’

  ‘You must run the engine again tomorrow. And we must keep the central heating well stoked.’

  ‘I suppose our next lot of coke won’t come in now. We’re very low.’

  ‘Oh, bother. Giles, I feel we are in for a simply frightful time. Hurry up and get Para—whatever his name is. I’ll go back to bed.’

  Morning brought confirmation of Giles’s forebodings. Snow was piled five feet high, drifting up against the doors and windows. Outside it was still snowing. The world was white, silent, and—in some subtle way—menacing.

  Mrs Boyle sat at breakfast. There was no one else in the dining room. At the adjoining table, Major Metcalf’s place had been cleared away. Mr Wren’s table was still laid for breakfast. One early riser, presumably, and one late one. Mrs Boyle herself knew definitely that there was only one proper time for breakfast, nine o’clock.

  Mrs Boyle had finished her excellent omelette and was champing toast between her strong white teeth. She was in a grudging and undecided mood. Monkswell Manor was not at all what she had imagined it would be. She had hoped for bridge, for faded spinsters whom she could impress with her social position and connections, and to whom she could hint at the importance and secrecy of her war service.

  The end of the war had left Mrs Boyle marooned, as it were, on a desert shore. She had always been a busy woman, talking fluently of efficiency and organization. Her vigor and drive had prevented people asking whether she was, indeed, a go
od or efficient organizer. War activities had suited her down to the ground. She had bossed people and bullied people and worried heads of departments and, to give her her due, had at no time spared herself. Subservient women had run to and fro, terrified of her slightest frown. And now all that exciting hustling life was over. She was back in private life, and her former private life had vanished. Her house, which had been requisitioned by the army, needed thorough repairing and redecorating before she could return to it, and the difficulties of domestic help made a return to it impracticable in any case. Her friends were largely scattered and dispersed. Presently, no doubt, she would find her niche, but at the moment it was a case of marking time. A hotel or a boardinghouse seemed the answer. And she had chosen to come to Monkswell Manor.

  She looked round her disparagingly.

  Most dishonest, she said to herself, not to have told me they were only just starting.

  She pushed her plate farther away from her. The fact that her breakfast had been excellently cooked and served, with good coffee and homemade marmalade, in a curious way annoyed her still more. It had deprived her of a legitimate cause of complaint. Her bed, too, had been comfortable, with embroidered sheets and a soft pillow. Mrs Boyle liked comfort, but she also liked to find fault. The latter was, perhaps, the stronger passion of the two.

  Rising majestically, Mrs Boyle left the dining room, passing in the doorway that very extraordinary young man with the red hair. He was wearing this morning a checked tie of virulent green—a woolen tie.

  Preposterous, said Mrs Boyle to herself. Quite preposterous.

  The way he looked at her, too, sideways out of those pale eyes of his—she didn’t like it. There was something upsetting—unusual—about that faintly mocking glance.

  Unbalanced mentally, I shouldn’t wonder, said Mrs Boyle to herself.

  She acknowledged his flamboyant bow with a slight inclination of her head and marched into the big drawing room. Comfortable chairs here, particularly the large rose-colored one. She had better make it clear that that was to be her chair. She deposited her knitting on it as a precaution and walked over and laid a hand on the radiators. As she had suspected, they were only warm, not hot. Mrs Boyle’s eye gleamed militantly. She could have something to say about that.

  She glanced out of the window. Dreadful weather—quite dreadful. Well, she wouldn’t stay here long—not unless more people came and made the place amusing.

  Some snow slid off the roof with a soft whooshing sound. Mrs Boyle jumped. ‘No,’ she said out loud. ‘I shan’t stay here long.’

  Somebody laughed—a faint, high chuckle. She turned her head sharply. Young Wren was standing in the doorway looking at her with that curious expression of his.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose you will.’

  Major Metcalf was helping Giles to shovel away snow from the back door. He was a good worker, and Giles was quite vociferous in his expressions of gratitude.

  ‘Good exercise,’ said Major Metcalf. ‘Must get exercise every day. Got to keep fit, you know.’

  So the major was an exercise fiend. Giles had feared as much. It went with his demand for breakfast at half past seven.

  As though reading Giles’s thoughts, the major said, ‘Very good of your missus to cook me an early breakfast. Nice to get a new-laid egg, too.’

  Giles had risen himself before seven, owing to the exigencies of hotelkeeping. He and Molly had had boiled eggs and tea and had set to on the sitting rooms. Everything was spick-and-span. Giles could not help thinking that if he had been a guest in his own establishment, nothing would have dragged him out of bed on a morning such as this until the last possible moment.

  The major, however, had been up and breakfasted, and roamed about the house, apparently full of energy seeking an outlet.

  Well, thought Giles, there’s plenty of snow to shovel.

  He threw a sideways glance at his companion. Not an easy man to place, really. Hard-bitten, well over middle age, something queerly watchful about the eyes. A man who was giving nothing away. Giles wondered why he had come to Monkswell Manor. Demobilized, probably, and no job to go to.

  Mr Paravicini came down late. He had coffee and a piece of toast—a frugal Continental breakfast.

  He somewhat disconcerted Molly when she brought it to him by rising to his feet, bowing in an exaggerated manner, and exclaiming, ‘My charming hostess? I am right, am I not?’

  Molly admitted rather shortly that he was right. She was in no mood for compliments at this hour.

  ‘And why,’ she said, as she piled crockery recklessly in the sink, ‘everybody has to have their breakfast at a different time—It’s a bit hard.’

  She slung the plates into the rack and hurried upstairs to deal with the beds. She could expect no assistance from Giles this morning. He had to clear a way to the boiler house and to the hen-house.

  Molly did the beds at top speed and admittedly in the most slovenly manner, smoothing sheets and pulling them up as fast as she could.

  She was at work on the baths when the telephone rang.

  Molly first cursed at being interrupted, then felt a slight feeling of relief that the telephone at least was still in action, as she ran down to answer it.

  She arrived in the library a little breathless and lifted the receiver.

  ‘Yes?’

  A hearty voice with a slight but pleasant country burr asked, ‘Is that Monkswell Manor?’

  ‘Monkswell Manor Guest House.’

  ‘Can I speak to Commander David, please?’

  ‘I’m afraid he can’t come to the telephone just now,’ said Molly. ‘This is Mrs Davis. Who is speaking, please?’

  ‘Superintendent Hogben, Berkshire Police.’

  Molly gave a slight gasp. She said, ‘Oh, yes—er—yes?’

  ‘Mrs Davis, rather an urgent matter has arisen. I don’t wish to say very much over the telephone, but I have sent Detective Sergeant Trotter out to you, and he should be there any minute now.’

  ‘But he won’t get here. We’re snowed up—completely snowed up. The roads are impassable.’

  There was no break in the confidence of the voice at the other end.

  ‘Trotter will get to you, all right,’ it said. ‘And please impress upon your husband, Mrs Davis, to listen very carefully to what Trotter has to tell you, and to follow his instructions implicitly. That’s all.’

  ‘But, Superintendent Hogben, what—’

  But there was a decisive click. Hogben had clearly said all he had to say and rung off. Molly waggled the telephone rest once or twice, then gave up. She turned as the door opened.

  ‘Oh, Giles darling, there you are.’

  Giles had snow on his hair and a good deal of coal grime on his face. He looked hot.

  ‘What is it, sweetheart? I’ve filled the coal scuttles and brought in the wood. I’ll do the hens next and then have a look at the boiler. Is that right? What’s the matter, Molly? You looked scared.’

  ‘Giles, it was the police.’

  ‘The police?’ Giles sounded incredulous.

  ‘Yes, they’re sending out an inspector or a sergeant or something.’

  ‘But why? What have we done?’

  ‘I don’t know. Do you think it could be that two pounds of butter we had from Ireland?’

  Giles was frowning. ‘I did remember to get the wireless license, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, it’s in the desk. Giles, old Mrs Bidlock gave me five of her coupons for that old tweed coat of mine. I suppose that’s wrong—but I think it’s perfectly fair. I’m a coat less so why shouldn’t I have the coupons? Oh, dear, what else is there we’ve done?’

  ‘I had a near shave with the car the other day. But it was definitely the other fellow’s fault. Definitely.’

  ‘We must have done something,’ wailed Molly.

  ‘The trouble is that practically everything one does nowadays is illegal,’ said Giles gloomily. ‘That’s why one has a permanent feeling of guilt. Actuall
y I expect it’s something to do with running this place. Running a guesthouse is probably chockfull of snags we’ve never heard of.’

  ‘I thought drink was the only thing that mattered. We haven’t given anyone anything to drink. Otherwise, why shouldn’t we run our own house any way we please?’

  ‘I know. It sounds all right. But as I say, everything’s more or less forbidden nowadays.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ sighed Molly. ‘I wish we’d never started. We’re going to be snowed up for days, and everybody will be cross and they’ll eat all our reserves of tins—’

  ‘Cheer up, sweetheart,’ said Giles. ‘We’re having a bad break at the moment, but it will pan out all right.’

  He kissed the top of her head rather absentmindedly and, releasing her, said in a different voice, ‘You know, Molly, come to think of it, it must be something pretty serious to send a police sergeant trekking out here in all this.’ He waved a hand towards the snow outside. He said, ‘It must be something really urgent—’

  As they stared at each other, the door opened, and Mrs Boyle came in.

  ‘Ah, here you are, Mr Davis,’ said Mrs Boyle. ‘Do you know the central heating in the drawing room is practically stone-cold?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Boyle. We’re rather short of coke and—’

  Mrs Boyle cut in ruthlessly. ‘I am paying seven guineas a week here—seven guineas. And I do not expect to freeze.’

  Giles flushed. He said shortly, ‘I’ll go and stoke it up.’

  He went out of the room, and Mrs Boyle turned to Molly.

  ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, Mrs Davis, that is a very extraordinary young man you have staying here. His manners—and his ties—And does he never brush his hair?’

  ‘He’s an extremely brilliant young architect,’ said Molly.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Christopher Wren is an architect and—’

  ‘My dear young woman,’ snapped Mrs Boyle, ‘I have naturally heard of Sir Christopher Wren. Of course he was an architect. He built St. Paul’s. You young people seem to think that education came in with the Education Act.’

  ‘I meant this Wren. His name is Christopher. His parents called him that because they hoped he’d be an architect. And he is—or nearly—one, so it turned out all right.’