Midwinter Murder

by Agatha Christie

  ‘Humph,’ Mrs Boyle snorted. ‘It sounds a very fishy story to me. I should make some inquiries about him if I were you. What do you know about him?’

  ‘Just as much as I know about you, Mrs Boyle—which is that both you and he are paying us seven guineas a week. That’s really all that I need to know, isn’t it? And all that concerns me. It doesn’t matter to me whether I like my guests, or whether—’ Molly looked very steadily at Mrs Boyle—‘or whether I don’t.’

  Mrs Boyle flushed angrily. ‘You are young and inexperienced and should welcome advice from someone more knowledgeable than yourself. And what about this queer foreigner? When did he arrive?’

  ‘In the middle of the night.’

  ‘Indeed. Most peculiar. Not a very conventional hour.’

  ‘To turn away bona fide travelers would be against the law, Mrs Boyle.’ Molly added sweetly. ‘You may not be aware of that.’

  ‘All I can say is that this Paravicini, or whatever he calls himself, seems to me—’

  ‘Beware, beware, dear lady. You talk of the devil and then—’

  Mrs Boyle jumped as though it had been indeed the devil who addressed her. Mr Paravicini, who had crept quietly in without either of the two women noticing him, laughed and rubbed his hands together with a kind of elderly satanic glee.

  ‘You startled me,’ said Mrs Boyle. ‘I did not hear you come in.’

  ‘I come in on tiptoe, so,’ said Mr Paravicini, ‘nobody ever hears me come and go. That I find very amusing. Sometimes I over-hear things. That, too, amuses me.’ He added softly, ‘But I do not forget what I hear.’

  Mrs Boyle said rather feebly, ‘Indeed? I must get my knitting—I left it in the drawing room.’

  She went out hurriedly. Molly stood looking at Mr Paravicini with a puzzled expression. He approached her with a kind of hop and skip.

  ‘My charming hostess looks upset.’ Before she could prevent it, he picked up her hand and kissed it. ‘What is it, dear lady?’

  Molly drew back a step. She was not sure that she liked Mr Paravicini much. He was leering at her like an elderly satyr.

  ‘Everything is rather difficult this morning,’ she said lightly. ‘Because of the snow.’

  ‘Yes.’ Mr Paravicini turned his head round to look out of the window. ‘Snow makes everything very difficult, does it not? Or else it makes things very easy.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘No,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘There is quite a lot that you do not know. I think, for one thing, that you do not know very much about running a guesthouse.’

  Molly’s chin went up belligerently. ‘I daresay we don’t. But we mean to make a go of it.’

  ‘Bravo, bravo.’

  ‘After all,’ Molly’s voice betrayed slight anxiety, ‘I’m not such a very bad cook—’

  ‘You are, without doubt, an enchanting cook,’ said Mr Paravicini.

  What a nuisance foreigners were, thought Molly.

  Perhaps Mr Paravicini read her thoughts. At all events his manner changed. He spoke quietly and quite seriously.

  ‘May I give you a little word of warning, Mrs Davis? You and your husband must not be too trusting, you know. Have you references with these guests of yours?’

  ‘Is that usual?’ Molly looked troubled. ‘I thought people just—just came.’

  ‘It is advisable always to know a little about the people who sleep under your roof.’ He leaned forward and tapped her on the shoulder in a minatory kind of way. ‘Take myself, for example. I turn up in the middle of the night. My car, I say, is overturned in a snowdrift. What do you know of me? Nothing at all. Perhaps you know nothing, either, of your other guests.’

  ‘Mrs Boyle—’ began Molly, but stopped as that lady herself re-entered the room, knitting in hand.

  ‘The drawing room is too cold. I shall sit in here.’ She marched towards the fireplace.

  Mr Paravicini pirouetted swiftly ahead of her. ‘Allow me to poke the fire for you.’

  Molly was struck, as she had been the night before, by the youthful jauntiness of his step. She noticed that he always seemed careful to keep his back to the light, and now, as he knelt, poking the fire, she thought she saw the reason for it. Mr Paravicini’s face was cleverly but decidedly ‘made up.’

  So the old idiot tried to make himself look younger than he was, did he? Well, he didn’t succeed. He looked all his age and more. Only the youthful walk was incongruous. Perhaps that, too, had been carefully counterfeited.

  She was brought back from speculation to the disagreeable realities by the brisk entrance of Major Metcalf.

  ‘Mrs Davis. I’m afraid the pipes of the—er—’ he lowered his voice modestly, ‘downstairs cloakroom are frozen.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ groaned Molly. ‘What an awful day. First the police and then the pipes.’

  Mr Paravicini dropped the poker into the grate with a clatter. Mrs Boyle stopped knitting. Molly, looking at Major Metcalf, was puzzled by his sudden stiff immobility and by the indescribable expression on his face. It was an expression she could not place. It was as though all emotion had been drained out of it, leaving something carved out of wood behind.

  He said in a short, staccato voice, ‘Police, did you say?’

  She was conscious that behind the stiff immobility of his demeanor, some violent emotion was at work. It might have been fear or alertness or excitement—but there was something. This man, she said to herself, could be dangerous.

  He said again, and this time his voice was just mildly curious, ‘What’s that about the police?’

  ‘They rang up,’ said Molly. ‘Just now. To say they’re sending a sergeant out here.’ She looked towards the window. ‘But I shouldn’t think he’ll ever get here,’ she said hopefully.

  ‘Why are they sending the police here?’ He took a step nearer to her, but before she could reply the door opened, and Giles came in.

  ‘This ruddy coke’s more than half stones,’ he said angrily. Then he added sharply, ‘Is anything the matter?’

  Major Metcalf turned to him. ‘I hear the police are coming out here,’ he said. ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right,’ said Giles. ‘No one can ever get through in this. Why, the drifts are five feet deep. The road’s all banked up. Nobody will get here today.’

  And at that moment there came distinctly three loud taps on the window.

  It startled them all. For a moment or two they did not locate the sound. It came with the emphasis and menace of a ghostly warning. And then, with a cry, Molly pointed to the French window. A man was standing there tapping on the pane, and the mystery of his arrival was explained by the fact that he wore skis.

  With an exclamation, Giles crossed the room, fumbled with the catch, and threw open the French window.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said the new arrival. He had a slightly common, cheerful voice and a well-bronzed face.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Trotter,’ he announced himself.

  Mrs Boyle peered at him over her knitting with disfavour.

  ‘You can’t be a sergeant,’ she said disapprovingly.

  ‘You’re too young.’

  The young man, who was indeed very young, looked affronted at this criticism and said in a slightly annoyed tone, ‘I’m not quite as young as I look, madam.’

  His eye roved over the group and picked out Giles.

  ‘Are you Mr Davis? Can I get these skis off and stow them somewhere?’

  ‘Of course, come with me.’

  Mrs Boyle said acidly as the door to the hall closed behind them, ‘I suppose that’s what we pay our police force for nowadays, to go round enjoying themselves at winter sports.’

  Paravicini had come close to Molly. There was quite a hiss in his voice as he said in a quick, low voice, ‘Why did you send for the police, Mrs Davis?’

  She recoiled a little before the steady malignity of his glance. This was a new Mr Paravicini. For a moment she felt afraid. She said helplessly, ‘But I d
idn’t. I didn’t.’

  And then Christopher Wren came excitedly through the door, saying in a high penetrating whisper, ‘Who’s that man in the hall? Where did he come from? So terribly hearty and all over snow.’

  Mrs Boyle’s voice boomed out over the click of her knitting needles. ‘You may believe it or not, but that man is a policeman. A policeman—skiing!’

  The final disruption of the lower classes had come, so her manner seemed to say.

  Major Metcalf murmured to Molly, ‘Excuse me, Mrs Davis, but may I use your telephone?’

  ‘Of course, Major Metcalf.’

  He went over to the instrument, just as Christopher Wren said shrilly, ‘He’s very handsome, don’t you think so? I always think policemen are terribly attractive.’

  ‘Hullo, hullo—’ Major Metcalf was rattling the telephone irritably. He turned to Molly. ‘Mrs Davis, this telephone is dead, quite dead.’

  ‘It was all right just now. I—’

  She was interrupted. Christopher Wren was laughing, a high, shrill, almost hysterical laugh. ‘So we’re quite cut off now. Quite cut off. That’s funny, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t see anything to laugh at,’ said Major Metcalf stiffly.

  ‘No, indeed,’ said Mrs Boyle.

  Christopher was still in fits of laughter. ‘It’s a private joke of my own,’ he said. ‘Hsh,’ he put his finger to his lips, ‘the sleuth is coming.’

  Giles came in with Sergeant Trotter. The latter had got rid of his skis and brushed off the snow and was holding in his hand a large notebook and pencil. He brought an atmosphere of unhurried judicial procedure with him.

  ‘Molly,’ said Giles, ‘Sergeant Trotter wants a word with us alone.’

  Molly followed them both out of the room.

  ‘We’ll go in the study,’ Giles said.

  They went into the small room at the back of the hall which was dignified by that name. Sergeant Trotter closed the door carefully behind him.

  ‘What have we done, Sergeant?’ Molly demanded plaintively.

  ‘Done?’ Sergeant Trotter stared at her. Then he smiled broadly. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘It’s nothing of that kind, madam. I’m sorry if there’s been a misapprehension of any kind. No, Mrs Davis, it’s something quite different. It’s more a matter of police protection, if you understand me.’

  Not understanding him in the least, they both looked at him inquiringly.

  Sergeant Trotter went on fluently, ‘It relates to the death of Mrs Lyon, Mrs Maureen Lyon, who was murdered in London two days ago. You may have read about the case.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Molly.

  ‘The first thing I want to know is if you were acquainted with this Mrs Lyon?’

  ‘Never heard of her,’ said Giles, and Molly murmured concurrence.

  ‘Well, that’s rather what we expected. But as a matter of fact Lyon wasn’t the murdered woman’s real name. She had a police record, and her fingerprints were on file, so we were able to identify her without any difficulty. Her real name was Gregg; Maureen Gregg. Her late husband, John Gregg, was a farmer who resided at Longridge Farm not very far from here. You may have heard of the Longridge Farm case.’

  The room was very still. Only one sound broke the stillness, a soft, unexpected plop as snow slithered off the roof and fell to the ground outside. It was a secret, almost sinister sound.

  Trotter went on. ‘Three evacuee children were billeted on the Greggs at Longridge Farm in 1940. One of those children subsequently died as the result of criminal neglect and ill-treatment. The case made quite a sensation, and the Greggs were both sentenced to terms of imprisonment. Gregg escaped on his way to prison, he stole a car and had a crash while trying to evade the police. He was killed outright. Mrs Gregg served her sentence and was released two months ago.’

  ‘And now she’s been murdered,’ said Giles. ‘Who do they think did it?’

  But Sergeant Trotter was not to be hurried. ‘You remember the case, sir?’ he asked.

  Giles shook his head. ‘In 1940 I was a midshipman serving in the Mediterranean.’

  ‘I—I do remember hearing about it, I think,’ said Molly rather breathlessly. ‘But why do you come to us? What have we to do with it?’

  ‘It’s a question of your being in danger, Mrs Davis!’

  ‘Danger?’ Giles spoke increduously.

  ‘It’s like this, sir. A notebook was picked up near the scene of the crime. In it were written two addresses. The first was Seventy-Four Culver Street.’

  ‘Where the woman was murdered?’ Molly put in.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Davis. The other address was Monkswell Manor.’

  ‘What?’ Molly’s tone was incredulous. ‘But how extraordinary.’

  ‘Yes. That’s why Superintendent Hogben thought it imperative to find out if you knew of any connection between you, or between this house, and the Longridge Farm case.’

  ‘There’s nothing—absolutely nothing,’ said Giles. ‘It must be some coincidence.’

  Sergeant Trotter said gently, ‘Superintendent Hogben doesn’t think it is a coincidence. He’d have come himself if it had been at all possible. Under the weather conditions, and as I’m an expert skier, he sent me with instructions to get full particulars of everyone in this house, to report back to him by phone, and to take all measures I thought expedient for the safety of the household.’

  Giles said sharply, ‘Safety? Good Lord, man, you don’t think somebody is going to be killed here?’

  Trotter said apologetically, ‘I didn’t want to upset the lady, but yes, that is just what Superintendent Hogben does think.’

  ‘But what earthly reason could there be—’

  Giles broke off, and Trotter said, ‘That’s just what I’m here to find out.’

  ‘But the whole thing’s crazy.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but it’s because it’s crazy that it’s dangerous.’

  Molly said, ‘There’s something more you haven’t told us yet, isn’t there, Sergeant?’

  ‘Yes, madam. At the top of the page in the notebook was written, “Three Blind Mice.” Pinned to the dead woman’s body was a paper with “This is the first” written on it. And below it a drawing of three mice and a bar of music. The music was the tune of the nursery rhyme “Three Blind Mice.”’

  Molly sang softly:

  “Three Blind Mice,

  See how they run.

  They all ran after the farmer’s wife!

  She—”

  She broke off. ‘Oh, it’s horrible—horrible. There were three children, weren’t there?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Davis. A boy of fifteen, a girl of fourteen, and the boy of twelve who died.’

  ‘What happened to the others?’

  ‘The girl was, I believe, adopted by someone. We haven’t been able to trace her. The boy would be just on twenty-three now. We’ve lost track of him. He was said to have always been a bit—queer. He joined up in the army at eighteen. Later he deserted. Since then he’s disappeared. The army psychiatrist says definitely that he’s not well.’

  ‘You think that it was he who killed Mrs Lyon?’ Giles asked. ‘And that he’s a homicidal maniac and may turn up here for some unknown reason?’

  ‘We think that there must be a connection between someone here and the Longridge Farm business. Once we can establish what that connection is, we will be forearmed. Now you state, sir, that you yourself have no connection with that case. The same goes for you, Mrs Davis?’

  ‘I—oh, yes—yes.’

  ‘Perhaps you will tell me exactly who else there is in the house?’

  They gave him the names. Mrs Boyle. Major Metcalf. Mr Christopher Wren. Mr Paravicini. He wrote them down in his notebook.

  ‘Servants?’

  ‘We haven’t any servants,’ said Molly. ‘And that reminds me, I must go and put the potatoes on.’

  She left the study abruptly.

  Trotter turned to Giles. ‘What do you know about these people, sir?’

  ‘I—We—�
�� Giles paused. Then he said quietly, ‘Really, we don’t know anything about them, Sergeant Trotter. Mrs Boyle wrote from a Bournemouth hotel. Major Metcalf from Leamington. Mr Wren from a private hotel in South Kensington. Mr Paravicini just turned up out of the blue—or rather out of the white—his car overturned in a snowdrift near here. Still, I suppose they’ll have identity cards, ration books, that sort of thing?’

  ‘I shall go into all that, of course.’

  ‘In a way it’s lucky that the weather is so awful,’ said Giles. ‘The murderer can’t very well turn up in this, can he?’

  ‘Perhaps he doesn’t need to, Mr Davis.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Sergeant Trotter hesitated for a moment and then he said, ‘You’ve got to consider, sir, that he may be here already.’

  Giles stared at him.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Mrs Gregg was killed two days ago. All your visitors here have arrived since then, Mr Davis.’

  ‘Yes, but they’d booked beforehand—some time beforehand—except for Paravicini.’

  Sergeant Trotter sighed. His voice sounded tired. ‘These crimes were planned in advance.’

  ‘Crimes? But only one crime has happened yet. Why are you sure that there will be another?’

  ‘That it will happen—no. I hope to prevent that. That it will be attempted, yes.’

  ‘But then—if you’re right,’ Giles spoke excitedly, ‘there’s only one person it could be. There’s only one person who’s the right age. Christopher Wren! ”

  Sergeant Trotter had joined Molly in the kitchen.

  ‘I’d be glad, Mrs Davis, if you would come with me to the library. I want to make a general statement to everyone. Mr Davis has kindly gone to prepare the way—’

  ‘All right—just let me finish these potatoes. Sometimes I wish Sir Walter Raleigh had never discovered the beastly things.’

  Sergeant Trotter preserved a disapproving silence. Molly said apologetically, ‘I can’t really believe it, you see—It’s so fantastic—’

  ‘It isn’t fantastic, Mrs Davis—It’s just plain facts.’

  ‘You have a description of the man?’ Molly asked curiously.