Midwinter Murder

by Agatha Christie

  ‘Shall we cut out the long words?’ said Giles.

  ‘Certainly, Mr Davis. Two six-letter words are all that concern us at the moment. One’s “murder” and the other’s “danger.” That’s what we’ve got to concentrate upon. Now, Major Metcalf, let me be quite clear about your movements. You say you were in the cellar— Why?’

  ‘Looking around,’ said the major. ‘I looked in that cupboard place under the stairs and then I noticed a door there and I opened it and saw a flight of steps, so I went down there. Nice cellar you’ve got,’ he said to Giles. ‘Crypt of an old monastery, I should say.’

  ‘We’re not engaged in antiquarian research, Major Metcalf. We’re investigating a murder. Will you listen a moment, Mrs Davis? I’ll leave the kitchen door open.’ He went out; a door shut with a faint creak. ‘Is that what you heard, Mrs Davis?’ he asked as he reappeared in the open doorway.

  ‘I—it does sound like it.’

  ‘That was the cupboard under the stairs. It could be, you know, that after killing Mrs Boyle, the murderer, retreating across the hall, heard you coming out of the kitchen, and slipped into the cupboard, pulling the door to after him.’

  ‘Then his fingerprints will be on the inside of the cupboard,’ cried Christopher.

  ‘Mine are there already,’ said Major Metcalf.

  ‘Quite so,’ said Sergeant Trotter. ‘But we’ve a satisfactory explanation for those, haven’t we?’ he added smoothly.

  ‘Look here, Sergeant,’ said Giles, ‘admittedly you’re in charge of this affair. But this is my house, and in a certain degree I feel responsible for the people staying in it. Oughtn’t we to take precautionary measures?’

  ‘Such as, Mr Davis?’

  ‘Well, to be frank, putting under restraint the person who seems pretty clearly indicated as the chief suspect.’

  He looked straight at Christopher Wren.

  Christopher Wren sprang forward, his voice rose, shrill and hysterical. ‘It’s not true! It’s not true! You’re all against me. Everyone’s always against me. You’re going to frame me for this. It’s persecution—persecution—’

  ‘Steady on, lad,’ said Major Metcalf.

  ‘It’s all right, Chris.’ Molly came forward. She put her hand on his arm. ‘Nobody’s against you. Tell him it’s all right,’ she said to Sergeant Trotter.

  ‘We don’t frame people,’ said Sergeant Trotter.

  ‘Tell him you’re not going to arrest him.’

  ‘I’m not going to arrest anyone. To do that, I need evidence. There’s no evidence—at present.’

  Giles cried out, ‘I think you’re crazy, Molly. And you, too, Sergeant. There’s only one person who fits the bill, and—’

  ‘Wait, Giles, wait—’ Molly broke in. ‘Oh, do be quiet. Sergeant Trotter, can I—can I speak to you a minute?’

  ‘I’m staying,’ said Giles.

  ‘No, Giles, you, too, please.’

  Giles’s face grew as dark as thunder. He said, ‘I don’t know what’s come over you, Molly.’

  He followed the others out of the room, banging the door behind him.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Davis, what is it?’

  ‘Sergeant Trotter, when you told us about the Longridge Farm case, you seemed to think that it must be the eldest boy who is—responsible for all this. But you don’t know that?’

  ‘That’s perfectly true, Mrs Davis. But the probabilities lie that way—mental instability, desertion from the army, psychiatrist’s report.’

  ‘Oh, I know, and therefore it all seems to point to Christopher. But I don’t believe it is Christopher. There must be other—possibilities. Hadn’t those three children any relations—parents, for instance?’

  ‘Yes. The mother was dead. But the father was serving abroad.’

  ‘Well, what about him? Where is he now?’

  ‘We’ve no information. He obtained his demobilization papers last year.’

  ‘And if the son was mentally unstable, the father may have been, too.’

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘So the murderer may be middle-aged or old. Major Metcalf, remember, was frightfully upset when I told him the police had rung up. He really was.’

  Sergeant Trotter said quietly, ‘Please believe me, Mrs Davis, I’ve had all the possibilities in mind since the beginning. The boy, Jim—the father—even the sister. It could have been a woman, you know. I haven’t overlooked anything. I may be pretty sure in my own mind—but I don’t know—yet. It’s very hard really to know about anything or anyone—especially in these days. You’d be surprised what we see in the police force. With marriages, especially. Hasty marriages—war marriages. There’s no background, you see. No families or relations to meet. People accept each other’s word. Fellow says he’s a fighter pilot or an army major—the girl believes him implicitly. Sometimes she doesn’t find out for a year or two that he’s an absconding bank clerk with a wife and family, or an army deserter.’

  He paused and went on.

  ‘I know quite well what’s in your mind, Mrs Davis. There’s just one thing I’d like to say to you. The murderer’s enjoying himself. That’s the one thing I’m quite sure of.’

  He went towards the door.

  Molly stood very straight and still, a red flush burning in her cheeks. After standing rigid for a moment or two, she moved slowly towards the stove, knelt down, and opened the oven door. A savory, familiar smell came towards her. Her heart lightened. It was as though suddenly she had been wafted back into the dear, familiar world of everyday things. Cooking, housework, homemaking, ordinary prosaic living.

  So, from time immemorial women had cooked food for their men. The world of danger—of madness, receded. Woman, in her kitchen, was safe—eternally safe.

  The kitchen door opened. She turned her head as Christopher Wren entered. He was a little breathless.

  ‘My dear,’ he said. ‘Such ructions! Somebody’s stolen the sergeant’s skis!’

  ‘The sergeant’s skis? But why should anyone want to do that?’

  ‘I really can’t imagine. I mean, if the sergeant decided to go away and leave us, I should imagine that the murderer would be only too pleased. I mean, it really doesn’t make sense, does it?’

  ‘Giles put them in the cupboard under the stairs.’

  ‘Well, they’re not there now. Intriguing, isn’t it?’ He laughed gleefully. ‘The sergeant’s awfully angry about it. Snapping like a turtle. He’s been pitching into poor Major Metcalf. The old boy sticks to it that he didn’t notice whether they were there or not when he looked into the cupboard just before Mrs Boyle was murdered. Trotter says he must have noticed. If you ask me,’ Christopher lowered his voice and leaned forward, ‘this business is beginning to get Trotter down.’

  ‘It’s getting us all down,’ said Molly.

  ‘Not me. I find it most stimulating. It’s all so delightfully unreal.’

  Molly said sharply, ‘You wouldn’t say that if—if you’d been the one to find her. Mrs Boyle, I mean. I keep thinking of it—I can’t forget it. Her face—all swollen and purple—’

  She shivered. Christopher came across to her. He put a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘I know. I’m an idiot. I’m sorry. I didn’t think.’

  A dry sob rose in Molly’s throat. ‘It seemed all right just now—cooking—the kitchen,’ she spoke confusedly, incoherently. ‘And then suddenly—it was all back again—like a nightmare.’

  There was a curious expression on Christopher Wren’s face as he stood there looking down on her bent head.

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘I see.’ He moved away. ‘Well, I’d better clear out and—not interrupt you.’

  Molly cried, ‘Don’t go!’ just as his hand was on the door handle.

  He turned round, looking at her questioningly. Then he came slowly back.

  ‘Do you really mean that?’

  ‘Mean what?’

  ‘You definitely don’t want to—go?’

  ‘No, I tell you. I don’t want t
o be alone. I’m afraid to be alone.’

  Christopher sat down by the table. Molly bent to the oven, lifted the pie to a higher shelf, shut the oven door, and came and joined him.

  ‘That’s very interesting,’ said Christopher in a level voice.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘That you’re not afraid to be—alone with me. You’re not, are you?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘Why aren’t you afraid, Molly?’

  ‘I don’t know—I’m not.’

  ‘And yet I’m the only person who—fits the bill. One murderer as per schedule.’

  ‘No,’ said Molly. ‘There are—other possibilities, I’ve been talking to Sergeant Trotter about them.’

  ‘Did he agree with you?’

  ‘He didn’t disagree,’ said Molly slowly.

  Certain words sounded over and over again in her head. Especially that last phrase: I know exactly what’s in your mind, Mrs Davis. But did he? Could he possibly know? He had said, too, that the murderer was enjoying himself. Was that true?

  She said to Christopher, ‘You’re not exactly enjoying yourself, are you? In spite of what you said just now.’

  ‘Good God, no,’ said Christopher, staring. ‘What a very odd thing to say.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t say it. Sergeant Trotter did. I hate that man! He—he puts things into your head—things that aren’t true—that can’t possibly be true.’

  She put her hands to her head, covering her eyes with them. Very gently Christopher took those hands away.

  ‘Look here, Molly,’ he said, ‘what is all this?’

  She let him force her gently into a chair by the kitchen table. His manner was no longer hysterical or childish.

  ‘What’s the matter, Molly?’ he said.

  Molly looked at him—a long appraising glance. She asked irrelevantly, ‘How long have I known you, Christopher? Two days?’

  ‘Just about. You’re thinking, aren’t you, that though it’s such a short time, we seem to know each other rather well.’

  ‘Yes—it’s odd, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. There’s a kind of sympathy between us. Possibly because we’ve both—been up against it.’

  It was not a question. It was a statement. Molly let it pass. She said very quietly, and again it was a statement rather than a question, ‘Your name isn’t really Christopher Wren, is it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why did you—’

  ‘Choose that? Oh, it seemed rather a pleasant whimsy. They used to jeer at me and call me Christopher Robin at school. Robin—Wren—association of ideas, I suppose.’

  ‘What’s your real name?’

  Christopher said quietly, ‘I don’t think we’ll go into that. It wouldn’t mean anything to you. I’m not an architect. Actually, I’m a deserter from the army.’

  Just for a moment swift alarm leaped into Molly’s eyes.

  Christopher saw it. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Just like our unknown murderer. I told you I was the only one the specification fitted.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Molly. ‘I told you I didn’t believe you were the murderer. Go on—tell me about yourself. What made you desert—nerves?’

  ‘Being afraid, you mean? No, curiously enough, I wasn’t afraid—not more than anyone else, that is to say. Actually I got a reputation for being rather cool under fire. No, it was something quite different. It was—my mother.’

  ‘Your mother?’

  ‘Yes—you see, she was killed—in an air raid. Buried. They—they had to dig her out. I don’t know what happened to me when I heard about it—I suppose I went a little mad. I thought, you see, it happened to me. I felt I had to get home quickly and—and dig myself out—I can’t explain—it was all confused.’ He lowered his head to his hands and spoke in a muffled voice. ‘I wandered about a long time, looking for her—or for myself—I don’t know which. And then, when my mind cleared up, I was afraid to go back—or to report—I knew I could never explain. Since then, I’ve just been—nothing.’

  He stared at her, his young face hollow with despair.

  ‘You mustn’t feel like that,’ said Molly gently. ‘You can start again.’

  ‘Can one ever do that?’

  ‘Of course—you’re quite young.’

  ‘Yes, but you see—I’ve come to the end.’

  ‘No,’ said Molly. ‘You haven’t come to the end, you only think you have. I believe everyone has that feeling once, at least, in their lives—that it’s the end, that they can’t go on.’

  ‘You’ve had it, haven’t you, Molly? You must have—to be able to speak like that.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was yours?’

  ‘Mine was just what happened to a lot of people. I was engaged to a young fighter pilot—and he was killed.’

  ‘Wasn’t there more to it than that?’

  ‘I suppose there was. I’d had a nasty shock when I was younger. I came up against something that was rather cruel and beastly. It predisposed me to think that life was always—horrible. When Jack was killed it just confirmed my belief that the whole of life was cruel and treacherous.’

  ‘I know. And then, I suppose,’ said Christopher, watching her, ‘Giles came along.’

  ‘Yes.’ He saw the smile, tender, almost shy, that trembled on her mouth. ‘Giles came—everything felt right and safe and happy—Giles!’

  The smile fled from her lips. Her face was suddenly stricken. She shivered as though with cold.

  ‘What’s the matter, Molly? What’s frightening you? You are frightened, aren’t you?’

  She nodded.

  ‘And it’s something to do with Giles? Something he’s said or done?’

  ‘It’s not Giles, really. It’s that horrible man!’

  ‘What horrible man?’ Christopher was surprised. ‘Paravicini?’

  ‘No, no. Sergeant Trotter.’

  ‘Sergeant Trotter?’

  ‘Suggesting things—hinting things—putting horrible thoughts into my mind about Giles—thoughts that I didn’t know were there. Oh, I hate him—I hate him.’

  Christopher’s eyebrows rose in slow surprise. ‘Giles? Giles! Yes, of course, he and I are much of an age. He seems to me much older than I am—but I suppose he isn’t, really. Yes, Giles might fit the bill equally well. But look here, Molly, that’s all nonsense. Giles was down here with you the day that woman was killed in London.’

  Molly did not answer.

  Christopher looked at her sharply. ‘Wasn’t he here?’

  Molly spoke breathlessly, the words coming out in an incoherent jumble. ‘He was out all day—in the car—he went over to the other side of the county about some wire netting in a sale there—at least that’s what he said—that’s what I thought—until—until—’

  ‘Until what?’

  Slowly Molly’s hand reached out and traced the date of the Evening Standard that covered a portion of the kitchen table.

  Christopher looked at it and said, ‘London edition, two days ago.’

  ‘It was in Giles’s pocket when he came back. He—he must have been in London.’

  Christopher stared. He stared at the paper and he stared at Molly. He pursed up his lips and began to whistle, then checked himself abruptly. It wouldn’t do to whistle that tune just now.

  Choosing his words very carefully, and avoiding her eye, he said, ‘How much do you actually—know about Giles?’

  ‘Don’t,’ cried Molly. ‘Don’t! That’s just what that beast Trotter said—or hinted. That women often didn’t know anything about the men that they married—especially in wartime. They—they just took the man’s own account of himself.’

  ‘That’s true enough, I suppose.’

  ‘Don’t you say it, too! I can’t bear it. It’s just because we’re all in such a state, so worked up. We’d—we’d believe any fantastic suggestion—It’s not true! I—’

  She stopped. The kitchen door had opened.

 
Giles came in. There was rather a grim look on his face. ‘Am I interrupting anything?’ he asked.

  Christopher slipped from the table. ‘I’m just taking a few cookery lessons,’ he said.

  ‘Indeed? Well, look here, Wren, tête-à-têtes aren’t very healthy things at the present time. You keep out of the kitchen, do you hear?’

  ‘Oh, but surely—’

  ‘You keep away from my wife, Wren. She’s not going to be the next victim.’

  ‘That,’ said Christopher, ‘is just what I’m worrying about.’

  If there was significance in the words, Giles did not apparently notice them. He merely turned a rather darker shade of brick red. ‘I’ll do the worrying,’ he said. ‘I can look after my own wife. Get the hell out of here.’

  Molly said in a clear voice, ‘Please go, Christopher. Yes—really.’

  Christopher moved slowly towards the door. ‘I shan’t go very far,’ he said, and the words were addressed to Molly and held a very definite meaning.

  ‘Will you get out of here?’

  Christopher gave a high childish giggle. ‘Aye, aye, Commander,’ he said.

  The door shut behind him. Giles turned on Molly.

  ‘For God’s sake, Molly, haven’t you got any sense? Shut in here alone with a dangerous homicidal maniac!’

  ‘He isn’t the—’ she changed her phrase quickly—‘he isn’t dangerous. Anyway, I’m on my guard. I can—look after myself.’

  Giles laughed unpleasantly. ‘So could Mrs Boyle.’

  ‘Oh, Giles, don’t.’

  ‘Sorry, my dear. But I’m het up. That wretched boy. What you see in him I can’t imagine.’

  Molly said slowly, ‘I’m sorry for him.’

  ‘Sorry for a homicidal lunatic?’

  Molly gave him a curious glance. ‘I could be sorry for a homicidal lunatic,’ she said.

  ‘Calling him Christopher, too. Since when have you been on Christian-name terms?’

  ‘Oh Giles, don’t be ridiculous. Everyone always uses Christian names nowadays. You know they do.’

  ‘Even after a couple of days? But perhaps it’s more than that. Perhaps you knew Mr Christopher Wren, the phony architect, before he came here? Perhaps you suggested to him that he should come here? Perhaps you cooked it all up between you?’