Midwinter Murder

by Agatha Christie

‘Just after, wasn’t it?’

  ‘No, no, don’t you remember—Capel knew the Appletons—he’d stayed with the old man the previous Spring—just a week before he died. He was talking of him one night—what an old curmudgeon he was, and how awful it must have been for a young and beautiful woman like Mrs Appleton to be tied to him. There was no suspicion then that she had done away with him.’

  ‘By jove, you’re right. I remember reading the paragraph in the paper saying an exhumation order had been granted. It would have been that same day—I remember only seeing it with half my mind, you know, the other half wondering about poor old Derek lying dead upstairs.’

  ‘A common, but very curious phenomenon, that,’ observed Mr Quin. ‘In moments of great stress, the mind focuses itself upon some quite unimportant matter which is remembered long afterwards with the utmost fidelity, driven in, as it were, by the mental stress of the moment. It may be some quite irrelevant detail, like the pattern of a wallpaper, but it will never be forgotten.’

  ‘Rather extraordinary, your saying that, Mr Quin,’ said Conway. ‘Just as you were speaking, I suddenly felt myself back in Derek Capel’s room—with Derek lying dead on the floor—I saw as plainly as possible the big tree outside the window, and the shadow it threw upon the snow outside. Yes, the moonlight, the snow, and the shadow of the tree—I can see them again this minute. By Gad, I believe I could draw them, and yet I never realized I was looking at them at the time.’

  ‘His room was the big one over the porch, was it not?’ asked Mr Quin.

  ‘Yes, and the tree was the big beech, just at the angle of the drive.’

  Mr Quin nodded, as though satisfied. Mr Satterthwaite was curiously thrilled. He was convinced that every word, every inflection of Mr Quin’s voice, was pregnant with purpose. He was driving at something—exactly what Mr Satterthwaite did not know, but he was quite convinced as to whose was the master hand.

  There was a momentary pause, and then Evesham reverted to the preceding topic.

  ‘That Appleton case, I remember it very well now. What a sensation it made. She got off, didn’t she? Pretty woman, very fair—remarkably fair.’

  Almost against his will, Mr Satterthwaite’s eyes sought the kneeling figure up above. Was it his fancy, or did he see it shrink a little as though at a blow. Did he see a hand slide upwards to the table cloth—and then pause.

  There was a crash of falling glass. Alex Portal, helping himself to whisky, had let the decanter slip.

  ‘I say—sir, damn’ sorry. Can’t think what came over me.’

  Evesham cut short his apologies.

  ‘Quite all right. Quite all right, my dear fellow. Curious—That smash reminded me. That’s what she did, didn’t she? Mrs Appleton? Smashed the port decanter?’

  ‘Yes. Old Appleton had his glass of port—only one—each night. The day after his death, one of the servants saw her take the decanter out and smash it deliberately. That set them talking, of course. They all knew she had been perfectly wretched with him. Rumour grew and grew, and in the end, months later, some of his relatives applied for an exhumation order. And sure enough, the old fellow had been poisoned. Arsenic, wasn’t it?’

  ‘No—strychnine, I think. It doesn’t much matter. Well, of course, there it was. Only one person was likely to have done it. Mrs Appleton stood her trial. She was acquitted more through lack of evidence against her than from any overwhelming proof of innocence. In other words, she was lucky. Yes, I don’t suppose there’s much doubt she did it right enough. What happened to her afterwards?’

  ‘Went out to Canada, I believe. Or was it Australia? She had an uncle or something of the sort out there who offered her a home. Best thing she could do under the circumstances.’

  Mr Satterthwaite was fascinated by Alex Portal’s right hand as it clasped his glass. How tightly he was gripping it.

  ‘You’ll smash that in a minute or two, if you’re not careful,’ thought Mr Satterthwaite. ‘Dear me, how interesting all this is.’

  Evesham rose and helped himself to a drink.

  ‘Well, we’re not much nearer to knowing why poor Derek Capel shot himself,’ he remarked. ‘The Court of Inquiry hasn’t been a great success, has it, Mr Quin?’

  Mr Quin laughed . . .

  It was a strange laugh, mocking—yet sad. It made everyone jump.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said. ‘You are still living in the past, Mr Evesham. You are still hampered by your preconceived notion. But I—the man from outside, the stranger passing by, see only—facts!’

  ‘Facts?’

  ‘Yes—facts.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Evesham.

  ‘I see a clear sequence of facts, outlined by yourselves but of which you have not seen the significance. Let us go back ten years and look at what we see—untrammelled by ideas or sentiment.’

  Mr Quin had risen. He looked very tall. The fire leaped fitfully behind him. He spoke in a low compelling voice.

  ‘You are at dinner. Derek Capel announces his engagement. You think then it was to Marjorie Dilke. You are not so sure now. He has the restlessly excited manner of a man who has successfully defied Fate—who, in your own words, has pulled off a big coup against overwhelming odds. Then comes the clanging of the bell. He goes out to get the long overdue mail. He doesn’t open his letters, but you mention yourselves that he opened the paper to glance at the news. It is ten years ago—so we cannot know what the news was that day—a far-off earthquake, a near at hand political crisis? The only thing we do know about the contents of that paper is that it contained one small paragraph—a paragraph stating that the Home Office had given permission to exhume the body of Mr Appleton three days ago.’

  ‘What?’

  Mr Quin went on.

  ‘Derek Capel goes up to his room, and there he sees something out of the window. Sir Richard Conway has told us that the curtain was not drawn across it and further that it gave on to the drive. What did he see? What could he have seen that forced him to take his life?’

  ‘What do you mean? What did he see?’

  ‘I think,’ said Mr Quin, ‘that he saw a policeman. A policeman who had come about a dog—But Derek Capel didn’t know that—he just saw—a policeman.’

  There was a long silence—as though it took some time to drive the inference home.

  ‘My God!’ whispered Evesham at last. ‘You can’t mean that? Appleton? But he wasn’t there at the time Appleton died. The old man was alone with his wife—’

  ‘But he may have been there a week earlier. Strychnine is not very soluble unless it is in the form of hydrochloride. The greater part of it, put into the port, would be taken in the last glass, perhaps a week after he left.’

  Portal sprung forward. His voice was hoarse, his eyes bloodshot.

  ‘Why did she break the decanter?’ he cried. ‘Why did she break the decanter? Tell me that!’

  For the first time that evening, Mr Quin addressed himself to Mr Satterthwaite.

  ‘You have a wide experience of life, Mr Satterthwaite. Perhaps you can tell us that.’

  Mr Satterthwaite’s voice trembled a little. His cue had come at last. He was to speak some of the most important lines in the play. He was an actor now—not a looker-on.

  ‘As I see it,’ he murmured modestly, ‘she—cared for Derek Capel. She was, I think, a good woman—and she had sent him away. When her husband—died, she suspected the truth. And so, to save the man she loved, she tried to destroy the evidence against him. Later, I think, he persuaded her that her suspicions were unfounded, and she consented to marry him. But even then, she hung back—women, I fancy, have a lot of instinct.’

  Mr Sattherthwaite had spoken his part.

  Suddenly a long trembling sigh filled the air.

  ‘My God!’ cried Evesham, starting, ‘what was that?’

  Mr Satterthwaite could have told him that it was Eleanor Portal in the gallery above, but he was too artistic to spoil a good effect.

  Mr Qui
n was smiling.

  ‘My car will be ready by now. Thank you for your hospitality, Mr Evesham. I have, I hope, done something for my friend.’

  They stared at him in blank amazement.

  ‘That aspect of the matter has not struck you? He loved this woman, you know. Loved her enough to commit murder for her sake. When retribution overtook him, as he mistakenly thought, he took his own life. But unwittingly, he left her to face the music.’

  ‘She was acquitted,’ muttered Evesham.

  ‘Because the case against her could not be proved. I fancy—it may be only a fancy—that she is still—facing the music.’

  Portal had sunk into a chair, his face buried in his hands.

  Quin turned to Satterthwaite.

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Satterthwaite. You are interested in the drama, are you not?’

  Mr Satterthwaite nodded—surprised.

  ‘I must recommend the Harlequinade to your attention. It is dying out nowadays—but it repays attention, I assure you. Its symbolism is a little difficult to follow—but the immortals are always immortal, you know. I wish you all goodnight.’

  They saw him stride out into the dark. As before, the coloured glass gave the effect of motley . . .

  Mr Satterthwaite went upstairs. He went to draw down his window, for the air was cold. The figure of Mr Quin moved down the drive, and from a side door came a woman’s figure, running. For a moment they spoke together, then she retraced her steps to the house. She passed just below the window, and Mr Satterthwaite was struck anew by the vitality of her face. She moved now like a woman in a happy dream.

  ‘Eleanor!’

  Alex Portal had joined her.

  ‘Eleanor, forgive me—forgive me—You told me the truth, but God forgive me—I did not quite believe . . .’

  Mr Satterthwaite was intensely interested in other people’s affairs, but he was also a gentleman. It was borne in upon him that he must shut the window. He did so.

  But he shut it very slowly.

  He heard her voice, exquisite and indescribable.

  ‘I know—I know. You have been in hell. So was I once. Loving—yet alternately believing and suspecting—thrusting aside one’s doubts and having them spring up again with leering faces . . . I know, Alex, I know . . . But there is a worse hell than that, the hell I have lived in with you. I have seen your doubt—your fear of me . . . poisoning all our love. That man—that chance passer by, saved me. I could bear it no longer, you understand. Tonight—tonight I was going to kill myself . . . Alex . . . Alex . . .’

  The Clergyman’s Daughter

  ‘I wish,’ said Tuppence, roaming moodily round the office, ‘that we could befriend a clergyman’s daughter.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Tommy.

  ‘You may have forgotten the fact, but I was once a clergyman’s daughter myself. I remember what it was like. Hence this altruistic urge—this spirit of thoughtful consideration for others—this—’

  ‘You are getting ready to be Roger Sheringham, I see,’ said Tommy. ‘If you will allow me to make a criticism, you talk quite as much as he does, but not nearly so well.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Tuppence. ‘There is a feminine subtlety about my conversation, a je ne sais quoi that no gross male could ever attain to. I have, moreover, powers unknown to my prototype—do I mean prototype? Words are such uncertain things, they so often sound well, but mean the opposite of what one thinks they do.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Tommy kindly.

  ‘I was. I was only pausing to take breath. Touching these powers, it is my wish today to assist a clergyman’s daughter. You will see, Tommy, the first person to enlist the aid of Blunt’s Brilliant Detectives will be a clergyman’s daughter.’

  ‘I’ll bet you it isn’t,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Done,’ said Tuppence. ‘Hist! To your typewriters, Oh! Israel. One comes.’

  Mr Blunt’s office was humming with industry as Albert opened the door and announced:

  ‘Miss Monica Deane.’

  A slender, brown-haired girl, rather shabbily dressed, entered and stood hesitating. Tommy came forward.

  ‘Good-morning, Miss Deane. Won’t you sit down and tell us what we can do for you? By the way, let me introduce my confidential secretary, Miss Sheringham.’

  ‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Deane,’ said Tuppence. ‘Your father was in the Church, I think.’

  ‘Yes, he was. But how did you know that?’

  ‘Oh! we have our methods,’ said Tuppence. ‘You mustn’t mind me rattling on. Mr Blunt likes to hear me talk. He always says it gives him ideas.’

  The girl stared at her. She was a slender creature, not beautiful, but possessing a wistful prettiness. She had a quantity of soft mouse-coloured hair, and her eyes were dark blue and very lovely, though the dark shadows round them spoke of trouble and anxiety.

  ‘Will you tell me your story, Miss Deane?’ said Tommy.

  The girl turned to him gratefully.

  ‘It’s such a long rambling story,’ said the girl. ‘My name is Monica Deane. My father was the rector of Little Hampsley in Suffolk. He died three years ago, and my mother and I were left very badly off. I went out as a governess, but my mother’s physical condition deteriorated, and I had to come home to look after her. We were desperately poor, but one day we received a lawyer’s letter telling us that an aunt of my father’s had died and had left everything to me. I had often heard of this aunt, who had quarrelled with my father many years ago, and I knew that she was very well off, so it really seemed that our troubles were at an end. But matters did not turn out quite as well as we had hoped. I inherited the house she had lived in, but after paying one or two small legacies, there was no money left. I suppose she must have lost it during the war, or perhaps she had been living on her capital. Still, we had the house, and almost at once we had a chance of selling it at quite an advantageous price. But, foolishly perhaps, I refused the offer. We were in tiny, but expensive lodgings, and I thought it would be much nicer to live in the Red House, where my mother could have comfortable rooms and take in paying guests to cover our expenses.

  ‘I adhered to this plan, notwithstanding a further tempting offer from the gentleman who wanted to buy. We moved in, and I advertised for paying guests. For a time, all went well, we had several answers to our advertisement; my aunt’s old servant remained on with us, and she and I between us did the work of the house. And then these unaccountable things began to happen.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘The queerest things. The whole place seemed bewitched. Pictures fell down, crockery flew across the room and broke; one morning we came down to find all the furniture moved round. At first we thought someone was playing a practical joke, but we had to give up that explanation. Sometimes when we were all sitting down to dinner, a terrific crash would be heard overhead. We would go up and find no one there, but a piece of furniture thrown violently to the ground.’

  ‘A poltergeist,’ cried Tuppence, much interested.

  ‘Yes, that’s what Dr O’Neill said—though I don’t know what it means.’

  ‘It’s a sort of evil spirit that plays tricks,’ explained Tuppence, who in reality knew very little about the subject, and was not even sure that she had got the word poltergeist right.

  ‘Well, at any rate, the effect was disastrous. Our visitors were frightened to death, and left as soon as possible. We got new ones, and they too left hurriedly. I was in despair, and, to crown all, our own tiny income ceased suddenly—the Company in which it was invested failed.’

  ‘You poor dear,’ said Tuppence sympathetically. ‘What a time you have had. Did you want Mr Blunt to investigate this ‘haunting” business?’

  ‘Not exactly. You see, three days ago, a gentleman called upon us. His name was Dr O’Neill. He told us that he was a member of the Society for Physical Research, and that he had heard about the curious manifestations that had taken place in our house and was much interested. So much so, that he was
prepared to buy it from us, and conduct a series of experiments there.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Of course, at first, I was overcome with joy. It seemed the way out of all our difficulties. But—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Perhaps you will think me fanciful. Perhaps I am. But—oh! I’m sure I haven’t made a mistake. It was the same man!’

  ‘What same man?’

  ‘The same man who wanted to buy it before. Oh! I’m sure I’m right.’

  ‘But why shouldn’t it be?’

  ‘You don’t understand. The two men were quite different, different name and everything. The first man was quite young, a spruce, dark young man of thirty odd. Dr O’Neill is about fifty, he has a grey beard and wears glasses and stoops. But when he talked I saw a gold tooth one side of his mouth. It only shows when he laughs. The other man had a tooth in just the same position, and then I looked at his ears. I had noticed the other man’s ears, because they were a peculiar shape with hardly any lobe. Dr O’Neill’s were just the same. Both things couldn’t be a coincidence, could they? I thought and thought and finally I wrote and said I would let him know in a week. I had noticed Mr Blunt’s advertisement some time ago—as a matter of fact in an old paper that lined one of the kitchen drawers. I cut it out and came up to town.’

  ‘You were quite right,’ said Tuppence, nodding her head with vigour. ‘This needs looking into.’

  ‘A very interesting case, Miss Deane,’ observed Tommy.

  ‘We shall be pleased to look into this for you—eh, Miss Sheringham?’

  ‘Rather,’ said Tuppence, ‘and we’ll get to the bottom of it too.’

  ‘I understand, Miss Deane,’ went on Tommy, ‘that the household consists of you and your mother and a servant. Can you give me any particulars about the servant?’

  ‘Her name is Crockett. She was with my aunt about eight or ten years. She is an elderly woman, not very pleasant in manner, but a good servant. She is inclined to give herself airs because her sister married out of her station. Crockett has a nephew whom she is always telling us is ‘quite the gentleman”.’

  ‘H’m,’ said Tommy, rather at a loss how to proceed.