Midwinter Murder

by Agatha Christie

  ‘I think, Mrs Chester, I’ll go home and not stay to dinner after all.’

  ‘Oh, my dear—Basil will be so disappointed.’

  ‘Will he?’ asked Betty with a short laugh. ‘Anyway, I think I will. I’ve got rather a headache.’

  She smiled at them both and went off. Mrs Chester turned to Mr Parker Pyne.

  ‘I wish we had never come to this place—never!’

  Mr Parker Pyne shook his head sadly.

  ‘You shouldn’t have gone away,’ said Mrs Chester. ‘If you’d been here this wouldn’t have happened.’

  Mr Parker Pyne was stung to respond.

  ‘My dear lady, I can assure you that when it comes to a question of a beautiful young woman, I should have no influence over your son whatever. He—er—seems to be of a very susceptible nature.’

  ‘He never used to be,’ said Mrs Chester tearfully.

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Parker Pyne with an attempt at cheerfulness, ‘this new attraction seems to have broken the back of his infatuation for Miss Gregg. That must be some satisfaction to you.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Mrs Chester. ‘Betty is a dear child and devoted to Basil. She is behaving extremely well over this. I think my boy must be mad.’

  Mr Parker Pyne received this startling change of face without wincing. He had met inconsistency in women before. He said mildly:

  ‘Not exactly mad—just bewitched.’

  ‘She’s impossible.’

  ‘But extremely good-looking.’

  Mrs Chester snorted.

  Basil ran up the steps from the sea front.

  ‘Hullo, Mater, here I am. Where’s Betty?’

  ‘Betty’s gone home with a headache. I don’t wonder.’

  ‘Sulking, you mean.’

  ‘I consider, Basil, that you are being extremely unkind to Betty.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Mother, don’t jaw. If Betty is going to make this fuss every time I speak to another girl a nice sort of life we’ll lead together.’

  ‘You are engaged.’

  ‘Oh, we’re engaged all right. That doesn’t mean that we’re not going to have any friends of our own. Nowadays people have to lead their own lives and try to cut out jealousy.’

  He paused.

  ‘Look here, if Betty isn’t going to dine with us—I think I’ll go back to the Mariposa. They did ask me to dine . . .’

  ‘Oh, Basil—’

  The boy gave her an exasperated look, then ran off down the steps.

  Mrs Chester looked eloquently at Mr Parker Pyne.

  ‘You see,’ she said.

  He saw.

  Matters came to a head a couple of days later. Betty and Basil were to have gone for a long walk, taking a picnic lunch with them. Betty arrived at the Pino d’Oro to find that Basil had forgotten the plan and gone over to Formentor for the day with Dolores Ramona’s party.

  Beyond a tightening of the lips the girl made no sign. Presently, however, she got up and stood in front of Mrs Chester (the two women were alone on the terrace).

  ‘It’s quite all right,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t matter. But I think—all the same—that we’d better call the whole thing off.’

  She slipped from her finger the signet ring that Basil had given her—he would buy the real engagement ring later.

  ‘Will you give him back this Mrs Chester? And tell him it’s all right—not to worry . . .’

  ‘Betty dear, don’t! He does love you—really.’

  ‘It looks like it, doesn’t it?’ said the girl with a short laugh. ‘No—I’ve got some pride. Tell him everything’s all right and that I—I wish him luck.’

  When Basil returned at sunset he was greeted by a storm.

  He flushed a little at the sight of his ring.

  ‘So that’s how she feels, is it? Well, I daresay it’s the best thing.’

  ‘Basil!’

  ‘Well, frankly, Mother, we don’t seem to have been hitting it off lately.’

  ‘Whose fault was that?’

  ‘I don’t see that it was mine particularly. Jealousy’s beastly and I really don’t see why you should get all worked up about it. You begged me yourself not to marry Betty.’

  ‘That was before I knew her. Basil—my dear—you’re not thinking of marrying this other creature.’

  Basil Chester said soberly:

  ‘I’d marry her like a shot if she’d have me—but I’m afraid she won’t.’

  Cold chills went down Mrs Chester’s spine. She sought and found Mr Parker Pyne, placidly reading a book in a sheltered corner.

  ‘You must do something! You must do something! My boy’s life will be ruined.’

  Mr Parker Pyne was getting a little tired of Basil Chester’s life being ruined.

  ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Go and see this terrible creature. If necessary buy her off.’

  ‘That may come very expensive.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘It seems a pity. Still there are, possibly, other ways.’

  She looked a question. He shook his head.

  ‘I’ll make no promises—but I’ll see what I can do. I have handled that kind before. By the way, not a word to Basil—that would be fatal.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Mr Parker Pyne returned from the Mariposa at midnight. Mrs Chester was sitting up for him.

  ‘Well?’ she demanded breathlessly.

  His eyes twinkled.

  ‘The Señorita Dolores Ramona will leave Pollensa tomorrow morning and the island tomorrow night.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Parker Pyne! How did you manage it?’

  ‘It won’t cost a cent,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. Again his eyes twinkled. ‘I rather fancied I might have a hold over her—and I was right.’

  ‘You are wonderful. Nina Wycherley was quite right. You must let me know—er—your fees—’

  Mr Parker Pyne held up a well-manicured hand.

  ‘Not a penny. It has been a pleasure. I hope all will go well. Of course the boy will be very upset at first when he finds she’s disappeared and left no address. Just go easy with him for a week or two.’

  ‘If only Betty will forgive him—’

  ‘She’ll forgive him all right. They’re a nice couple. By the way, I’m leaving tomorrow, too.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Parker Pyne, we shall miss you.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s just as well I should go before that boy of yours gets infatuated with yet a third girl.’

  Mr Parker Pyne leaned over the rail of the steamer and looked at the lights of Palma. Beside him stood Dolores Ramona. He was saying appreciatively:

  ‘A very nice piece of work, Madeleine. I’m glad I wired you to come out. It’s odd when you’re such a quiet, stay-at-home girl really.’

  Madeleine de Sara, alias Dolores Ramona, alias Maggie Sayers, said primly: ‘I’m glad you’re pleased, Mr Parker Pyne. It’s been a nice little change. I think I’ll go below now and get to bed before the boat starts. I’m such a bad sailor.’

  A few minutes later a hand fell on Mr Parker Pyne’s shoulder. He turned to see Basil Chester.

  ‘Had to come and see you off, Mr Parker Pyne, and give you Betty’s love and her and my best thanks. It was a grand stunt of yours. Betty and Mother are as thick as thieves. Seemed a shame to deceive the old darling—but she was being difficult. Anyway it’s all right now. I must just be careful to keep up the annoyance stuff a couple of days longer. We’re no end grateful to you, Betty and I.’

  ‘I wish you every happiness,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘Thanks.’

  There was a pause, then Basil said with somewhat overdone carelessness:

  ‘Is Miss—Miss de Sara—anywhere about? I’d like to thank her, too.’

  Mr Parker Pyne shot a keen glance at him.

  He said:

  ‘I’m afraid Miss de Sara’s gone to bed.’

  ‘Oh, too bad—well, perhaps I’ll see her in London sometime.’

  ‘As a matter of fact she is going
to America on business for me almost at once.’

  ‘Oh!’ Basil’s tone was blank. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’ll be getting along . . .’

  Mr Parker Pyne smiled. On his way to his cabin he tapped on the door of Madeleine’s.

  ‘How are you, my dear? All right? Our young friend has been along. The usual slight attack of Madeleinitis. He’ll get over it in a day or two, but you are rather distracting.’

  Sanctuary

  The vicar’s wife came round the corner of the vicarage with her arms full of chrysanthemums. A good deal of rich garden soil was attached to her strong brogue shoes and a few fragments of earth were adhering to her nose, but of that fact she was perfectly unconscious.

  She had a slight struggle in opening the vicarage gate which hung, rustily, half off its hinges. A puff of wind caught at her battered felt hat, causing it to sit even more rakishly than it had done before. ‘Bother!’ said Bunch.

  Christened by her optimistic parents Diana, Mrs Harmon had become Bunch at an early age for somewhat obvious reasons and the name had stuck to her ever since. Clutching the chrysanthemums, she made her way through the gate to the churchyard, and so to the church door.

  The November air was mild and damp. Clouds scudded across the sky with patches of blue here and there. Inside, the church was dark and cold; it was unheated except at service times.

  ‘Brrrrrh!’ said Bunch expressively. ‘I’d better get on with this quickly. I don’t want to die of cold.’

  With the quickness born of practice she collected the necessary paraphernalia: vases, water, flower-holders. ‘I wish we had lilies,’ thought Bunch to herself. ‘I get so tired of these scraggy chrysanthemums.’ Her nimble fingers arranged the blooms in their holders.

  There was nothing particularly original or artistic about the decorations, for Bunch Harmon herself was neither original nor artistic, but it was a homely and pleasant arrangement. Carrying the vases carefully, Bunch stepped up the aisle and made her way towards the altar. As she did so the sun came out.

  It shone through the east window of somewhat crude coloured glass, mostly blue and red—the gift of a wealthy Victorian churchgoer. The effect was almost startling in its sudden opulence. ‘Like jewels,’ thought Bunch. Suddenly she stopped, staring ahead of her. On the chancel steps was a huddled dark form.

  Putting down the flowers carefully, Bunch went up to it and bent over it. It was a man lying there, huddled over on himself. Bunch knelt down by him and slowly, carefully, she turned him over. Her fingers went to his pulse—a pulse so feeble and fluttering that it told its own story, as did the almost greenish pallor of his face. There was no doubt, Bunch thought, that the man was dying.

  He was a man of about forty-five, dressed in a dark, shabby suit. She laid down the limp hand she had picked up and looked at his other hand. This seemed clenched like a fist on his breast. Looking more closely she saw that the fingers were closed over what seemed to be a large wad or handkerchief which he was holding tightly to his chest. All round the clenched hand there were splashes of a dry brown fluid which, Bunch guessed, was dry blood. Bunch sat back on her heels, frowning.

  Up till now the man’s eyes had been closed but at this point they suddenly opened and fixed themselves on Bunch’s face. They were neither dazed nor wandering. They seemed fully alive and intelligent. His lips moved, and Bunch bent forward to catch the words, or rather the word. It was only one word that he said:

  ‘Sanctuary.’

  There was, she thought, just a very faint smile as he breathed out this word. There was no mistaking it, for after a moment he said it again, ‘Sanctuary . . .’

  Then, with a faint, long-drawn-out sigh, his eyes closed again. Once more Bunch’s fingers went to his pulse. It was still there, but fainter now and more intermittent. She got up with decision.

  ‘Don’t move,’ she said, ‘or try to move. I’m going for help.’

  The man’s eyes opened again but he seemed now to be fixing his attention on the coloured light that came through the east window. He murmured something that Bunch could not quite catch. She thought, startled, that it might have been her husband’s name.

  ‘Julian?’ she said. ‘Did you come here to find Julian?’ But there was no answer. The man lay with eyes closed, his breathing coming in slow, shallow fashion.

  Bunch turned and left the church rapidly. She glanced at her watch and nodded with some satisfaction. Dr Griffiths would still be in his surgery. It was only a couple of minutes’ walk from the church. She went in, without waiting to knock or ring, passing through the waiting room and into the doctor’s surgery.

  ‘You must come at once,’ said Bunch. ‘There’s a man dying in the church.’

  Some minutes later Dr Griffiths rose from his knees after a brief examination.

  ‘Can we move him from here into the vicarage? I can attend to him better there—not that it’s any use.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Bunch. ‘I’ll go along and get things ready. I’ll get Harper and Jones, shall I? To help you carry him.’

  ‘Thanks. I can telephone from the vicarage for an ambulance, but I’m afraid—by the time it comes . . .’ He left the remark unfinished.

  Bunch said, ‘Internal bleeding?’

  Dr Griffiths nodded. He said, ‘How on earth did he come here?’

  ‘I think he must have been here all night,’ said Bunch, considering. ‘Harper unlocks the church in the morning as he goes to work, but he doesn’t usually come in.’

  It was about five minutes later when Dr Griffiths put down the telephone receiver and came back into the morning-room where the injured man was lying on quickly arranged blankets on the sofa. Bunch was moving a basin of water and clearing up after the doctor’s examination.

  ‘Well, that’s that,’ said Griffiths. ‘I’ve sent for an ambulance and I’ve notified the police.’ He stood, frowning, looking down on the patient who lay with closed eyes. His left hand was plucking in a nervous, spasmodic way at his side.

  ‘He was shot,’ said Griffiths. ‘Shot at fairly close quarters. He rolled his handkerchief up into a ball and plugged the wound with it so as to stop the bleeding.’

  ‘Could he have gone far after that happened?’ Bunch asked.

  ‘Oh, yes, it’s quite possible. A mortally wounded man has been known to pick himself up and walk along a street as though nothing had happened, and then suddenly collapse five or ten minutes later. So he needn’t have been shot in the church. Oh no. He may have been shot some distance away. Of course, he may have shot himself and then dropped the revolver and staggered blindly towards the church. I don’t quite know why he made for the church and not for the vicarage.’

  ‘Oh, I know that,’ said Bunch. ‘He said it: ‘Sanctuary.”

  The doctor stared at her. ‘Sanctuary?’

  ‘Here’s Julian,’ said Bunch, turning her head as she heard her husband’s steps in the hall. ‘Julian! Come here.’

  The Reverend Julian Harmon entered the room. His vague, scholarly manner always made him appear much older than he really was. ‘Dear me!’ said Julian Harmon, staring in a mild, puzzled manner at the surgical appliances and the prone figure on the sofa.

  Bunch explained with her usual economy of words. ‘He was in the church, dying. He’d been shot. Do you know him, Julian? I thought he said your name.’

  The vicar came up to the sofa and looked down at the dying man. ‘Poor fellow,’ he said, and shook his head. ‘No, I don’t know him. I’m almost sure I’ve never seen him before.’

  At that moment the dying man’s eyes opened once more. They went from the doctor to Julian Harmon and from him to his wife. The eyes stayed there, staring into Bunch’s face. Griffiths stepped forward.

  ‘If you could tell us,’ he said urgently.

  But with eyes fixed on Bunch, the man said in a weak voice, ‘Please—please—’ And then, with a slight tremor, he died . . .

  Sergeant Hayes licked his pencil and turned the page of his notebook.

>   ‘So that’s all you can tell me, Mrs Harmon?’

  ‘That’s all,’ said Bunch. ‘These are the things out of his coat pockets.’

  On a table at Sergeant Hayes’s elbow was a wallet, a rather battered old watch with the initials W.S. and the return half of a ticket to London. Nothing more.

  ‘You’ve found out who he is?’ asked Bunch.

  ‘A Mr and Mrs Eccles phoned up the station. He’s her brother, it seems. Name of Sandbourne. Been in a low state of health and nerves for some time. He’s been getting worse lately. The day before yesterday he walked out and didn’t come back. He took a revolver with him.’

  ‘And he came out here and shot himself with it?’ said Bunch. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, you see, he’d been depressed . . .’

  Bunch interrupted him. ‘I don’t mean that. I mean, why here?’

  Since Sergeant Hayes obviously did not know the answer to that one, he replied in an oblique fashion, ‘Come out here, he did, on the five-ten bus.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bunch again. ‘But why?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mrs Harmon,’ said Sergeant Hayes. ‘There’s no accounting. If the balance of the mind is disturbed—’

  Bunch finished for him. ‘They may do it anywhere. But it still seems to me unnecessary to take a bus out to a small country place like this. He didn’t know anyone here, did he?’

  ‘Not so far as can be ascertained,’ said Sergeant Hayes. He coughed in an apologetic manner and said, as he rose to his feet, ‘It may be as Mr and Mrs Eccles will come out and see you, ma’am—if you don’t mind, that is.’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind,’ said Bunch. ‘It’s very natural. I only wish I had something to tell them.’

  ‘I’ll be getting along,’ said Sergeant Hayes.

  ‘I’m only so thankful,’ said Bunch, going with him to the front door, ‘that it wasn’t murder.’

  A car had driven up at the vicarage gate. Sergeant Hayes, glancing at it, remarked: ‘Looks as though that’s Mr and Mrs Eccles come here now, ma’am, to talk with you.’

  Bunch braced herself to endure what, she felt, might be rather a difficult ordeal. ‘However,’ she thought, ‘I can always call Julian to help me. A clergyman’s a great help when people are bereaved.’