Midwinter Murder

by Agatha Christie

  Naomi had shaken hands with Mr Quin in her usual abrupt style.

  ‘We’re here for a picnic,’ she said. ‘And it seems to me we shall be pretty well frozen to the bone.’

  Mr Satterthwaite shivered.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said uncertainly, ‘we shall find a sheltered spot?’

  ‘Which this isn’t,’ agreed Naomi. ‘Still, it’s worth seeing, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ Mr Satterthwaite turned to Mr Quin. ‘Miss Carlton Smith calls this place the World’s End. Rather a good name, eh?’

  Mr Quin nodded his head slowly several times.

  ‘Yes—a very suggestive name. I suppose one only comes once in one’s life to a place like that—a place where one can’t go on any longer.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Naomi sharply.

  He turned to her.

  ‘Well, usually, there’s a choice, isn’t there? To the right or to the left. Forward or back. Here—there’s the road behind you and in front of you—nothing.’

  Naomi stared at him. Suddenly she shivered and began to retrace her steps towards the others. The two men fell in beside her. Mr Quin continued to talk, but his tone was now easily conversational.

  ‘Is the small car yours, Miss Carlton Smith?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You drive yourself? One needs, I think, a good deal of nerve to do that round here. The turns are rather appalling. A moment of inattention, a brake that failed to hold, and—over the edge—down—down—down. It would be—very easily done.’

  They had now joined the others. Mr Satterthwaite introduced his friend. He felt a tug at his arm. It was Naomi. She drew him apart from the others.

  ‘Who is he?’ she demanded fiercely.

  Mr Satterthwaite gazed at her in astonishment.

  ‘Well, I hardly know. I mean, I have known him for some years now—we have run across each other from time to time, but in the sense of knowing actually—’

  He stopped. These were futilities that he was uttering, and the girl by his side was not listening. She was standing with her head bent down, her hands clenched by her sides.

  ‘He knows things,’ she said. ‘He knows things . . . How does he know?’

  Mr Satterthwaite had no answer. He could only look at her dumbly, unable to comprehend the storm that shook her.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ she muttered.

  ‘Afraid of Mr Quin?’

  ‘I’m afraid of his eyes. He sees things . . .’

  Something cold and wet fell on Mr Satterthwaite’s cheek. He looked up.

  ‘Why, it’s snowing,’ he exclaimed, in great surprise.

  ‘A nice day to have chosen for a picnic,’ said Naomi.

  She had regained control of herself with an effort.

  What was to be done? A babel of suggestions broke out. The snow came down thick and fast. Mr Quin made a suggestion and everyone welcomed it. There was a little stone Cassecroute at the end of the row of houses. There was a stampede towards it.

  ‘You have your provisions,’ said Mr Quin, ‘and they will probably be able to make you some coffee.’

  It was a tiny place, rather dark, for the one little window did little towards lighting it, but from one end came a grateful glow of warmth. An old Corsican woman was just throwing a handful of branches on the fire. It blazed up, and by its light the newcomers realized that others were before them.

  Three people were sitting at the end of a bare wooden table. There was something unreal about the scene to Mr Satterthwaite’s eye, there was something even more unreal about the people.

  The woman who sat at the end of the table looked like a duchess—that is, she looked more like a popular conception of a duchess. She was the ideal stage grande dame. Her aristocratic head was held high, her exquisitely dressed hair was of a snowy white. She was dressed in grey—soft draperies that fell about her in artistic folds. One long white hand supported her chin, the other was holding a roll spread with pâté de foie gras. On her right was a man with a very white face, very black hair, and horn-rimmed spectacles. He was marvellously and beautifully dressed. At the moment his head was thrown back, and his left arm was thrown out as though he were about to declaim something.

  On the left of the white-haired lady was a jolly-looking little man with a bald head. After the first glance, nobody looked at him.

  There was just a moment of uncertainty, and then the Duchess (the authentic Duchess) took charge.

  ‘Isn’t this storm too dreadful?’ she said pleasantly, coming forward, and smiling a purposeful and efficient smile that she had found very useful when serving on Welfare and other committees. ‘I suppose you’ve been caught in it just like we have? But Corsica is a marvellous place. I only arrived this morning.’

  The man with the black hair got up, and the Duchess with a gracious smile slipped into his seat.

  The white-haired lady spoke.

  ‘We have been here a week,’ she said.

  Mr Satterthwaite started. Could anyone who had once heard that voice ever forget it? It echoed round the stone room, charged with emotion—with exquisite melancholy. It seemed to him that she had said something wonderful, memorable, full of meaning. She had spoken from her heart.

  He spoke in a hurried aside to Mr Tomlinson.

  ‘The man in spectacles is Mr Vyse—the producer, you know.’

  The retired Indian judge was looking at Mr Vyse with a good deal of dislike.

  ‘What does he produce?’ he asked. ‘Children?’

  ‘Oh, dear me, no,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, shocked by the mere mention of anything so crude in connection with Mr Vyse. ‘Plays.’

  ‘I think,’ said Naomi, ‘I’ll go out again. It’s too hot in here.’

  Her voice, strong and harsh, made Mr Satterthwaite jump. She made almost blindly, as it seemed, for the door, brushing Mr Tomlinson aside. But in the doorway itself she came face to face with Mr Quin, and he barred her way.

  ‘Go back and sit down,’ he said.

  His voice was authoritative. To Mr Satterthwaite’s surprise the girl hesitated a minute and then obeyed. She sat down at the foot of the table as far from the others as possible.

  Mr Satterthwaite bustled forward and button-holed the producer.

  ‘You may not remember me,’ he began, ‘my name is Satterthwaite.’

  ‘Of course!’ A long bony hand shot out and enveloped the other’s in a painful grip. ‘My dear man. Fancy meeting you here. You know Miss Nunn, of course?’

  Mr Satterthwaite jumped. No wonder that voice had been familiar. Thousands, all over England, had thrilled to those wonderful emotion-laden tones. Rosina Nunn! England’s greatest emotional actress. Mr Satterthwaite too had lain under her spell. No one like her for interpreting a part—for bringing out the finer shades of meaning. He had thought of her always as an intellectual actress, one who comprehended and got inside the soul of her part.

  He might be excused for not recognizing her. Rosina Nunn was volatile in her tastes. For twenty-five years of her life she had been a blonde. After a tour in the States she had returned with the locks of the raven, and she had taken up tragedy in earnest. This ‘French Marquise’ effect was her latest whim.

  ‘Oh, by the way, Mr Judd—Miss Nunn’s husband,’ said Vyse, carelessly introducing the man with the bald head.

  Rosina Nunn had had several husbands, Mr Satterthwaite knew. Mr Judd was evidently the latest.

  Mr Judd was busily unwrapping packages from a hamper at his side. He addressed his wife.

  ‘Some more pâté, dearest? That last wasn’t as thick as you like it.’

  Rosina Nunn surrendered her roll to him, as she murmured simply:

  ‘Henry thinks of the most enchanting meals. I always leave the commissariat to him.’

  ‘Feed the brute,’ said Mr Judd, and laughed. He patted his wife on the shoulder.

  ‘Treats her just as though she were a dog,’ murmured the melancholy voice of Mr Vyse in Mr Satterthwaite’s ear. ‘Cuts up he
r food for her. Odd creatures, women.’

  Mr Satterthwaite and Mr Quin between them unpacked lunch. Hard-boiled eggs, cold ham and Gruyère cheese were distributed round the table. The Duchess and Miss Nunn appeared to be deep in murmured confidences. Fragments came along in the actress’s deep contralto.

  ‘The bread must be lightly toasted, you understand? Then just a very thin layer of marmalade. Rolled up and put in the oven for one minute—not more. Simply delicious.’

  ‘That woman lives for food,’ murmured Mr Vyse. ‘Simply lives for it. She can’t think of anything else. I remember in Riders to the Sea—you know ‘and it’s the fine quiet time I’ll be having.’ I could not get the effect I wanted. At last I told her to think of peppermint creams—she’s very fond of peppermint creams. I got the effect at once—a sort of far-away look that went to your very soul.’

  Mr Satterthwaite was silent. He was remembering.

  Mr Tomlinson opposite cleared his throat preparatory to entering into conversation.

  ‘You produce plays, I hear, eh? I’m fond of a good play myself. Jim the Penman, now, that was a play.’

  ‘My God,’ said Mr Vyse, and shivered down all the long length of him.

  ‘A tiny clove of garlic,’ said Miss Nunn to the Duchess. ‘You tell your cook. It’s wonderful.’

  She sighed happily and turned to her husband.

  ‘Henry,’ she said plaintively, ‘I’ve never even seen the caviare.’

  ‘You’re as near as nothing to sitting on it,’ returned Mr Judd cheerfully. ‘You put it behind you on the chair.’

  Rosina Nunn retrieved it hurriedly, and beamed round the table.

  ‘Henry is too wonderful. I’m so terribly absent-minded. I never know where I’ve put anything.’

  ‘Like the day you packed your pearls in your sponge bag,’ said Henry jocosely. ‘And then left it behind at the hotel. My word, I did a bit of wiring and phoning that day.’

  ‘They were insured,’ said Miss Nunn dreamily. ‘Not like my opal.’

  A spasm of exquisite heartrending grief flitted across her face.

  Several times, when in the company of Mr Quin, Mr Satterthwaite had had the feeling of taking part in a play. The illusion was with him very strongly now. This was a dream. Everyone had his part. The words ‘my opal’ were his own cue. He leant forward.

  ‘Your opal, Miss Nunn?’

  ‘Have you got the butter, Henry? Thank you. Yes, my opal. It was stolen, you know. And I never got it back.’

  ‘Do tell us,’ said Mr Satterthwaite.

  ‘Well—I was born in October—so it was lucky for me to wear opals, and because of that I wanted a real beauty. I waited a long time for it. They said it was one of the most perfect ones known. Not very large—about the size of a two-shilling piece—but oh! the colour and the fire.’

  She sighed. Mr Satterthwaite observed that the Duchess was fidgeting and seemed uncomfortable, but nothing could stop Miss Nunn now. She went on, and the exquisite inflections of her voice made the story sound like some mournful Saga of old.

  ‘It was stolen by a young man called Alec Gerard. He wrote plays.’

  ‘Very good plays,’ put in Mr Vyse professionally. ‘Why, I once kept one of his plays for six months.’

  ‘Did you produce it?’ asked Mr Tomlinson.

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Mr Vyse, shocked at the idea. ‘But do you know, at one time I actually thought of doing so?’

  ‘It had a wonderful part in it for me,’ said Miss Nunn. ‘Rachel’s Children, it was called—though there wasn’t anyone called Rachel in the play. He came to talk to me about it—at the theatre. I liked him. He was a nice-looking—and very shy, poor boy. I remember’—a beautiful far-away look stole over her face—‘he bought me some peppermint creams. The opal was lying on the dressing-table. He’d been out in Australia, and he knew something about opals. He took it over to the light to look at it. I suppose he must have slipped it into his pocket then. I missed it as soon as he’d gone. There was a to-do. You remember?’

  She turned to Mr Vyse.

  ‘Oh, I remember,’ said Mr Vyse with a groan.

  ‘They found the empty case in his rooms,’ continued the actress. ‘He’d been terribly hard up, but the very next day he was able to pay large sums into his bank. He pretended to account for it by saying that a friend of his had put some money on a horse for him, but he couldn’t produce the friend. He said he must have put the case in his pocket by mistake. I think that was a terribly weak thing to say, don’t you? He might have thought of something better than that . . . I had to go and give evidence. There were pictures of me in all the papers. My press agent said it was very good publicity—but I’d much rather have had my opal back.’

  She shook her head sadly.

  ‘Have some preserved pineapple?’ said Mr Judd.

  Miss Nunn brightened up.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘I gave it to you just now.’

  Miss Nunn looked behind her and in front of her, eyed her grey silk pochette, and then slowly drew up a large purple silk bag that was reposing on the ground beside her. She began to turn the contents out slowly on the table, much to Mr Satterthwaite’s interest.

  There was a powder puff, a lip-stick, a small jewel case, a skein of wool, another powder puff, two handkerchiefs, a box of chocolate creams, an enamelled paper knife, a mirror, a little dark brown wooden box, five letters, a walnut, a small square of mauve crêpe de chine, a piece of ribbon and the end of a croissant. Last of all came the preserved pineapple.

  ‘Eureka,’ murmured Mr Satterthwaite softly.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Mr Satterthwaite hastily. ‘What a charming paper knife.’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it? Somebody gave it to me. I can’t remember who.’

  ‘That’s an Indian box,’ remarked Mr Tomlinson. ‘Ingenious little things, aren’t they?’

  ‘Somebody gave me that too,’ said Miss Nunn. ‘I’ve had it a long time. It used always to stand on my dressing-table at the theatre. I don’t think it’s very pretty, though, do you?’

  The box was of plain dark brown wood. It pushed open from the side. On the top of it were two plain flaps of wood that could be turned round and round.

  ‘Not pretty, perhaps,’ said Mr Tomlinson with a chuckle. ‘But I’ll bet you’ve never seen one like it.’

  Mr Satterthwaite leaned forward. He had an excited feeling.

  ‘Why did you say it was ingenious?’ he demanded.

  ‘Well, isn’t it?’

  The judge appealed to Miss Nunn. She looked at him blankly.

  ‘I suppose I mustn’t show them the trick of it—eh?’ Miss Nunn still looked blank.

  ‘What trick?’ asked Mr Judd.

  ‘God bless my soul, don’t you know?’

  He looked round the inquiring faces.

  ‘Fancy that now. May I take the box a minute? Thank you.’

  He pushed it open.

  ‘Now then, can anyone give me something to put in it—not too big. Here’s a small piece of Gruyère cheese. That will do capitally. I place it inside, shut the box.’

  He fumbled for a minute or two with his hands.

  ‘Now see—’

  He opened the box again. It was empty.

  ‘Well, I never,’ said Mr Judd. ‘How do you do it?’

  ‘It’s quite simple. Turn the box upside down, and move the left hand flap half-way round, then shut the right hand flap. Now to bring our piece of cheese back again we must reverse that. The right hand flap halfway round, and the left one closed, still keeping the box upside down. And now—Hey Presto!’

  The box slid open. A gasp went round the table. The cheese was there but so was something else. A round thing that blinked forth every colour of the rainbow.

  ‘My opal!’

  It was a clarion note. Rosina Nunn stood upright, her hands clasped to her breast.

  ‘My opal! How did it get there?’

  Henry Jud
d cleared his throat.

  ‘I—er—I rather think, Rosy, my girl, you must have put it there yourself.’

  Someone got up from the table and blundered out into the air. It was Naomi Carlton Smith. Mr Quin followed her.

  ‘But when? Do you mean—?’

  Mr Satterthwaite watched her while the truth dawned on her. It took over two minutes before she got it.

  ‘You mean last year—at the theatre.’

  ‘You know,’ said Henry apologetically. ‘You do fiddle with things, Rosy. Look at you with the caviare today.’

  Miss Nunn was painfully following out her mental processes.

  ‘I just slipped it in without thinking, and then I suppose I turned the box about and did the thing by accident, but then—but then—’ At last it came. ‘But then Alec Gerard didn’t steal it after all. Oh!’—a full-throated cry, poignant, moving—‘How dreadful!’

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Vyse, ‘that can be put right now.’

  ‘Yes, but he’s been in prison a year.’ And then she startled them. She turned sharp on the Duchess. ‘Who is that girl—that girl who has just gone out?’

  ‘Miss Carlton Smith,’ said the Duchess, ‘was engaged to Mr Gerard. She—took the thing very hard.’

  Mr Satterthwaite stole softly away. The snow had stopped, Naomi was sitting on the stone wall. She had a sketch book in her hand, some coloured crayons were scattered around. Mr Quin was standing beside her.

  She held out the sketch book to Mr Satterthwaite. It was a very rough affair—but it had genius. A kaleidoscopic whirl of snowflakes with a figure in the centre.

  ‘Very good,’ said Mr Satterthwaite.

  Mr Quin looked up at the sky.

  ‘The storm is over,’ he said. ‘The roads will be slippery, but I do not think there will be any accident—now.’

  ‘There will be no accident,’ said Naomi. Her voice was charged with some meaning that Mr Satterthwaite did not understand. She turned and smiled at him—a sudden dazzling smile. ‘Mr Satterthwaite can drive back with me if he likes.’

  He knew then to what length desperation had driven her.

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Quin, ‘I must bid you goodbye.’

  He moved away.

  ‘Where is he going?’ said Mr Satterthwaite, staring after him.