Agatha Christie Investigates Omnibus

by Alison Joseph

  ‘Oh, Mrs. Christie, it would be a pleasure,’ he said. ‘We could even use the garden if this rain keeps off.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Agatha’s next visit was to Laurel Cottage. The noonday clouds were lifting, and there was sunlight filtering across the clematis.

  Clifford opened the door. He looked unkempt and sleepless. ‘Ah. It’s only you.’ He stared at her, as if expecting someone else to appear from behind her.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s only me.’

  He shifted to one side, and gestured for her to come inside.

  ‘I hope I’m not intruding,’ she said.

  ‘That’s what they all say. I’ve had the police here for days, it feels like. I’m surprised they haven’t arrested me as well as Bertha. They tell me all kinds of things that Bertha has said, all sorts of things she claims to have admitted to. And I don’t believe a word of it, I think they’re just hoping they can provoke me into incriminating her. Well, I refuse to do so.’ He had wandered into the sitting room, and now stood in the sunlight in the middle of the room.

  ‘Mr. Fullerton,’ she said. ‘From what I can gather, Miss Wilkins is in fact your wife.’

  His response was one of shock. He sank, slowly, into a chair, as if deflated. His mouth was open, but he said nothing. She sat on the edge of an armchair seat and waited.

  After a moment he found his voice. ‘Did Arthur tell you?’

  ‘Arthur? No.’

  ‘Good. I’ll give him that at least.’

  ‘How does Arthur know?’

  He stared at the carpet at his feet. ‘He got it out of Bertha. He met her, on one of her days up at the grave. We had a child, do you know that too?’

  She nodded.

  ‘You don’t miss much, do you, Mrs. Christie.’ There was a chill in his tone. ‘Arthur began to talk to her, he has an engaging manner, as I’m sure you know, and she confided in him. That’s all. She swore him to secrecy, and it seems he has told no one else.’

  ‘Why is the marriage secret?’

  He leaned back in his chair with a weary sigh. ‘I married Miss Wilkins, last August, because it was the right thing to do. And then the baby died. And so there was no reason for us to be man and wife. She had by that time fallen for Mr. Coates.’ He picked at a stray thread on the cushion beside him. ‘However,’ he went on, ‘I had in fact fallen in love with Miss Wilkins. That is my tragedy.’ He looked up at her, a flash of rage in his eyes. ‘The fact that she has now been accused of murder is her tragedy. And now I suggest you leave. Unless there’s anything else you wish to ask me, as it seems to be open season on my private life.’

  Agatha got to her feet. ‘Mr. Fullerton, I apologise. Like you, I am trying to prevent a miscarriage of justice. But I, too, am a private person, and the last thing I want to do is intrude on anyone else’s life. I shall leave now, and I won’t bother you again.’

  *

  Agatha walked back down into the village in the afternoon sunlight. She wondered whether anyone in the village would be speaking to her at the end of all this. She thought about her lady detective, and how it would work much better if she was less like herself, older perhaps, not a young mother, but a spinster. People expect nosiness of a lady singleton, she thought. And I’m not nosy. If I was nosy, I would have put another question to Mr. Fullerton. About whether, through his mother and her involvement with the Tapton Trust, he does in fact have a claim to Hainault Hall. Still, there’s at least one person who doesn’t mind nosiness.

  *

  Sylvia’s gate seemed once again to be newly painted, and the window boxes showed perfectly matching rows of pansies. There was the barking of dogs as she rang the bell.

  Sylvia opened the door herself. ‘Oh, Agatha, what a relief. I’ve been leaving you messages with your Alice but I’m not convinced she passes them on – there’s so much to talk about. Has Miss Wilkins owned up to her dastardly deeds yet?’

  ‘Not yet, but I do hope you can help, Sylvia.’

  ‘I’d be delighted to. Do come in. I was just weeding the rose beds but I’ll wash my hands and see if Ethel can make us some tea.’

  Sylvia was determined to share her theories with Agatha. ‘It’s a woman scorned, you see, oldest story there is, I’m surprised you haven’t used that in one of your books, well I expect you will soon. The thing is, Mrs. Christie, I’ve been working it out. All Miss Wilkins had to do was get the poison into their night-time drinks. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Fullerton helped her too, you know, I’ve never trusted that man, I know he helps out at the clinic in Bethnal Green from time to time but compared to his mother, who really was so wonderfully committed to it all, he’s really rather a fly-by-night …’

  ‘And that’s why I’ve come.’ Agatha’s voice was rather loud in the neat sitting room.

  Sylvia blinked at the interruption.

  ‘There seems to be a very strong connection,’ Agatha went on, ‘between Mr. Fullerton and the Charterhouse Trust, which in turn is connected with the Taptons who used to own Hainault Hall. And I thought, if anyone knows, it will be you.’

  Sylvia clasped her hands together on her pleated skirt. ‘Well, certainly,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you what I can. It all goes back to Mr. Fullerton’s mother, Moira. I know Mrs. Cohen knew her well, and she does see Mr. Fullerton too from time to time, although rarely, I gather. The view is that he’s far less interested in the work than his mother was.’

  ‘There seems to be evidence,’ Agatha said, ‘that Mr. Fullerton has a claim to the Hall. Through a promise made to his mother.’

  Sylvia leaned back in her chair. ‘Oh, my dear, that rumour has been around for years, and never proved. My theory is that it’s all about Sir Wyndham’s ghastly second wife. No one wanted her to have the hall, and so everyone rather hoped that someone else might own it after all. The only person who’d really know would be the niece of that second wife, who inherited it from her aunt and who sold it to Mr. Sutton.’

  ‘Do you know where she is?’

  Sylvia was bright-cheeked and animated. ‘Oh, I can certainly find out for you. I’ll ask old Mrs. Tanner who used to run that funny old shop on the corner, selling colanders and mops and things, she seems to know what becomes of absolutely anyone who has left the village. How exciting. I knew there’d be more investigating to do.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Berkshire countryside looked particularly appealing in the pink evening light. Agatha motored smoothly along the country roads, following Mrs. Tanner’s directions as conveyed by Mrs. Ettridge, ‘She’s called Miss Gibb, the niece, Miss Nancy Gibb, Mrs. Tanner has told her to expect you, you simply must tell me everything she says, how fascinating, it’s all going to be such a story …’

  Agatha turned down a tree-lined lane and at last pulled up outside a stone double fronted house with shrubs in ornamental pots either side of a cream painted front door.

  Agatha rang the bell.

  The door was opened by a middle-aged woman with neat grey hair pinned up in a bun, and a tailored green dress.

  ‘You must be Mrs. Christie,’ she said. ‘Do come in.’

  She showed her into a drawing room, which was airy and tidy, with cream upholstery and green cushions.

  ‘I’d heard we had a famous author living in our county,’ she said.

  ‘Hardly famous,’ Agatha said.

  The woman studied her for a moment, then collected herself. ‘I can offer you tea,’ she said. ‘Or lemonade. I made some earlier.’

  ‘Lemonade would be wonderful,’ Agatha said.

  ‘I was so sorry to hear about these goings on in the old village,’ Miss Gibb said, once they had settled in the drawing room. ‘Of course I never lived there myself, but my aunt was fond of the place when she was in the Hall. Although it got too much for her in the end.’

  Agatha sipped her drink, which was sharp and cool. ‘This is lovely,’ she said.

  ‘It’s the squeeze of lime,’ Miss Gibb said. ‘Makes all the di
fference.’

  ‘The thing is –’ Agatha placed her glass on the tray. ‘I’ve been going through some parish papers. And it seems that there was a dispute about the ownership of Hainault Hall.’

  ‘Do you mean that Fullerton man?’

  Agatha nodded.

  ‘Oh, dear, I’m afraid I don’t trust that man an inch. When I heard what had happened, the vicarage library of all places, and then the Wilkins summerhouse, I had a nasty feeling he was behind it all. I suppose you’ve seen those boundary plans?’

  Agatha nodded.

  ‘That’s the problem. And Mr. Fullerton’s mother worked for my aunt, well, not for her, but for my aunt’s husband, before he died. Then my aunt, as the second Lady Tapton, acquired the house on his death, and that’s how it passed to me as her sole heir. And there was talk that my uncle, as I suppose I must call him, had promised Mrs. Fullerton some kind of inheritance. She was a devoted woman, there’s no doubt about that, and she nursed him in his final illness, my aunt always said they couldn’t have managed without her. But I have to say, there was nothing, nothing at all for her, when it came to the reading of the will. And I don’t think she minded for herself, but perhaps she liked the idea of her boy going up in the world and having some kind of position, some kind of share of an inheritance.

  ‘But how he ever thought he had a claim to the house, I’ll never know. And then it all got entangled with the Wilkins estate, with that land around the summerhouse being in dispute, and no one being sure where the line had been drawn, and then the vicar got involved, and I think Mr. Fullerton saw his chance to stake his claim too.’

  She took a sip of her drink.

  ‘Of course, for me it all means nothing. That house was always a millstone as far as I was concerned. I have no possible use for it myself. So when Mr. Sutton came along, it was really a great help. An artist, too. The family would have been delighted,’ she said. ‘Particularly my uncle’s first wife. She was very artistic, apparently. Very sensitive. It’s my belief Sir Wyndham never really got over her death. He married my aunt so soon after, but they never seemed terribly happy. I think he never really had the love to give my aunt.’

  She surveyed Agatha for a moment, as if weighing something up, then spoke again.

  ‘I don’t usually say this to people, but you see, my aunt Iris was not a nice woman. A very harsh, cruel woman. My father was her younger brother, and he was, frankly, terrified of her. He was sent away to school when he was eight, and he always said it was relief to be at school because it meant he was out of her way. So to have inherited that house from her was a mixed blessing. It wasn’t something I wanted to have much to do with, so Mr. Sutton coming along was a great relief. Although, I must confess I’m somewhat worried about the amount of money it will require in maintenance.’

  ‘And Mr. Fullerton?’ Agatha prompted.

  She sighed. ‘As I say, I don’t trust him. I know he was hanging around those Wilkins sisters. I fear that he thought if he got in with them he could at last inherit their land and that way make a claim on the Hall.’

  They sipped their drinks in silence for a moment.

  ‘A writer,’ Miss Gibb said, suddenly. ‘I love to read. I read whatever I can get my hands on. Do you know Freeman Wills Croft? A wonderful writer. And E. C. Bentley …’

  A sudden mewing interrupted them.

  ‘Oh, Captain, there you are.’ She jumped up and opened the door. A sleek, black cat slinked into the room and jumped up on to the sofa next to her, whence it fixed Agatha with a hard stare.

  ‘I’ve thought of writing myself,’ Nancy was saying. ‘Although I’m not sure what I’d write about. Perhaps it helps, having a murder take place in one’s own village.’

  ‘Really, it doesn’t.’ Agatha’s tone was emphatic. ‘Take my word for it.’

  ‘My own life is rather quiet,’ Miss Gibb went on. ‘I thought of teaching as a profession, at one point. But I inherited comfortably from my father, which means I don’t really need to work. I tend my garden, I lead a tapestry group at the church. I don’t need much, you see. That’s why that house was such a burden. Long may Mr. Sutton stay there, as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘I have another question,’ Agatha said. ‘Those graves, on the hillside there –’

  Miss Gibb’s face clouded. ‘The children’s grave? Very sad. But do you know, I never heard my aunt express a single regret about those babies. And they were so small, just a few months. I think about that poor man, my uncle as he became, trying to care for those two babies, only to see them die too. They say it was the same weakness that the mother had, that they’d inherited it. I remember the funeral. Two little white coffins. I’ll never forget the expression of triumph on my aunt’s face. And her husband, standing there, haunted, it seemed, haunted by the ghosts of those two children, their lives barely started.

  ‘But my aunt didn’t shed a tear. Not one. Her husband also didn’t cry. It was worse than that. He looked ill. Ill with the grief of it. No wonder the marriage was so unhappy. There was even the rumour of a mistress in those years. I wouldn’t be at all surprised. A man like that, he would have been yearning for the love he’d known with his first wife. And he’d never have found it with my aunt.’

  ‘When did he die?’ Agatha asked.

  She frowned, considering. ‘It must have been about four, five years later. It’ll be in your parish records, won’t it, dear. I think he died of grief. And then my aunt mouldered away in that house for years and years, until she finally went into a home. And then last year she died, and the house came to me. And as I say, it was the last thing I wanted. All that misery. Those two small ghosts …’ Her voice tailed away. ‘Well, I expect you need to be going.’

  They got to their feet, and she led Agatha out to the hall. Captain trotted at her side.

  ‘I hope I’ve been some help,’ she said.

  ‘You have. Really, Miss Gibb, you’ve been a great help.’

  Miss Gibb opened her front door, peered out into the evening air. Captain suddenly bolted past her and ran out on to the drive. They could see the golden flashes of his eyes in the darkness.

  Miss Gibb shook her hand. ‘It’s very nice to meet you. Next time, do bring me one of your books, won’t you. I can add them to my collection.’

  *

  The next morning, Agatha was on the station platform at nine-forty-one, and caught the nine-forty-three train up to London. From Waterloo she caught a taxi to Bethnal Green and went straight to the Charterhouse Clinic. Mrs. Cohen appeared delighted to see her, in between issuing instructions to a rather terrified young man and introducing her to a dark-haired middle aged woman in an extraordinary patchwork coat. ‘My cousin,’ she announced, ‘another one, I think you met Mrs. Solomon before, this is Miss Samuel …’

  Agatha managed to explain the reason for her visit.

  ‘Mr. Fullerton?’ Mrs. Cohen said. ‘We see him from time to time. Rarely, I have to say, although the Tapton Trust is still very generous to us. Records? I’m sure we can help. Let me find the Brigadier, he’s always the one to ask about such things.’

  Five minutes later, Agatha was shown into a tiny room with a slit of a window at ceiling level and beige gloss-painted walls. Two hours after that she emerged, brushing from her sleeves the dust of several piles of boxes that had not been touched for months, if not years.

  She ate a sandwich at Waterloo station and caught the train back to Sunningdale. She came out of the station and walked away from the village up the hill, towards Hainault Hall. Anyone seeing her would have remarked on how she seemed tense and anxious, and not her usual composed self at all.

  She walked up the drive of the Hall, and rang the bell. She was relieved when a familiar figure opened the door.

  ‘Oh, Mr. Sutton. I’m so glad you’re here. I was afraid you’d be at the vicarage. The thing is, I don’t know whom else to ask, but I really need your help.’

  Arthur took in her pale face, her nervous speech.

&n
bsp; ‘Mrs. Christie – what is the matter? Do come in, come in …’

  ‘I have to be honest, Mr. Sutton. I fear that these murders aren’t over.’

  ‘But – surely …’

  ‘I have a terrible sense of premonition,’ she went on. ‘You might say it’s just me being a teller of stories, but I fear there will be another victim. And I know it sounds awfully dramatic, but I feel that we have to step in. You and I. I really couldn’t think of anyone else to ask.’

  ‘Mrs. Christie …’ Arthur led her into the hall. ‘I wouldn’t dream of dismissing your fears in that way. Would you mind joining me in the studio, where I was settled?’

  She followed him along the passageway, through the green baize door. The musty corridor opened out into a wide, light-filled room.

  ‘It was the games room, I believe,’ he said, indicating the space around them. ‘Billiards or something. I’ve hardly touched it. But with this much light, it suits me well.’

  She saw his easel. Next to it were untidy boxes of paint. In one corner there was a butler’s sink, an old wooden draining board, covered with jars which were smeared bright with colour.

  The walls were pale and peeling. There was a fireplace, above which hung a painting, a landscape, she thought, in muted greys and blues. In one corner there was a painting of a man in military uniform. In another, a vivid portrait of a woman.

  Arthur found a chair, dusted it off with a rag. ‘Now, Mrs. Christie. Do gather yourself and tell me what this is all about.’

  ‘Oh, Mr. Sutton. Your fears that Clifford Fullerton has a claim to your house have proved right.

  Arthur threw her a sharp look. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘As you yourself surmised, it’s all tied up with the promise that was made to his mother.’

  Arthur stood in the middle of the room. He looked suddenly thoughtful. ‘That would explain …’ He looked up at her. ‘That would explain why he is so angry with me,’ he said. ‘How did you find out?’