The afternoon was clear and beautiful. From far below there came the ripple of the sea, a soothing murmur. Clare sat down on the short green turf and stared out over the blue water. She must face this thing clearly. What did she mean to do?
She thought of Vivien with a kind of disgust. How the girl had crumpled up, how abjectly she had surrendered! Clare felt a rising contempt. She had no pluck–no grit.
Nevertheless, much as she disliked Vivien, Clare decided that she would continue to spare her for the present. When she got home she wrote a note to her, saying that although she could make no definite promise for the future, she had decided to keep silence for the present.
Life went on much the same in Daymer’s End. It was noticed locally that Lady Lee was looking far from well. On the other hand, Clare Halliwell bloomed. Her eyes were brighter, she carried her head higher, and there was a new confidence and assurance in her manner. She and Lady Lee often met, and it was noticed on these occasions that the younger woman watched the older with a flattering attention to her slightest word.
Sometimes Miss Halliwell would make remarks that seemed a little ambiguous–not entirely relevant to the matter in hand. She would suddenly say that she had changed her mind about many things lately–that it was curious how a little thing might alter one’s point of view entirely. One was apt to give way too much to pity–and that was really quite wrong.
When she said things of that kind she usually looked at Lady Lee in a peculiar way, and the latter would suddenly grow quite white, and look almost terrified.
But as the year drew on, these little subtleties became less apparent. Clare continued to make the same remarks, but Lady Lee seemed less affected by them. She began to recover her looks and spirits. Her old gay manner returned.
IV
One morning, when she was taking her dog for a walk, Clare met Gerald in a lane. The latter’s spaniel fraternized with Rover, while his master talked to Clare.
‘Heard our news?’ he said buoyantly. ‘I expect Vivien’s told you.’
‘What sort of news? Vivien hasn’t mentioned anything in particular.’
‘We’re going abroad–for a year–perhaps longer. Vivien’s fed up with this place. She never has cared for it, you know.’ He sighed, for a moment or two he looked downcast. Gerald Lee was very proud of his home. ‘Anyway, I’ve promised her a change. I’ve taken a villa near Algiers. A wonderful place, by all accounts.’ He laughed a little self-consciously. ‘Quite a second honeymoon, eh?’
For a minute or two Clare could not speak. Something seemed rising up in her throat and suffocating her. She could see the white walls of the villa, the orange trees, smell the soft perfumed breath of the South. A second honeymoon!
They were going to escape. Vivien no longer believed in her threats. She was going away, care-free, gay, happy.
Clare heard her own voice, a little hoarse in timbre, saying the appropriate things. How lovely! She envied them!
Mercifully at that moment Rover and the spaniel decided to disagree. In the scuffle that ensued further conversation was out of the question.
That afternoon Clare sat down and wrote a note to Vivien. She asked her to meet her on the Edge the following day, as she had something very important to say to her.
V
The next morning dawned bright and cloudless. Clare walked up the steep path of the Edge with a lightened heart. What a perfect day! She was glad that she had decided to say what had to be said out in the open, under the blue sky, instead of in her stuffy little sitting-room. She was sorry for Vivien, very sorry indeed, but the thing had got to be done.
She saw a yellow dot, like some yellow flower higher up by the side of the path. As she came nearer it resolved itself into the figure of Vivien, dressed in a yellow knitted frock, sitting on the short turf, her hands clasped round her knees.
‘Good morning,’ said Clare. ‘Isn’t it a perfect morning?’
‘Is it?’ said Vivien. ‘I haven’t noticed. What was it you wanted to say to me?’
Clare dropped down on the grass beside her.
‘I’m quite out of breath,’ she said apologetically. ‘It’s a steep pull up here.’
‘Damn you!’ cried Vivien shrilly. ‘Why can’t you say it, you smooth-faced devil, instead of torturing me?’
Clare looked shocked, and Vivien hastily recanted.
‘I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry, Clare. I am indeed. Only–my nerves are all to pieces, and your sitting here and talking about the weather–well, it got me all rattled.’
‘You’ll have a nervous breakdown if you’re not careful,’ said Clare coldly.
Vivien gave a short laugh.
‘Go over the edge? No–I’m not that kind. I’ll never be a loony. Now tell me–what’s all this about?’
Clare was silent for a moment, then she spoke, looking not at Vivien, but steadily out over the sea.
‘I thought it only fair to warn you that I can no longer keep silence about–about what happened last year.’
‘You mean–you’ll go to Gerald with the whole story?’
‘Unless you’ll tell him yourself. That would be infinitely the better way.’
Vivien laughed sharply.
‘You know well enough I haven’t got the pluck to do that.’
Clare did not contradict the assertion. She had had proof before of Vivien’s utterly craven temper.
‘It would be infinitely better,’ she repeated.
Again Vivien gave that short, ugly laugh.
‘It’s your precious conscience, I suppose, that drives you to do this?’ she sneered.
‘I dare say it seems very strange to you,’ said Clare quietly. ‘But it honestly is that.’
Vivien’s white, set face stared into hers.
‘My God!’ she said. ‘I really believe you mean it, too. You actually think that’s the reason.’
‘It is the reason.’
‘No, it isn’t. If so, you’d have done it before–long ago. Why didn’t you? No, don’t answer. I’ll tell you. You got more pleasure out of holding it over me–that’s why. You liked to keep me on tenterhooks, and make me wince and squirm. You’d say things–diabolical things–just to torment me and keep me perpetually on the jump. And so they did for a bit–till I got used to them.’
‘You got to feel secure,’ said Clare.
‘You saw that, didn’t you? But even then, you held back, enjoying your sense of power. But now we’re going away, escaping from you, perhaps even going to be happy–you couldn’t stick that at any price. So your convenient conscience wakes up!’
She stopped, panting. Clare said, still very quietly:
‘I can’t prevent your saying all these fantastical things; but I can assure you they’re not true.’
Vivien turned suddenly and caught her by the hand.
‘Clare–for God’s sake! I’ve been straight–I’ve done what you said. I’ve not seen Cyril again–I swear it.’
‘That’s nothing to do with it.’
‘Clare–haven’t you any pity–any kindness? I’ll go down on my knees to you.’
‘Tell Gerald yourself. If you tell him, he may forgive you.’
Vivien laughed scornfully.
‘You know Gerald better than that. He’ll be rabid–vindictive. He’ll make me suffer–he’ll make Cyril suffer. That’s what I can’t bear. Listen, Clare–he’s doing so well. He’s invented something–machinery, I don’t understand about it, but it may be a wonderful success. He’s working it out now–his wife supplies the money for it, of course. But she’s suspicious–jealous. If she finds out, and she will find out if Gerald starts proceedings for divorce–she’ll chuck Cyril–his work, everything. Cyril will be ruined.’
‘I’m not thinking of Cyril,’ said Clare. ‘I’m thinking of Gerald. Why don’t you think a little of him, too?’
‘Gerald! I don’t care that–’ she snapped her fingers ‘for Gerald. I never have. We might as well have the truth now we’re at it
. But I do care for Cyril. I’m a rotter, through and through, I admit it. I dare say he’s a rotter, too. But my feeling for him–that isn’t rotten. I’d die for him, do you hear? I’d die for him!’
‘That is easily said,’ said Clare derisively.
‘You think I’m not in earnest? Listen, if you go on with this beastly business, I’ll kill myself. Sooner than have Cyril brought into it and ruined, I’d do that.’
Clare remained unimpressed.
‘You don’t believe me?’ said Vivien, panting.
‘Suicide needs a lot of courage.’
Vivien flinched back as though she had been struck.
‘You’ve got me there. Yes, I’ve no pluck. If there were an easy way–’
‘There’s an easy way in front of you,’ said Clare. ‘You’ve only got to run straight down that green slope. It would be all over in a couple of minutes. Remember that child last year.’
‘Yes,’ said Vivien thoughtfully. ‘That would be easy–quite easy–if one really wanted to–’
Clare laughed.
Vivien turned to her.
‘Let’s have this out once more. Can’t you see that by keeping silence as long as you have, you’ve–you’ve no right to go back on it now? I’ll not see Cyril again. I’ll be a good wife to Gerald–I swear I will. Or I’ll go away and never see him again? Whichever you like. Clare–’
Clare got up.
‘I advise you,’ she said, ‘to tell your husband yourself…otherwise–I shall.’
‘I see,’ said Vivien softly. ‘Well, I can’t let Cyril suffer…’
She got up, stood still as though considering for a minute or two, then ran lightly down to the path, but instead of stopping, crossed it and went down the slope. Once she half turned her head and waved a hand gaily to Clare, then she ran on gaily, lightly, as a child might run, out of sight…
Clare stood petrified. Suddenly she heard cries, shouts, a clamour of voices. Then–silence.
She picked her way stiffly down to the path. About a hundred yards away a party of people coming up it had stopped. They were staring and pointing. Clare ran down and joined them.
‘Yes, Miss, someone’s fallen over the cliff. Two men have gone down–to see.’
She waited. Was it an hour, or eternity, or only a few minutes?
A man came toiling up the ascent. It was the Vicar in his shirt sleeves. His coat had been taken off to cover what lay below.
‘Horrible,’ he said, his face was very white. ‘Mercifully death must have been instantaneous.’
He saw Clare, and came over to her.
‘This must have been a terrible shock to you. You were taking a walk together, I understand?’
Clare heard herself answering mechanically.
Yes. They had just parted. No, Lady Lee’s manner had been quite normal. One of the group interposed the information that the lady was laughing and waving her hand. A terribly dangerous place–there ought to be a railing along the path.
The Vicar’s voice rose again.
‘An accident–yes, clearly an accident.’
And then suddenly Clare laughed–a hoarse, raucous laugh that echoed along the cliff.
‘That’s a damned lie,’ she said. ‘I killed her.’
She felt someone patting her shoulder, a voice spoke soothingly.
‘There, there. It’s all right. You’ll be all right presently.’
VI
But Clare was not all right presently. She was never all right again. She persisted in the delusion–certainly a delusion, since at least eight persons had witnessed the scene–that she had killed Vivien Lee.
She was very miserable till Nurse Lauriston came to take charge. Nurse Lauriston was very successful with mental cases.
‘Humour them, poor things,’ she would say comfortably.
So she told Clare that she was a wardress from Pentonville Prison. Clare’s sentence, she said, had been commuted to penal servitude for life. A room was fitted up as a cell.
‘And now, I think, we shall be quite happy and comfortable,’ said Nurse Lauriston to the doctor. ‘Round-bladed knives if you like, doctor, but I don’t think there’s the least fear of suicide. She’s not the type. Too self-centred. Funny how those are often the ones who go over the edge most easily.’
Afterword
‘The Edge’ was first published in Pearson’s Magazine in February 1927, with the suggestive editorial comment that the story was ‘written just before this author’s recent illness and mysterious disappearance’. Late on the evening of 3 December 1926, Agatha Christie left her home in Berkshire. Early on the morning of the following day, her car was found, empty, at Newlands Corner near Shere in Surrey. Policemen and volunteers searched the countryside in vain, but a week and a half elapsed before various members of staff at a hotel in Harrogate realized that the guest who had registered under the name of Theresa Neele was in fact the missing novelist.
After her return, Christie’s husband announced to the press that she had suffered ‘the most complete loss of memory’, but the circumstances surrounding this comparatively minor event in her life have given rise to some speculation over the years. Even while Christie was missing, Edgar Wallace, the famous writer of thrillers, commented in a newspaper article that, if not dead, she ‘must be alive and in full possession of her faculties, probably in London. To put it vulgarly,’ Wallace continued, ‘her first intention seems to have been to “spite” an unknown person.’ Neele was the surname of the woman who went on to become the second wife of Archibald Christie and it has been suggested that, after abandoning her car in order to embarrass her husband, Christie spent the night of 3 December with friends in London before travelling to Harrogate. It has even been suggested that the disappearance was staged as some kind of bizarre publicity stunt. Nevertheless, although some aspects of the incident remain unclear, there is nothing to substantiate any of these various alternative ‘explanations’ which therefore are little more than idle speculation.
Christmas Adventure
I
The big logs crackled merrily in the wide, open fireplace, and above their crackling rose the babel of six tongues all wagging industriously together. The house-party of young people were enjoying their Christmas.
Old Miss Endicott, known to most of those present as Aunt Emily, smiled indulgently on the clatter.
‘Bet you you can’t eat six mince-pies, Jean.’
‘Yes, I can.’
‘No, you can’t.’
‘You’ll get the pig out of the trifle if you do.’
‘Yes, and three helps of trifle, and two helps of plum-pudding.’
‘I hope the pudding will be good,’ said Miss Endicott apprehensively. ‘But they were only made three days ago. Christmas puddings ought to be made a long time before Christmas. Why, I remember when I was a child, I thought the last Collect before Advent–“Stir up, O Lord, we beseech Thee…”–referred in some way to stirring up the Christmas puddings!’
There was a polite pause while Miss Endicott was speaking. Not because any of the young people were in the least interested in her reminiscences of bygone days, but because they felt that some show of attention was due by good manners to their hostess. As soon as she stopped, the babel burst out again. Miss Endicott sighed, and glanced towards the only member of the party whose years approached her own, as though in search of sympathy–a little man with a curious egg-shaped head and fierce upstanding moustaches. Young people were not what they were, reflected Miss Endicott. In olden days there would have been a mute, respectful circle, listening to the pearls of wisdom dropped by their elders. Instead of which there was all this nonsensical chatter, most of it utterly incomprehensible. All the same, they were dear children! Her eyes softened as she passed them in review–tall, freckled Jean; little Nancy Cardell, with her dark, gipsy beauty; the two younger boys home from school, Johnnie and Eric, and their friend, Charlie Pease; and fair, beautiful Evelyn Haworth…At thought of the last, her brow contrac
ted a little, and her eyes wandered to where her eldest nephew, Roger, sat morosely silent, taking no part in the fun, with his eyes fixed on the exquisite Northern fairness of the young girl.
‘Isn’t the snow ripping?’ cried Johnnie, approaching the window. ‘Real Christmas weather. I say, let’s have a snowball fight. There’s lots of time before dinner, isn’t there, Aunt Emily?’
‘Yes, my dear. We have it at two o’clock. That reminds me, I had better see to the table.’
She hurried out of the room.
‘I tell you what. We’ll make a snowman!’ screamed Jean.
‘Yes, what fun! I know; we’ll do a snow statue of M. Poirot. Do you hear, M. Poirot? The great detective, Hercule Poirot, modelled in snow, by six celebrated artists!’
The little man in the chair bowed his acknowledgements with a twinkling eye.
‘Make him very handsome, my children,’ he urged. ‘I insist on that.’
‘Ra-ther!’
The troop disappeared like a whirlwind, colliding in the doorway with a stately butler who was entering with a note on a salver. The butler, his calm re-established, advanced towards Poirot.
Poirot took the note and tore it open. The butler departed. Twice the little man read the note through, then he folded it up and put it in his pocket. Not a muscle of his face had moved, and yet the contents of the note were sufficiently surprising. Scrawled in an illiterate hand were the words: ‘Don’t eat any plum-pudding.’
‘Very interesting,’ murmured M. Poirot to himself. ‘And quite unexpected.’
He looked across to the fireplace. Evelyn Haworth had not gone out with the rest. She was sitting staring at the fire, absorbed in thought, nervously twisting a ring on the third finger of her left hand round and round.
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