The Witness for the Prosecution

by Agatha Christie

  ‘And then suddenly one day they departed, cleared out one morning early, and never came back. The agents here got a letter from Mr Turner, written from London, instructing him to sell up the place as quickly as possible. The furniture was sold off, and the house itself was sold to a Mr Mauleverer. He only actually lived in it a fort-night—then he advertised it to be let furnished. The people who have it now are a consumptive French professor and his daughter. They have been there just ten days.’

  Jack digested this in silence.

  ‘I don’t see that that gets us any forrarder,’ he said at last. ‘Do you?’

  ‘I rather want to know more about the Turners,’ said Lavington quietly. ‘They left very early in the morning, you remember. As far as I can make out, nobody actually saw them go. Mr Turner has been seen since—but I can’t find anybody who has seen Mrs Turner.’

  Jack paled.

  ‘It can’t be—you don’t mean—’

  ‘Don’t excite yourself, young man. The influence of anyone at the point of death—and especially of violent death—upon their surroundings is very strong. Those surroundings might conceivably absorb that influence, transmitting it in turn to a suitably tuned receiver—in this case yourself.’

  ‘But why me?’ murmured Jack rebelliously. ‘Why not someone who could do some good?’

  ‘You are regarding the force as intelligent and purposeful, instead of blind and mechanical. I do not believe myself in earthbound spirits, haunting a spot for one particular purpose. But the thing I have seen, again and again, until I can hardly believe it to be pure coincidence, is a kind of blind groping towards justice—a subterranean moving of blind forces, always working obscurely towards that end …’

  He shook himself—as though casting off some obsession that pre-occupied him, and turned to Jack with a ready smile.

  ‘Let us banish the subject—for tonight at all events,’ he suggested.

  Jack agreed readily enough, but did not find it so easy to banish the subject from his own mind.

  During the weekend, he made vigorous inquiries of his own, but succeeded in eliciting little more than the doctor had done. He had definitely given up playing golf before breakfast.

  The next link in the chain came from an unexpected quarter. On getting back one day, Jack was informed that a young lady was waiting to see him. To his intense surprise it proved to be the girl of the garden—the pansy girl, as he always called her in his own mind. She was very nervous and confused.

  ‘You will forgive me, Monsieur, for coming to seek you like this? But there is something I want to tell you—I—’

  She looked round uncertainly.

  ‘Come in here,’ said Jack promptly, leading the way into the now deserted ‘Ladies’ Drawing-room’ of the hotel, a dreary apartment, with a good deal of red plush about it. ‘Now, sit down, Miss, Miss—’

  ‘Marchaud, Monsieur, Felise Marchaud.’

  ‘Sit down, Mademoiselle Marchaud, and tell me all about it.’

  Felise sat down obediently. She was dressed in dark green today, and the beauty and charm of the proud little face was more evident than ever. Jack’s heart beat faster as he sat down beside her.

  ‘It is like this,’ explained Felise. ‘We have been here but a short time, and from the beginning we hear the house—our so sweet little house—is haunted. No servant will stay in it. That does not matter so much—me, I can do the ménage and cook easily enough.’

  ‘Angel,’ thought the infatuated young man. ‘She’s wonderful.’

  But he maintained an outward semblance of businesslike attention.

  ‘This talk of ghosts, I think it is all folly—that is until four days ago. Monsieur, four nights running, I have had the same dream. A lady stands there—she is beautiful, tall and very fair. In her hands she holds a blue china jar. She is distressed—very distressed, and continually she holds out the jar to me, as though imploring me to do something with it—but alas! she cannot speak, and I—I do not know what she asks. That was the dream for the first two nights—but the night before last, there was more of it. She and the blue jar faded away, and suddenly I heard her voice crying out—I know it is her voice, you comprehend—and, oh! Monsieur, the words she says are those you spoke to me that morning. “Murder—Help! Murder!” I awoke in terror. I say to myself—it is a nightmare, the words you heard are an accident. But last night the dream came again. Monsieur, what is it? You too have heard. What shall we do?’

  Felise’s face was terrified. Her small hands clasped themselves together, and she gazed appealingly at Jack. The latter affected an unconcern he did not feel.

  ‘That’s all right, Mademoiselle Marchaud. You mustn’t worry. I tell you what I’d like you to do, if you don’t mind, repeat the whole story to a friend of mine who is staying here, a Dr Lavington.’

  Felise signified her willingness to adopt this course, and Jack went off in search of Lavington. He returned with him a few minutes later.

  Lavington gave the girl a keen scrutiny as he acknowledged Jack’s hurried introductions. With a few reassuring words, he soon put the girl at her ease, and he, in his turn, listened attentively to her story.

  ‘Very curious,’ he said, when she had finished. ‘You have told your father of this?’

  Felise shook her head.

  ‘I have not liked to worry him. He is very ill still’—her eyes filled with tears—‘I keep from him anything that might excite or agitate him.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Lavington kindly. ‘And I am glad you came to us, Mademoiselle Marchaud. Hartington here, as you know, had an experience something similar to yours. I think I may say that we are well on the track now. There is nothing else that you can think of?’

  Felise gave a quick movement.

  ‘Of course! How stupid I am. It is the point of the whole story. Look, Monsieur, at what I found at the back of one of the cupboards where it had slipped behind the shelf.’

  She held out to them a dirty piece of drawing-paper on which was executed roughly in water colours a sketch of a woman. It was a mere daub, but the likeness was probably good enough. It represented a tall fair woman, with something subtly un-English about her face. She was standing by a table on which was standing a blue china jar.

  ‘I only found it this morning,’ explained Felise. ‘Monsieur le docteur, that is the face of the woman I saw in my dream, and that is the identical blue jar.’

  ‘Extraordinary,’ commented Lavington. ‘The key to the mystery is evidently the blue jar. It looks like a Chinese jar to me, probably an old one. It seems to have a curious raised pattern over it.’

  ‘It is Chinese,’ declared Jack. ‘I have seen an exactly similar one in my uncle’s collection—he is a great collector of Chinese porcelain, you know, and I remember noticing a jar just like this a short time ago.’

  ‘The Chinese jar,’ mused Lavington. He remained a minute or two lost in thought, then raised his head suddenly, a curious light shining in his eyes. ‘Hartington, how long has your uncle had that jar?’

  ‘How long? I really don’t know.’

  ‘Think. Did he buy it lately?’

  ‘I don’t know—yes, I believe he did, now I come to think of it. I’m not very interested in porcelain myself, but I remember his showing me his “recent acquisitions,” and this was one of them.’

  ‘Less than two months ago? The Turners left Heather Cottage just two months ago.’

  ‘Yes, I believe it was.’

  ‘Your uncle attends country sales sometimes?’

  ‘He’s always tooling round to sales.’

  ‘Then there is no inherent improbability in our assuming that he bought this particular piece of porcelain at the sale of the Turners’ things. A curious coincidence—or perhaps what I call the groping of blind justice. Hartington, you must find out from your uncle at once where he bought this jar.’

  Jack’s face fell.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s impossible. Uncle George is away on the Continent. I
don’t even know where to write to him.’

  ‘How long will he be away?’

  ‘Three weeks to a month at least.’

  There was a silence. Felise sat looking anxiously from one man to the other.

  ‘Is there nothing that we can do?’ she asked timidly.

  ‘Yes, there is one thing,’ said Lavington, in a tone of suppressed excitement. ‘It is unusual, perhaps, but I believe that it will succeed. Hartington, you must get hold of that jar. Bring it down here, and, if Mademoiselle permits, we will spend a night at Heather Cottage, taking the blue jar with us.’

  Jack felt his skin creep uncomfortably.

  ‘What do you think will happen?’ he asked uneasily.

  ‘I have not the slightest idea—but I honestly believe that the mystery will be solved and the ghost laid. Quite possibly there may be a false bottom to the jar and something is concealed inside it. If no phenomena occur, we must use our own ingenuity.’

  Felise clasped her hands.

  ‘It is a wonderful idea,’ she exclaimed.

  Her eyes were alight with enthusiasm. Jack did not feel nearly so enthusiastic—in fact, he was inwardly funking it badly, but nothing would have induced him to admit the fact before Felise. The doctor acted as though his suggestion were the most natural one in the world.

  ‘When can you get the jar?’ asked Felise, turning to Jack.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said the latter, unwillingly.

  He had to go through with it now, but the memory of the frenzied cry for help that had haunted him each morning was something to be ruthlessly thrust down and not thought about more than could be helped.

  He went to his uncle’s house the following evening, and took away the jar in question. He was more than ever convinced when he saw it again that it was the identical one pictured in the water colour sketch, but carefully as he looked it over he could see no sign that it contained a secret receptacle of any kind.

  It was eleven o’clock when he and Lavington arrived at Heather Cottage. Felise was on the look-out for them, and opened the door softly before they had time to knock.

  ‘Come in,’ she whispered. ‘My father is asleep upstairs, and we must not wake him. I have made coffee for you in here.’

  She led the way into the small cosy sitting room. A spirit lamp stood in the grate, and bending over it, she brewed them both some fragrant coffee.

  Then Jack unfastened the Chinese jar from its many wrappings. Felise gasped as her eyes fell on it.

  ‘But yes, but yes,’ she cried eagerly. ‘That is it—I would know it anywhere.’

  Meanwhile Lavington was making his own preparations. He removed all the ornaments from a small table and set it in the middle of the room. Round it he placed three chairs. Then, taking the blue jar from Jack, he placed it in the centre of the table.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘we are ready. Turn off the lights, and let us sit round the table in the darkness.’

  The others obeyed him. Lavington’s voice spoke again out of the darkness.

  ‘Think of nothing—or of everything. Do not force the mind. It is possible that one of us has mediumistic powers. If so, that person will go into a trance. Remember, there is nothing to fear. Cast out fear from your hearts, and drift—drift—’

  His voice died away and there was silence. Minute by minute, the silence seemed to grow more pregnant with possibilities. It was all very well for Lavington to say ‘Cast out fear’. It was not fear that Jack felt—it was panic. And he was almost certain that Felise felt the same way. Suddenly he heard her voice, low and terrified.

  ‘Something terrible is going to happen. I feel it.’

  ‘Cast out fear’, said Lavington. ‘Do not fight against the influence.’

  The darkness seemed to get darker and the silence more acute. And nearer and nearer came that indefinable sense of menace.

  Jack felt himself choking—stifling—the evil thing was very near …

  And then the moment of conflict passed. He was drifting, drifting down stream—his lids closed—peace—darkness …

  Jack stirred slightly. His head was heavy—heavy as lead. Where was he?

  Sunshine … birds … He lay staring up at the sky.

  Then it all came back to him. The sitting. The little room. Felise and the doctor. What had happened?

  He sat up, his head throbbing unpleasantly, and looked round him. He was lying in a little copse not far from the cottage. No one else was near him. He took out his watch. To his amazement it registered half past twelve.

  Jack struggled to his feet, and ran as fast as he could in the direction of the cottage. They must have been alarmed by his failure to come out of the trance, and carried him out into the open air.

  Arrived at the cottage, he knocked loudly on the door. But there was no answer, and no signs of life about it. They must have gone off to get help. Or else—Jack felt an indefinable fear invade him. What had happened last night?

  He made his way back to the hotel as quickly as possible. He was about to make some inquiries at the office, when he was diverted by a colossal punch in the ribs which nearly knocked him off his feet. Turning in some indignation, he beheld a white-haired old gentleman wheezing with mirth.

  ‘Didn’t expect me, my boy. Didn’t expect me, hey?’ said this individual.

  ‘Why, Uncle George, I thought you were miles away—in Italy somewhere.’

  ‘Ah! but I wasn’t. Landed at Dover last night. Thought I’d motor up to town and stop here to see you on the way. And what did I find? Out all night, hey? Nice goings on—’

  ‘Uncle George,’ Jack checked him firmly. ‘I’ve got the most extraordinary story to tell you. I dare say you won’t believe it.’

  ‘I dare say I shan’t,’ laughed the old man. ‘But do your best, my boy.’

  ‘But I must have something to eat,’ continued Jack. ‘I’m famished.’

  He led the way to the dining-room, and over a substantial repast, he narrated the whole story.

  ‘And God knows what’s become of them,’ he ended.

  His uncle seemed on the verge of apoplexy.

  ‘The jar,’ he managed to ejaculate at last. ‘THE BLUE JAR! What’s become of that?’

  Jack stared at him in non-comprehension, but submerged in the torrent of words that followed he began to understand.

  It came with a rush: ‘Ming—unique—gem of my collection—worth ten thousand pounds at least—offer from Hoggenheimer, the American millionaire—only one of its kind in the world—Confound it, sir, what have you done with my BLUE JAR?’

  Jack rushed from the room. He must find Lavington. The young lady at the office eyed him coldly.

  ‘Dr Lavington left late last night—by motor. He left a note for you.’

  Jack tore it open. It was short and to the point.

  My dear young friend,

  Is the day of the supernatural over? Not quite—especially when tricked out in new scientific language. Kindest regards from Felise, invalid father, and myself. We have twelve hours start, which ought to be ample.

  Yours ever,

  Ambrose Lavington,

  Doctor of the Soul.

  Mr Eastwood’s Adventure

  Mr Eastwood looked at the ceiling. Then he looked down at the floor. From the floor his gaze travelled slowly up the right-hand wall. Then, with a sudden stern effort, he focused his gaze once more upon the typewriter before him.

  The virgin white of the sheet of paper was defaced by a title written in capital letters.

  ‘THE MYSTERY OF THE SECOND CUCUMBER’

  so it ran. A pleasing title. Anthony Eastwood felt that anyone reading that title would be at once intrigued and arrested by it. ‘The Mystery of the Second Cucumber,’ they would say. ‘What can that be about? A cucumber? The second cucumber? I must certainly read that story.’ And they would be thrilled and charmed by the consummate ease with which this master of detective fiction had woven an exciting plot round this simple vegetable.

  That wa
s all very well. Anthony Eastwood knew as well as anyone what the story ought to be like—the bother was that somehow or other he couldn’t get on with it. The two essentials for a story were a title and a plot—the rest was mere spade-work, sometimes the title led to a plot all by itself, as it were, and then all was plain sailing—but in this case the title continued to adorn the top of the page, and not the vestige of a plot was forthcoming.

  Again Anthony Eastwood’s gaze sought inspiration from the ceiling, the floor, and the wallpaper, and still nothing materialized.

  ‘I shall call the heroine Sonia,’ said Anthony, to urge himself on. ‘Sonia or possibly Dolores—she shall have a skin of ivory pallor—the kind that’s not due to ill-health, and eyes like fathomless pools. The hero shall be called George, or possibly John—something short and British. Then the gardener—I suppose there will have to be a gardener, we’ve got to drag that beastly cucumber in somehow or other—the gardener might be Scottish, and amusingly pessimistic about the early frost.’

  This method sometimes worked, but it didn’t seem to be going to this morning. Although Anthony could see Sonia and George and the comic gardener quite clearly, they didn’t show any willingness to be active and do things.

  ‘I could make it a banana, of course,’ thought Anthony desperately. ‘Or a lettuce, or a brussels sprout—brussels sprout, now, how about that? Really a cryptogram for Brussels—stolen bearer bonds—sinister Belgian Baron.’

  For a moment a gleam of light seemed to show, but it died down again. The Belgian Baron wouldn’t materialize, and Anthony suddenly remembered that early frosts and cucumbers were incompatible, which seemed to put the lid on the amusing remarks of the Scottish gardener.