"But do you still keep it up? I mean now that he is
living in Exhampton--"
"Pity to break a habit," said Major Burnaby. "We'd
both of us miss those evenings."
"You go in for competitions, don't you?" asked Violet.
"Acrostics and crosswords and all those things."
Burnaby nodded.
"I do crosswords. Trevelyan does acrostics. We each
stick to our own line of country. I won three books last
month in a crossword competition," he volunteered.
"Oh! really. How nice. Were they interesting books?"
"Don't know. Haven't read them. Looked pretty hopeless."
"It's the winning them that matters, isn't it?" said Mrs.
Willett vaguely.
"How do you get to Exhampton?" asked Violet. "You
haven't got a car."
"Walk."
"What? Not really? Six miles."
"Good exercise. What's twelve miles? Keeps a man
fit. Great thing to be fit."
"Fancy! Twelve miles. But both you and Captain Trevelyan
were great athletes, weren't you?"
"Used to go to Switzerland together. Winter sports in
winter, climbing in summer. Wonderful man on ice,
Trevelyan. Both too old for that sort of thing nowadays."
"You won the Army Racquets Chmnpionship, too, didn't
you?" asked Violet.
The Major blushed like a girl.
"Who told you that?" he mumbled.
Murder at Hazelmoor
"Captain Trevelyan."
"Joe should hold his tongue," said Burnaby. "He talks
too much. What's the weather like now?"
Respecting his embarrassment, Violet followed him to
the window. They dreTM the curtain aside and looked out
over the desolate scene.
"More snow coming," said Burnaby. "A pretty heavy
tall too, I should say."
"Oh! how thrilling," said Violet. "I do think snow is
so romantic. I've never seen it before."
"It isn't romantic when the pipes freeze, you foolish
child," said her mother.
"Have you lived all your life in South Africa, Miss
Willett?" asked Major Burnaby.
Some of the girl's animation dropped away from her.
She seemed almost constrained in her manner as she
answered.
"Yes--this is the first time I've ever been away. It's
all most frightfully thrilling."
Thrilling to be shut away like this in a remote moorland
village? Funny idea. He couldn't get the hang of these
people.
The door opened and the parlormaid announced:
"Mr. Ryeroft and Mr. Garfield."
There entered a little, elderly, dried-up man and a
fresh-colored, boyish young man. The latter spoke first.
"I brought him along, Mrs. Willett. Said I wouldn't
let him be buried in a snowdrift. Ha, ha. I say, this all
looks simply marvelous. Yule logs burning."
"As he says, my young friend very kindly piloted me
here," said Mr. Byeroft as he shook hands somewhat
:HR
Agatha Christie
ceremoniously. "How do you do, Miss Violet? Very sea-sonable
weather--rather too seasonable, I fear."
He moved to the fire talking to Mrs. Willett. Ronald
Garfield buttonholed Violet.
"I say, can't we get up any skating anywhere? Aren't
there some ponds about?"
"I think path digging will be your only sport."
"I've been at it all the morning."
"Oh! you he-man!"
"Don't laugh at me. I've got blisters all over my hands."
"How's your aunt?"
"Oh! she's always the same--sometimes she says she's
better and sometimes she says she's worse, but I think
it's all the same really. It's a ghastly life, you know. Each
year, I wonder how I can stick it--but there it is--if
one doesn't rally round the old bird for Xmas--why,
she's quite capable of leaving her money to a Cat's Home.
She's got five of them, you know. I'm always stroking
the brutes and pretending I dote upon them."
"I like dogs much better than cats."
"So do I. Any day. What I mean is a dog is--well, a
dog's a dog, you know."
"Has your aunt always been fond of cats?"
"I think it's just a kind of thing old maids grow into.
Ugh! I hate the brutes."
"Your aunt's very nice, but rather frightening."
"I should think she was frightening. Snaps my head
off sometimes. Thinks I've got no brains, you know."
"Not really?"
"Oh! look here, don't say it like that. Lots of fellows
look like fools and are laughing underneath."
8
Murder at Hazelmoor
"Mr. Duke," announced the parlormaid.
Mr. Duke was a recent arrival. He had bought the last
of the six bungalows in September. He was a big man,
very quiet and devoted to gardening. Mr. Rycroft who
was an enthusiast on birds and who lived next door to him had taken him up, overruling the section of thought
which voiced the opinion that of course Mr. Duke was
a very nice man, quite unassuming, but was he, after
all, quite--well, quite? Mightn't he, just possibly, be a
retired tradesman?
But nobody liked to ask him--and indeed it was thought
better not to know. Because if one did know, it might
be awkward, and really in such a small community it was
best to know everybody.
"Not walking to Exhampton in this weather?" he asked
of Major Burnaby.
"No, I fiincy Trevelyan will hardly expect me tonight."
"It's awful, isn't it?" said Mrs. Willett with a shudder.
"To be buried up here, year after year--it must be
ghastly."
Mr. Duke gave her a quick glance. Major Burnaby too
stared at her curiously.
But at that moment tea was brought in.
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A IF T E R tea, Mrs. Willett suggested bridge.
"There are six of us. Two can cut in."
Bonnie's eyes brightened.
"You four start," he suggested. "Miss Willett and I
But Mr. Duke said that he did not play bridge.
Ronnie's face fell.
"We might play a round gmne," said Mrs. Willett.
"Or table turning," suggested Bonnie. "It's a spooky
evening. We spoke about it the other day, you remember.
Mr. Bycroff and I were talking about it this evening
as we came along here."
"I am a member of the Psychical Research Society,"
explained Mr. Bycroff in his precise way. "I was able to
put my young {¥iend right on one or two points.
"Tommy rot," said Major Burnaby very distinctly.
"Oh! but it's great fun, don't you think?" said Violet
Willett. "I mean, one doesn't believe in it or anything.
It's just an amuselnent. What do you say, Mr. Duke?"
"Anything you like, Miss Willett."
"We must turn the lights out, and we must find a
suitable table. No--not that one, Mother. I'm sure it's
much too heavy."
Things were settled at last to everyone's satisfaction.
A small round table with a polished top was brought from
an adjoining room. It was set in front of the fire and
10
Murder at Hazelmoor
everyone took his place round it with the lights switched
Major Burnaby was between his hostess and Violet.
On the other side of the girl was Ronnie Garfield. A
cynical smile creased the Major's lips. He thought to
himself:
"In my young days it was Up Jenkins." And he tried
to recall the name of a girl with fiuf fhir hair whose
hand he had held beneath the table at considerable length.
A long time ago that was. But Up Jenkins had been a
good game.
There were all the usual laughs, whispers, stereotyped
remarks.
"The spirits are a long time."
"Got a long way to come."
"Hush--nothing will happen unless we are serious."
"Oh! do be quiet--everyone."
"Nothing's happening."
"Of course not--it never does at first."
"If only you'd all be quiet."
At last, after some time, the murmur of talk died away.
A silence.
"This table's dead as mutton," murmured Ronnie Gar
field
disgustedly.
"Hush."
A tremor ran through the polished surf:ace. The table
began to rock.
"Ask it questions. Who shall ask? You, Ronnie."
"Oh--er--I say--what do I ask it?"
"Is a spirit present?" prompted Violet.
"Oh! Hullo--is a spirit present?"
CHR
Agatha Christie
A sharp rock.
"That means yeS," said Violet.
"Oh! er--who are you?"
No response.
"Ask it to spell its name."
"How can it?"
"We count the number of rocks."
"Oh! I see. will you please spell your name."
The table started rocking violently.
"A B C D E IF G H I--I say, was that I or J?"
"Ask it. Was that I?"
One rock.
"Yes. Next letter, please."
The spirit's naife was Ida.
"Have you a inessage for anyone here?"
"Yes."
"Who is it for? Miss Willett?"
"No."
"Mrs. Willett?"
"No."
"Mr. Rycroft?"
"NO."
"Me?"
"Yes."
"It's for you, Bonnie. Go on. Make it spell it out."
The table spelt "Diana."
"Who's Diana? Do you know anyone called Diana?" "No, I don't. At least--"
"There you are. He does."
"Ask her if she's a widow?"
12
Murder at Hazelmoor
The fun went on. Mr. Rycroft smiled indulgently. Young
people must have their jokes. He caught one glance of
his hostess's face in a sudden flicker of the firelight. It
looked worried and abstracted. Her thoughts were some-where
far away.
Major Burnaby was thinking of the snow. It was going
to snow again this evening. Hardest winter he ever re-membered.
Mr. Duke was playing very seriously. The spirits, alas,
paid very little attention to him. All the messages seemed
to be for Violet and Ronnie.
Violet was told she was going to Italy. Someone was
going with her. Not a woman. A man. His name was
Leonard.
More laughter. The table spelt the name of the town.
A
Russian jumble of letters--not in the least Italian.
The usual accusations were leveled.
"Look here, Violet" ("Miss Willett" had been dropped).
"You are shoving."
"I'm not. Look, I take my hands right off the table
and it rocks just the same."
"I like raps. I'm going to ask it to rap. Loud ones."
"There should be raps." Ronnie turned to Mr. Rycroft.
"There ought to be raps, oughtn't there, sir?"
"Under the circumstances, I should hardly think it
likely," said Mr. Rycroft drily.
There was a pause. The table was inert. It returned
no answer to questions.
"Has Ida gone away?"
One languid rock.
x3
Agatha Christie
"Will another spirit come, please?"
Nothing. Suddenly the table began to quiver and rock
violently.
"Hurrah. Are you a new spirit?"
"Yes."
"Have you a message for someone?"
"Yes."
"For me?"
"No."
"For Violet?"
"No."
"For Major Burnaby?"
"Yes. '
"It's for you, Major Burnaby. Will you spell it out
please."
The table started rocking slowly.
"T R E V--are you sure it's V? It ean't be. T R E V
--it doesn't make sense.'
"Trevelyan, of course," said Mrs. Willett. "Captain
Trevelyan."
"Do you mean Captain Trevelyan?"
"Yes."
"You've got a message for Captain Trevelyan?"
"No."
"Well, what is it then?"
The table began to roek-slowly, rhythmically. So slowly
that it was easy to count the letters.
"D--" a pause. "E--A D."
"Dead."
"Somebody is dead?"
14
Murder at Hazelmoor
Instead of Yes or No, the table began to rock again till
it reached the letter T.
"T--do you mean Trevelyan?"
"Yes."
"You don't mean Trevelyan is dead?"
A very sharp rock. "Yes."
Somebody gasped. There was a faint stir all around
the table.
Ronnie's voice as he resumed his questions held a
different note--an awed uneasy note.
"You mean--that Captain Trevelyan is dead?"
"Yes."
There was a pause. It was as though no one knew
what to ask next, or how to take this unexpected de-velopment.
And in the pause, the table started rocking again.
Rhythmically and slowly. Ronnie spelled out the let-ters
aloud . . .
M-U-R-D-E-R ....
Mrs. Willett gave a cry and took her hands off the
table.
"I won't go on with this. It's horrible. I don't like it."
Mr. Duke's voice rang out, resonant and clear. He
was questioning the table.
"Do you mean--that Captain Trevelyan has been mur-dered?''
The last word had hardly left his lips when the answer
came. The table rocked so violently and assertively that
it nearly fell over. One rock only.
"Yes . . ."
15
Agatha Christie
"Look here," said Ronnie. He took his hands from the
table. "I call this a rotten joke." His voice trembled.
"Turn up the lights," said Mr. Rycroft.
Major Burnaby rose and did so. The sudden glare
revealed a company of pale uneasy taces.
Everyone looked at each other. Somehow--nobody
qu
ite knew what to say.
"All rot, of course," said Ronnie, with an uneasy laugh.
"Silly nonsense," said Mrs. Willett. "Nobody ought
to--to make jokes like that."
"Not about people dying," said Violet. "It's--oh! I
don't like it."
':I wasn't shoving," said Ronnie, feeling unspoken criticism
leveled at him. "I swear I wasn't."
"I can say the same," said Mr. Duke. "And you, Mr.
Rycroft?"
"Certainly not," said Mr. Rycroft warmly.
"You don't think I'd make a joke of that kind, do you?"
growled Major Burnaby. "Rotten bad taste."
"Violet dear--"
"I didn't, Mother. Indeed I didn't. I wouldn't do such
a thing."
The girl was almost tearful.
Everyone was embarrassed. A sudden blight had come
over the cheerful party.
Major Burnaby pushed back his chair, went to the
window and pulled aside the curtain. He stood there
looking out with his back to the room.
"Twenty-five minutes past five," said Mr. Rycroft
Christie,Agatha - Murder At Hazelmore.doc Page 2