"My dear young lady, I myself am not psychic. I have
no powers in that direction. I am only a very deeply
interested observer."
"What about this Mr. Garfield?"
"A nice lad," said Mr. Rycroft, "but not remarkable
in any way."
"Well off, I suppose," said Emily.
"Stony broke, I believe," said Mr. Rycroft. "I hope I
am using that idiom correctly. He cones down here to
dance atteadance on an aunt, from whmn he has what I
call 'expectatbns.' Miss Percehouse is a very sharp lady
and I think sle knows what these attentions are worth.
But as she has a sardonic form of humor of her own she
keeps him daacing."
"I shoulcl like to neet her," said Emily.
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Agatha Christie
"Yes, you must certainly meet her. She will no doubt
insist on meeting you. Curiosity--alas, my dear Miss
Trefusis--curiosity."
"Tell me about the Willetts," said Emily.
"Charming," said Mr. Rycroft, "quite charming. Co-lonial,
of course. No real poise, if you understand me.
A little too lavish in their hospitality. Everything a shade
on the ornate side. Miss Violet is a charming girl."
"A funny place to come for the winter," said Emily.
"Yes, very odd, is it not? But after all it is only logical.
We ourselves living in this country long for the sunshine,
hot climates, waving palm trees. People who live in Aus-tralia
or South Africa are enchanted with the idea of an
old-tashioned Christmas with snow and ice."
"I wonder which of them," said Emily to herself, "told
him that."
She reflected that it was not necessary to bury yourself
in a moorland village in order to obtain an old-fashioned
Christmas with snow and ice. Clearly, Mr. Rycroft did
not see anything suspicious in the Willetts' choice of a
winter resort. But that, she reflected, was perhaps nat-ural
in one who was an ornithologist and a criminologist.
Sittaford clearly appeared an ideal residence to Mr. Ry-croft,
and he could not conceive of it as an unsuitable
environment to someone else.
They had been slowly descending the slope of the
hillside and were now wending their way down the lane.
"Who lives in that cottage?" asked Emily abruptly.
"Captain Wyatt--he is an invalid. Rather unsociable
I fear."
"Was he a friend of Captain Trevelyan's?"
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Murder at Hazelmoor
"Not an intimate i?iend in any way. Trevelyan merely
made a formal visit to him every now and then. As a
matter of fact Wyatt doesn't encourage visitors. A surly
man."
Emily was silent. She was reviewing the possibility of
how she herself might become a visitor. She had no
intention of allowing any angle of attack to remain unex-plored.
She suddenly remembered the hitherto unmentioned
member of the sance.
"What about Mr. Duke?" she asked brightly.
"What about him?"
"Well, who is he?"
"Well," said Mr. Rycroft slowly, "that is what nobody
knows."
"How extraordinary," said Emily.
"'As a matter of fact," said Mr. Rycroft, "it isn't. You
see, Duke is such an entirely unmysterious individual.
I should imagine that the only mystery about him was
his social origin. Not--not quite, if you understand me.
But a very solid good fellow," he hastened to add.
Emily was silent.
"This is my cottage," said Mr. Rycroft pausing, "per-haps
you will do me the honor of coming in and inspect-ing
it."
"I should love to," said Emily.
They went up the small path and entered the cottage.
The interior was charming. Bookcases lined the walls.
Emily went from one to the other glancing curiously
at the titles of the books. One section dealt with occult
phenomena, another with modern detective fiction, but
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Agatha Christie
by far the greater part of the bookcases was given up to
criminology and to the world's famous trials. Books on
ornithology held a comparatively small position.
"I think it's all delightful," said Emily. "I must get
back now. I expect Mr. Enderby will be up and waiting
for me. As a matter of fact I haven't had breakfast yet.
We told Mrs. Curtis half past nine, and I see it's ten
o'clock. I shall be dreadfully late--that's because you've
been so interesting--and so very helpful."
"Anything I can do," burbled Mr. Rycroft as Emily
turned a bewitching glance on him. "You can count on
me. We are collaborators."
Emily gave him her hand and squeezed his warmly.
"It's so wonderful," she said, using the phrase that in
the course of her short life she had found so effectual,
"to feel that there's someone on whom one can really
rely."
138
?. Miss Percehouse
E M I L Y returned to find eggs and bacon, and Charles
waiting for her.
Mrs. Curtis was still agog with excitement over the
escape of the convict.
"Two years it is since the last one escaped," she said,
"and three days it was before they found him. Near to
Moretonhampstead he was."
"Do you think he'll come this way?" asked Charles.
Local knowledge vetoed this suggestion.
"They never comes this way, all bare moorland it is,
and only small towns when you do come off the moor.
He'll make for Plymouth that's the most likely. But they'll
catch him long before that."
"You could find a good hiding place among these rocks
on the other side of the Tor," said Emily.
"You're right, Miss, and there is a hiding place there,
the Pixie's Cave they call it. As narrow an opening be-tween
two rocks as you could find, but it widens out
inside. They say one of King Charles's men hid there
once for a fortnight with a serving maid from a farm
bringing him food."
"I must take a look at that Pixie's Cave," said Charles.
"You'll be surprised how hard it is to find, sir. Many
a picnic party in summer looks for it the whole afternoon
and doesn't find it, but if you do find it be sure you leave
a pin inside it for luck."
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Agatha Christie
"I wonder," said Charles when breakfast was over and
he and Emily had strolled out into the small bit of garden,
"if I ought to go off to Princetown? Amazing how things
pile up once you have a bit of luck. Here I am--I start
with a simple football competition prize, and before I
know where I am I run straight into an escaped convict
and a murderer. Marvelous!"
"What about this photographing of Major Burnaby's
cottage?"
Charles looked up at the sky.
"H'm," he said. "I think I shall say the weather is
wrong. I have got to hang on to my raison d'etre of being
in Sittaford as long as possible, and it's coming over
misty. Er--I hope you don't mind, I have just posted
"Oh! that's all right," said Emily mechanically. "What
have you made me say?"
"Oh, the usual sort of things people like to hear," said
Mr. Enderby. "Our special representative records his
interview with Miss Emily Trefusis, the fiancee of Mr.
James Pearson who has been arrested by the police and
charged with the murder of Captain Trevelyan--Then
my impression of you as a high-spirited, beautiful girl."
"Thank you," said Emily.
"Shingled," went on Charles.
"What do you mean by shingled?"
"You are," said Charles.
"Well, of course I am," said Emily. "But why mention
it?"
"Women readers always like to know," said Charles
Enderby. "It was a splendid interview. You've no idea
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Murder at Hazelmoor
what fine womanly touching things you said about stand-ing
by your man, no matter if the whole world was against
him."
"Did I really say that?" said Emily wincing slightly.
"Do you mind?" said Mr. Enderby anxiously.
"Oh! no," said Emily. "Enjoy yourself, darling." Mr.
Enderby looked slightly taken aback.
"It's all right," said Emily. "That's a quotation. I had
it on my bib when I was small--my Sunday bib. The
weekday one had 'Don't be a glutton' on it."
"Oh! I see. I put in a very good bit about Captain
Trevelyan's sea career and just a hint at foreign idols
looted and a possibility of a strange priest's revenge--only
a hint you know."
"Well, you Seem to have done your day's good deed,"
said Emily.
"What have you been up to? You were up early enough
heaven knows."
Emily described her meeting with Mr. Rycroft.
She broke off suddenly and Enderby, glancing over
his shoulders and following the direction of her eyes,
became aware of a pink, healthy looking young man lean-ing
over the gate and making various apologetic noises
to attract attention.
"I say," said the young man, "frightfully sorry to butt
in and all that. I mean, it is awfully awkward, but my
aunt sent me along."
Emily and Charles both said, "Oh," in an inquiring
tone, not being much the wiser for the explanation.
"Yes," said the young man. "To tell the truth my aunt's
rather a Tartar. What she says goes, if you know what I
Agatha Christie
mean. Of course, I think it's frightfully bad form coming
along at a time like this but if you knew my aunt--and
if you do as she wants, you will know her in a few
minutes--"
"Is your aunt Miss Percehouse?" broke in Emily.
"That's right," said the young man much relieved. "So
you know all about her? Old Mother Curtis has been
talking I suppose. She can wag a tongue, can't she? Not
that she's a bad sort, mind you. Well, the fact is, my
aunt said she wanted to see you, and I was to come along
and tell you so. Compliments, and all that, and would
it be troubling you too much--she was an invalid and
quite unable to get out and it would be a great
kindness--well, you know the sort of thing. I needn't
say it all. It's curiosity really, of course, and if you say
you've got a headache, or have got letters to write it will
be quite all right and you needn't bother."
"Oh, but I should like to bother," said Emily. "I'll
come with you at once. Mr. Enderby has got to go along
and see Major Burnaby."
"Have I?" said Enderby in a low voice.
"You have," said Emily firmly.
She dismissed him with a brief nod and joined her
new friend in the road.
"I suppose you're Mr. Garfield," she said.
"That's right. I ought to have told you."
"Oh, well," said Emily, "it wasn't very difficult to
guess."
"Splendid of you coming along like this," said Mr.
Garfield. "Lots of girls would have been awfully of-fended.
But you know what old ladies are."
42
Murder at Hazelmoor
"You don't live down here, do you Mr. Garfield?"
"You bet your life I don't," said Ronnie Garfield with
fervor. "Did you ever see such a god-forsaken spot? Not
so much as the Pictures to go to. I wonder someone
doesn't commit a murder to--"
He paused appalled by what he had said.
"I say, I am sorry. I am the most unlucky devil that
ever lived. Always coming out with the wrong thing. I
never meant it for a moment."
"I'm sure you didn't," said Emily soothingly.
"Here we are," said Mr. Garfield. He pushed open a
gate and Emily passed through and went up the path
leading to a small cottage identical with the rest. In the
living-room giving on the garden was a couch and on it
was lying an elderly lady with a thin wrinkled face and
with one of the sharpest and most interrogative noses
that Emily had ever seen. She raised herself on an elbow
with a little difficulty.
"So you've brought her," she said. "Very kind of you,
my dear, to come along to see an old woman. But you
know what it is when you are an invalid. You must have
a finger in every pie going and if you can't go to the pie,
then, the pie has got to come to you. And you needn't
think it's all curiosity--it's more than that. Ronnie, go
out and paint the garden furniture. In the shed at the
end of the garden. Two basket chairs and a bench. You'll
find the paint there all ready."
"Right oh, Aunt Caroline."
The obedient nephew disappeared.
"Sit down," said Miss Percehouse.
Emily sat on the chair indicated. Strange to say she
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Agatha Christie
had immediately felt conscious of a distinct liking and
sympathy for this rather sharp-tongued middle-aged invalid.
She felt indeed a kind of kinship with her.
"Here is someone," thought Emily, "who goes straight to the point and means to have her own way and bosses
everybody she can. Just like me only I happen to be
rather good-looking and she has to do it all by force of
character."
"I understand you are the girl who is engaged to Trevelyan's
nephew," said Miss Percehouse. "I've heard all about you and now I have seen you I understand exactly
what you are up to. And I wish you good luck."
"Thank you," said Emily.
"I hate a slobbering female," said Miss Percehouse.
"I like one who gets up and does things."
She looked at Emily sharply.
"I suppose you pity me--lying here never able to get
up and walk about?"
"No," said Emily thoughtfully. "I don't know that I
do. I suppose that one can, if one has the determination,
always get something out of life. If you can't get it in one
way you get it in another."
"Quite right," said Miss Percehouse. "You've got to
take life from a different angle, that's all."
"Angle of attack," murmured Emily.
"What's that you say?"
As c
learly as she was able, Emily outlined the theory
that she had evolved that morning and the application
of it she had made to the matter in hand.
"Not bad," said Miss Percehouse nodding her head.
144
Murder at Hazelmoor
ing
"Now, my dear--we will get down to business. Not beini/e to
a born fool, I suppose you've come up to this village I see
find out what you can about the people here, and to
if what you find out has any bearing on the -nurde-.,er'
- me
Well, if there's anything you want to know about tl
people here, I can tell it to you."
Emily wasted no time. Concise and businesslike slhe
came to the point.
"Major Burnaby?" she asked.
"Typical retired army officer, narrow-minded and livmired
in outlook, jealous disposition Credulous in monefi
matters. Kind of man who invests in a South Sea
because he can't see a yard in front of his own noseho
Likes to pay his debts promptly and dislikes people
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