don't wipe their feet on the mat."
"Mr. Rycroft?" said Emily.
to
"Queer little man, enormous egoist. Cranky. Likes! -d
think himselfa wonderful fellow. I suppose he has offerd/u!
to help you solve the case aright owing to his wonderfi
knowledge of criminology."
Emily admitted that that was the case.
"Mr. Duke?" she asked. 't
"Don't know a thing about the man--and yet I ought
to. Most ordinary type. I ought to know--and yet I don
It's queer. It's like a name on the tip of your tongue ar
yet for the life of you, you can't remember it."
"The Willetts?" asked Emily.
if
"Ah! the Willetts!" Miss Percehouse hoisted hers t
up on an elbow again in some excitement. "What abotJt
the Willetts indeed? Now, I'll tell you something abotJ
145
Agatha Christie
them, my dear. It may be useful to you, or it may not.
Go over to my writing table there and pull out the little
top drawer--the one to the left--that's right. Bring me
the blank envelope that's there."
Emily brought the envelope as directed.
"I don't say it's important--it probably isn't," said Miss
Pereehouse. "Everybody tells lies one way or another
and Mrs. Willett is perfectly entitled to do the same as
everybody else."
She took the envelope and slipped her hand inside.
"I will tell you all about it. When the Willetts arrived
here, with their smart clothes and their maids and their
innovation trunks, she and Violet came up in Forder's
car and the maids and the innovation trunks came by
the station bus. And naturally, the whole thing being an
event as you might say, I was looking out as they passed
and I saw a colored label blow off from one of the trunks
and dive down on to one of my borders. Now, if' there
is one thing I hate more than another it is a litter of
paper or mess of any kind, so I sent Ronnie out to pick
it up, and I was going to throw it away when it struck
me it was a bright, pretty thing, and I might as well keep
it for the scrap-books I make for the children's hospital.
Well, I wouldn't have thought about it again except for
Mrs. Willett deliberately mentioning on two or three
occasions that Violet had never been out of South Africa
and that she herself had only been to South Africa, Eng
land,
and the Riviera."
"Yes?" said Emily.
"Exactly. Now--look at this."
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Murder at Hazelmoor
Miss Percehouse thrust a luggage label into Emily's
hand. It bore the inscription, Mendle's Hotel, Melbourne.
"Australia," said Miss Percehouse, "isn't South
Africa--or it wasn't in my young days. I daresay it isn't
important but there it is for what it is worth. And I'll tell
you another thing, I have heard Mrs. Willett calling to
her daughter and she called Coo-ee and that again is
more typical of Australia than South Africa. And what I
say is, it is queer. Why shouldn't you wish to admit that
you come from Australia if you do?"
"It's certainly curious," said Emily. "And it's curious
that they should come to live here in winter time as they
have."
"That leaps to the eye," said Miss Percehouse. "Have
you met them yet?"
"No. I thought of going there this morning. Only I
didn't know quite what to say."
"I'll provide you with an excuse," said Miss Perce-house
briskly. "Fetch me my fountain pen and some
notepaper and an envelope. That's right. Now, let ne
see." She paused deliberately, then without the least
warning raised her voice in a hideous scream.
"Bonnie, Bonnie, Bonnie! Is the boy deaf? Why can't
he come when h&'s called? Bonnie! Ronnie!"
Bonnie arrived at a brisk trot, paint brush in hand.
"Is there anything the matter, Aunt Caroline?"
"What should be the matter? I was calling you, that
was all. Did you have any particular cake for tea when
you were at the Willetts yesterday?"
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Agatha Christie
"Cake?"
"Cake, sandwiches--anything. How slow you are, boy.
What did you have to eat for tea?"
"There was a coffee cake," said Ronnie very much
puzzled, "and some ptsandwiches--"
"Coffee cake," said Miss Percehouse. "That'll do." She
began to write briskly. "You can go back to your painting,
Ronnie. Don't hang about, and don't stand there with
your mouth open. You had your adenoids out when you
were eight years old, so there is no excuse for it."
She continued to write:
DEAR MRS. WILLETT,--I hear you had the most
delicious coffee cake for tea yesterday afternoon.
Will you be so very kind as to give me the recipe
for it. I know you'll not mind my asking you this--an
invalid has so little variety except in her diet.
Miss Trefusis has kindly promised to take this note
for me as Ronnie is busy this morning. Is not this
news about the convict too dreadful?
Yours very sincerely,
CAROLINE PERCEHOUSE.
She put it in an envelope, sealed it down and ad-dressed
it.
"There you are, young woman. You will probably find
the doorstep littered with reporters. A lot of them passed
along the lane in Forder's charabanc. I saw them. But
you ask for Mrs. Willett and say you have brought a note
from me and you'll sail in. I needn't tell you to keep your
eyes open and make the most you can of your visit. You
will do that anyway."
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Murder at Hazelmoor
"You are kind," said Emily. "You really are."
"I help those who can help themselves," said Miss
Percehouse. "By the way, you haven't asked me what I
think of Ronnie yet. I presume he is on your list of the
village. He is a good lad in his way, but pitifully weak.
I am sorry to say he would do almost anything for money.
Look at what he stands from me! And he hasn't got the
brains to see that I would like him just ten times better
if he stood up to me now and again, and told me to go
to the devil.
"The only other person in the village is Captain Wyatt.
He smokes opium, I believe. And he's easily the worst-tempered
man in England. Anything more you want to
know?"
"I don't think so," said Emily. "What you have told
me seems pretty comprehensive."
149
Emily Visits Sittaford House
A s Emily walked briskly along the lane she noticed once
more how the character of the morning was changing.
The mist was closing up and round.
"What an awful place to live in England is," thought
Emily. "If it isn't snowing or raining or blowing it's misty.
And if the sun does shine it's so cold that you can't feel
your fingers or toes."
She was interrupted in these reflections by a rather
hoarse voice speaking rather close to her
right ear.
"Excuse me," it said, "but do you happen to have seen
a bull terrier?"
Emily started and turned. Leaning over a gate was a
tall thin man with a very brown complexion, bloodshot
eyes and gray hair. He was propped up with a crutch on
one side, and was eyeing Emily with enormous interest.
She had no difficulty in identifying him as Captain Wyatt,
the invalid owner of No. 3 The Cottages.
"No, I haven't," said Emily.
"She's got out," said Captain Wyatt. "An affectionate
creature, but an absolute fool. With all these cars and
things--"
"I shouldn't think many motors come up this lane,"
said Emily.
"Charabancs do in the summer time," said Captain
Wyatt grimly. "It's the three and sixpenny morning run
from Exhampton. Ascent of Sittaford Beacon with a halt
150
Murder at Hazelmoor
halfway up from Exhampton for light refreshments."
"Yes, but this isn't summer time," said Emily.
"All the same a charabanc came along just now. Reporters,
I suppose, going to have a look at Sittaford House."
"Did you know Captain Trevelyan well?" asked Emily.
She was of the opinion that the incident of the bull terrier
had been a mere subterfuge on Captan Wyatt's part
dictated by a very natural curiosity. She was, she was well
aware, the principal object of attention in Sittaford at
present, and it was only natural that Captain Wyatt should
wish to have a look at her as well as everyone else.
"I don't know about well," said Captain Wyatt. "He sold me this cottage."
"Yes," said Emily encouragingly.
"A skinflint, that's what he was," said Captain Wyatt.
"The arrangement was that he was to do the place up to
suit the purchaser's taste, and just because I had the
window sashes in chocolate picked out in lemon, he wanted
me to pay half. Said the arrangement was for a uniform
color."
"You didn't like him," said Emily.
"I was always having rows with him," said Captain
Wyatt. "But I always have rows with everyone," he added
as an afterthought. "In a place like this you have to teach
people to leave a man alone. Always knocking at the door
and dropping in and chattering. I don't mind seeing
people when I am in the mood--but it has got to be my
mood not theirs. No good Trevelyan giving me his Lord
of the Manor airs and dropping in whenever he felt like
it. There's not a soul in the place comes near me now,"
he added with satisfaction.
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Agatha Christie
"Oh!" said Emily.
"That's the best of having a native servant," said Cap-tain
Wyatt. "They understand orders. Abdul," he roared.
A tall Indian in a turban came out of the cottage and
waited attentively.
"Come in and have something," said Captain Wyatt.
"And see my little cottage."
"I'm sorry," said Emily, "but I have to hurry on."
"Ohno, you haven't," said Captain Wyatt.
"Yes, I have," said Emily. "I've got an appointment."
"Nobody understands the art of living nowadays," said
Captain Wyatt. "Catching trains, making appointments,.
fixing times for everything--all nonsense. Get up with
the sun I say, have your meals when you feel like it, and
never tie yourself to a time or a date. I could teach people
how to live if they would listen to me."
The results of this exalted idea of living were not too
hopeful, Emily reflected. Anything more like a battered
wreck of a man than Captain Wyatt she had never seen.
However, feeling that his curiosity had been sufficiently
satisfied for the time being she insisted once more on
her appointment and went on her way.
Sittaford House had a solid oak front door, a neat bell
pull, an immense wire mat, and a brilliantly polished
brass letter box. It represented, as Emily could not fail
to see, comfort and decorum. A neat and conventional
parlormaid answered the bell.
Emily deduced the journalist evil had been before her
as the parlormaid said at once in a distant tone, "Mrs.
Willett is not seeing anyone this morning."
152
Murder at Hazelmoor
"I have brought a note from Miss Percehouse," said
Emily.
This clearly altered matters. The parlormaid's face expressed
indecision, then she shifted her ground.
"Will you come inside, please."
Emily was ushered into what house agents describe
as "a well-appointed hall," and from there into a large
drawing-room. A fire was burning brightly and there
were traces of feminine occupation in the room. Some
glass tulips, an elaborate workbag, a girl's hat, and a
Pierrot doll with very long legs, were lying about. There
were, she noticed, no photographs.
Having taken in all there was to see, Emily was warming
her hands in front of the fire when the door opened
and a girl about her own age came in. She was a very
pretty girl, Emily noticed, smartly and expensively
dressed, and she also thought that she had never seen a
girl in a greater state of nervous apprehension. Not that
this was apparent on the surface however. Miss Willett
was making a gallant appearance of being entirely at her
ease.
"Good morning," she said advancing and shaking hands. "I'm so sorry mother isn't down, but she's spending the
morning in bed."
"Oh, I am so sorry, I'm afraid I have come at an unfortunate
time."
"No, of course not. The cook is writing out the recipe
for that c.ake now. We are only too delighted for Miss
Percehouse to have it. Are you staying with her?"
Emily reflected with an inward smile that this was
153
Agatha Christie
perhaps the only house in Sittaford whose members were
not exactly aware of who she was and why she was there.
Sittaford House had a definite regime of employers and
employed. The employed might know about her--the
employers clearly did not.
"I am not exactly staying with her," said Emily. "In fact, I'm at Mrs. Curtis's."
"Of course the cottage is terribly small and she has
her nephew, Ronnie, with her, hasn't she? I suppose
there wouldn't be room for you too. She's a wonderful
person, isn't she? So much character, I always think, but
I am rather afraid of her really."
"She's a bully, isn't she?" agreed Emily cheerfully.
"But it's an awful temptation to be a bully, especially if
people won't stand up to you."
Miss Willett sighed.
"I wish I could stand up to people," she said. "We've
had the most awful morning absolutely pestered by reporters."
"Oh, of course," said Emily. "This is Captain Trevelyan's
house really, isn't it?--the man who was murdered
at Exhampton."
She was trying to determine the exact cause of Violet
Willett's nervousness. The girl was clearly on the jump.
Something was frighte
ning her--and frightening her
badly. She mentioned Captain Trevelyan's name bluntly
on purpose. The girl didn't noticeably react to it in any
way, but then she was probably expecting some such
reference.
"Yes, wasn't it dreadful?"
154
Murder at Hazelmoor
"Do tell me--that's if you don't mind talking about
it?"
"No--no--of course not--why should I?"
"There's something very wrong with this girl," thought
Emily. "She hardly knows what she's saying. What has
made her get the wind up this morning particularly?"
"About that table turning," went on Emily. "I heard
about it in a casual sort of way and it seemed to me so
frightfully interesting--I mean so absolutely gruesome."
"Girlish thrills," she thought to herself, "that's my
line."
"Oh, it was horrid," said Violet. "That evening--I shall
never forget it! We thought, of course, that it was some-body
just fooling--only it seemed a very nasty kind of
joke."
"Yes?"
"I shall never forget when we turned the lights on--everybody
looked so queer. Not Mr. Duke and Major
Burnaby--they are the stolid kind, they would never
like to admit that they were impressed by anything of
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