Short Stories

by Agatha Christie

  The murmur of voices within had been plainly audible to him. Upon his knock there came a sudden silence, then the sound of a chair being pushed back along the floor. In another minute the door was flung open by a boy of about fifteen. Cleveland could look straight over his shoulder upon the scene within.

  It reminded him of an interior by some Dutch painter. A round table spread for a meal, a family party sitting round it, one or two flickering candies and the firelight's glow over all. The father, a big man, sat at one side of the table, a little gray woman with a frightened face sat opposite him. Facing the door, looking straight at Cleveland, was a girl.

  Her startled eyes looked straight into his, her hand with a cup in it was arrested halfway to her lips.

  She was, Cleveland saw at once, a beautiful girl of an extremely uncommon type. Her hair, red gold, stood out round her face like a mist; her eyes, very far apart, were a pure gray. She had the mouth and chin of an early Italian Madonna.

  There was a moment's dead silence. Then Cleveland stepped into the room and explained his predicament. He brought his trite story to a close, and there was another pause harder to understand. At last, as though with an effort, the father rose.

  "Come in, sir - Mr Cleveland, did you say?"

  "That is my name," said Mortimer, smiling.

  "Ah, yes. Come in, Mr Cleveland. Not weather for a dog outside, is it?

  Come in by the fire. Shut the door, can't you, Johnnie? Don't stand there half the night."

  Cleveland came forward and sat on a wooden stool by the fire. The boy Johnnie shut the door.

  "Dinsmead, that's my name," said the other man. He was all geniality now. "This is the Missus, and these are my two daughters, Charlotte and Magdalen."

  For the first time, Cleveland saw the face of the girl who had been sitting with her back to him, and saw that, in a totally different way, she was quite as beautiful as her sister. Very dark, with a face of marble pallor, a delicate aquiline nose, and a grave mouth. It was a kind of frozen beauty, austere and almost forbidding. She acknowledged her father's introduction by bending her head, and she looked at him with an intent gaze that was searching in character. It was as though she were summing him up, weighing him in the balance of her clear young judgement.

  "A drop of something to drink, eh, Mr Cleveland?"

  "Thank you," said Mortimer. "A cup of tea will meet the case admirably."

  Mr Dinsmead hesitated a minute, then he picked up the five cups, one after another, from the table and emptied them into the slop bowl.

  "This tea's cold," he said brusquely. "Make us some more, will you, Mother?"

  Mrs Dinsmead got up quickly and hurried off with the teapot. Mortimer had an idea that she was glad to get out of the room.

  The fresh tea soon came, and the unexpected guest was plied with viands.

  Mr Dinsmead talked and talked. He was expansive, genial, loquacious.

  He told the stranger all about himself. He'd lately retired from the building trade - yes, made quite a good thing out of it. He and the Missus thought they'd like a bit of country air - never lived in the country before. Wrong time of year to choose, of course, October and November, but they didn't want to wait "Life's uncertain, you know, sir."

  So they had taken this cottage. Eight miles from anywhere, and nineteen miles from anything you could call a town. No, they didn't complain. The girls found it a bit dull, but he and Mother enjoyed the quiet.

  So he talked on, leaving Mortimer almost hypnotized by the easy flow.

  Nothing here, surely, but rather commonplace domesticity. And yet, at that first glimpse of the interior, he had diagnosed something else, some tension, some strain, emanating from one of those four people he didn't know which. Mere foolishness, his nerves were all awry! They were startled by his sudden appearance - that was all.

  He broached the question of a night's lodging, and was met with a ready response.

  "You'll have to stop with us, Mr Cleveland. Nothing else for miles around.

  We can give you a bedroom, and though my pajamas may be a bit roomy, why, they're better than nothing, and your own clothes will be dry by morning."

  "It's very good of you."

  "Not at all," said the other genially. "As I said just now, one couldn't turn away a dog on a night like this. Magdalen, Charlotte, go up and see to the room."

  The two girls left the room. Presently Mortimer heard them moving about overhead.

  "I can quite understand that two attractive young ladies like your daughters might find it dull here," said Cleveland.

  "Good lookers, aren't they?" said Mr Dinsmead with fatherly pride. "Not much like their mother or myself. We're a homely pair, but much attached to each other, I'll tell you that, Mr Cleveland. Eh, Maggie, isn't that so?"

  Mrs Dinsmead smiled primly. She had started knitting again. The needles clicked busily. She was a fast knitter.

  Presently the room was announced ready, and Mortimer, expressing thanks once more, declared his intention of turning in.

  "Did you put a hot-water bottle in the bed?" demanded Mrs Dinsmead, suddenly mindful of her house pride.

  "Yes, Mother, two."

  "That's right," said Dinsmead. "Go up with him, girls, and see that every thing is all right."

  Magdalen preceded him up the staircase, her candle held aloft.

  Charlotte came behind.

  The room was quite a pleasant one, small and with a sloping roof, but the bed looked comfortable, and the few pieces of somewhat dusty furniture were of old mahogany. A large can of hot water stood in the basin, a pair of pink pajamas of ample proportions were laid over a chair, and the bed was made and turned down.

  Magdalen went over to the window and saw that the fastenings were secure. Charlotte cast a final eye over the washstand appointments.

  Then they both lingered by the door.

  "Good night, Mr Cleveland. You are sure there is everything?"

  "Yes, thank you, Miss Magdalen. I am sorry to have given you both so much trouble. Good night."

  "Good night."

  They went out, shutting the door behind them. Mortimer Cleveland was alone. He undressed slowly and thoughtfully. When he had donned Mr Dinsmead's pink pajamas, he gathered up his own wet clothes and put them outside the door as his host had bade him. From downstairs he could hear the rumble of Dinsmead's voice.

  What a talker the man was! Altogether an odd personality - but indeed there was something odd about the whole family, or was it his imagination?

  He went slowly back into his room and shut the door. He stood by the bed lost in thought. And then he started -

  The mahogany table by the bed was smothered in dust. Written in the dust were three letters, clearly visible. S.O.S.

  Mortimer stared as if he could hardly believe his eyes. It was a confirmation of all his vague surmises and forebodings. He was right, then. Something was wrong in this house.

  S.O.S. A call for help. But whose finger had written it in the dust?

  Magdalen's or Charlotte's? They had both stood there, he remembered, for a moment or two, before going out of the room. Whose hand had secretly dropped to the table and traced out those three letters?

  The faces of the two girls came up before him. Magdalen's, dark and aloof, and Charlotte's, as he had seen it first, wide-eyed, startled, with an unfathomable something in her glance.

  He went again to the door and opened it. The boom of Mr Dinsmead's voice was no longer to be heard. The house was silent He thought to himself.

  "I can do nothing tonight. Tomorrow - well, we shall see."

  Cleveland woke early. He went down through the living room, and out into the garden. The morning was fresh and beautiful after the rain.

  Someone else was up early, too. At the bottom of the garden Charlotte was leaning on the fence staring out over the Downs. His pulses quickened a little as he went down to join her. All along he had been secretly convinced that it was Charlotte who had written the message.


  As he came up to her, she turned and wished him "Good morning." Her eyes were direct and childlike, with no hint of a secret understanding in them.

  "A very good morning," said Mortimer, smiling. "The weather this morning is a contrast to last night's."

  "It is indeed."

  Mortimer broke off a twig from a tree near by. With it he began idly to draw on the smooth, sandy patch at his feet. He traced an S, then an O, then an S, watching the girl narrowly as he did so. But again he could detect no gleam of comprehension.

  "Do you know what these letters represent?" he said abruptly.

  Charlotte frowned a little. "Aren't they what boats send out when they are in distress?" she asked.

  Mortimer nodded. "Someone wrote that on the table by my bed last night," he said quietly. "I thought perhaps you might have done so."

  She looked at him in wide-eyed astonishment.

  "I? Oh, no."

  He was wrong then. A sharp pang of disappointment shot through him.

  He had been so sure - so sure. It was not often that his intuitions led him astray.

  "You are quite certain?" he persisted.

  "Oh, yes."

  They turned and went slowly together toward the house. Charlotte seemed preoccupied about something. She replied at random to the few observations he made. Suddenly she burst out in a low, hurried voice.

  "It - it's odd your asking that about those letters, S.O.S. I didn't write them, of course, but - I so easily might have."

  He stopped and looked at her, and she went on quickly: "It sounds silly, I know, but I have been so frightened, so dreadfully frightened, and when you came in last night, it seemed like an - an answer to something."

  "What are you frightened of?" he asked quickly.

  "I don't know."

  "You don't know?"

  "I think - it's the house. Ever since we came here it has been growing and growing. Everyone seems different somehow. Father, Mother, and Magdalen, they all seem different."

  Mortimer did not speak at once, and before he could do so, Charlotte went on again.

  "You know this house is supposed to be haunted?"

  "What?" All his interest was quickened.

  "Yes, a man murdered his wife in it, oh, some years ago now. We only found out about it after we got here. Father says ghosts are all nonsense, but I - don't know."

  Mortimer was thinking rapidly.

  "Tell me," he said in a businesslike tone, "was this murder committed in the room I had last night?"

  "I don't know anything about that," said Charlotte.

  "I wonder now," said Mortimer half to himself, "yes, that may be it."

  Charlotte looked at him uncomprehendingly.

  "Miss Dinsmead," said Mortimer, gently, "Have you ever had any reason to believe that you are mediumistic?"

  She stared at him.

  "I think you know that you did write S.O.S. last night," he said quietly.

  "Oh! quite unconsciously, of course. A crime stains the atmosphere, so to speak. A sensitive mind such as yours might be acted upon in such a manner. You have been reproducing the sensations and impressions of the victim. Many years ago she may have written S.O.S. on that table, and you unconsciously reproduced her act last night."

  Charlotte's face brightened.

  "I see," she said. "You think that is the explanation?"

  A voice called her from the house, and she went in, leaving Mortimer to pace up and down the garden paths. Was he satisfied with his own explanation? Did it cover the facts as he knew them? Did it account for the tension he had felt on entering the house last night?

  Perhaps, and yet he still had the odd feeling that his sudden appearance had produced something very like consternation. He thought to himself.

  "I must not be carried away by the psychic explanation. It might account for Charlotte - but not for the others. My coming as I did upset them horribly, all except Johnnie. Whatever it is that's the matter, Johnnie is out of it."

  He was quite sure of that; strange that he should be so positive, but there it was.

  At that minute Johnnie himself came out of the cottage and approached the guest.

  "Breakfast's ready," he said awkwardly. "Will you come in?"

  Mortimer noticed that the lad's fingers were much stained. Johnnie felt his glance and laughed ruefully.

  "I'm always messing about with chemicals, you know," he said. "It makes Dad awfully wild sometimes. He wants me to go into building, but I want to do chemistry and research work."

  Mr Dinsmead appeared at the window ahead of them, broad, jovial, smiling, and at sight of him all Mortimer's distrust and antagonism reawakened. Mrs Dinsmead was already seated at the table. She wished him "Good morning" in her colorless voice, and he had again the impression that for some reason or other, she was afraid of him.

  Magdalen came in last. She gave him a brief nod and took her seat opposite him.

  "Did you sleep well?" she asked abruptly. "Was your bed comfortable?"

  She looked at him very earnestly, and when he replied courteously in the affirmative he noticed something very like a flicker of disappointment pass over her face. What had she expected him to say, he wondered?

  He turned to his host.

  "This lad of yours is interested in chemistry, it seems," he said pleasantly.

  There was a crash. Mrs Dinsmead had dropped her tea cup.

  "Now then, Maggie, now then," said her husband.

  It seemed to Mortimer that there was admonition, warning, in his voice.

  He turned to his guest and spoke fluently of the advantages of the building trade, and of not letting young boys get above themselves.

  After breakfast he went out in the garden by himself, and smoked. The time was clearly at hand when he must leave the cottage. A night's shelter was one thing; to prolong it was difficult without an excuse, and what possible excuse could he offer? And yet he was singularly loath to depart.

  Turning the thing over and over in his mind, he took a path that led round the other side of the house. His shoes were soled with crepe rubber, and made little or no noise. He was passing the kitchen window when he heard Dinsmead's words from within, and the words attracted his attention immediately.

  "It's a fair lump of money, it is."

  Mrs Dinsmead's voice answered. It was too faint in tone for Mortimer to hear the words, but Dinsmead replied:

  "Nigh on ВЈ60,000, the lawyer said."

  Mortimer had no intention of eavesdropping, but he retraced his steps very thoughtfully. The mention of money seemed to crystallize the situation. Somewhere or other there was a question of ВЈ60,000. It made the thing clearer - and uglier.

  Magdalen came out of the house, but her father's voice called her almost immediately, and she went in again. Presently Dinsmead himself joined his guest.

  "Rare good morning," he said genially. "I hope your car will be none the worse."

  "Wants to find out when I'm going," thought Mortimer to himself.

  Aloud he thanked Mr Dinsmead once more for his timely hospitality.

  "Not at all, not at all," said the other.

  Magdalen and Charlotte came together out of the house and strolled arm in arm to a rustic seat some little distance away. The dark head and the golden one made a pleasant contrast together and on an impulse Mortimer said:

  "Your daughters are very unlike, Mr Dinsmead."

  The other who was just lighting his pipe gave a sharp jerk of the wrist and dropped the match.

  "Do you think so?" he asked. "Yes, well, I suppose they are."

  Mortimer had a flash of intuition.

  "But of course they are not both your daughters," he said smoothly.

  He saw Dinsmead look at him, hesitate for a moment, and then make up his mind.

  "That's very clever of you, sir," he said. "No, one of them is a foundling; we took her in as a baby and we have brought her up as our own. She herself has not the least idea of the truth, but she'll have to know soon."
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  He sighed.

  "A question of inheritance?" suggested Mortimer quietly.

  The other flashed a suspicious look at him.

  Then he decided that frankness was best; his manner became almost aggressively frank and open.

  "It's odd you should say that, sir."

  "A case of telepathy, eh?" said Mortimer, and smiled.

  "It is like this, sir. We took her in to oblige the mother - for a consideration, as at the time I was just starting in the building trade. A few months ago I noticed an advertisement in the papers, and it seemed to me that the child in question must be our Magdalen. I went to see the lawyers, and there has been a lot of talk one way and another.

  They were suspicious - naturally, as you might say - but everything is cleared up now. I am taking the girl herself to London next week - she doesn't know anything about it so far. Her father, it seems, was a very rich man. He only learned of the child's existence a few months before his death. He hired agents to try and trace her, and left all his money to her when she should be found."

  Mortimer listened with close attention. He had no reason to doubt Mr Dinsmead's story. It explained Magdalen's dark beauty; explained too, perhaps, her aloof manner. Nevertheless, though the story itself might be true, something lay undivulged behind it.

  But Mortimer had no intention of rousing the other's suspicions. Instead, he must go out of his way to allay them.

  "A very interesting story, Mr Dinsmead," he said. "I congratulate Miss Magdalen. An heiress and a beauty, she has a great future ahead."

  "She has that," agreed her father warmly, "and she's a rare good girl too, Mr Cleveland."

  There was every evidence of hearty warmth in his manner.

  "Well," said Mortimer, "I must be pushing along now, I suppose. I have got to thank you once more, Mr Dinsmead, for your singularly welltimed hospitality."

  Accompanied by his host, he went into the house to bid farewell to Mrs Dinsmead. She was standing by the window with her back to them, and did not hear them enter. At her husband's jovial, "Here's Mr Cleveland come to say good-bye," she started nervously and swung round, dropping something which she held in her hand. Mortimer picked it up for her. It was a miniature of Charlotte done in the style of some twentyfive years ago. Mortimer repeated to her the thanks he had already proffered to her husband. He noticed again her look of fear and the furtive glances that she shot at him beneath her eyelids.