Short Stories

by Agatha Christie

  It was a sadly chastened George who sat consuming eggs and bacon the following morning. He had failed Elizabeth. He had allowed the precious packet she had entrusted to his charge to be taken from him, and the "Mystery of the Bathroom" was miserably inadequate. Yes, undoubtedly George had made a mutt of himself.

  After breakfast he strolled upstairs again. A chambermaid was standing in the passage looking perplexed.

  "Anything wrong, my dear?" said George kindly.

  "It's the gentleman here, sir. He asked to be called at half-past eight, and I can't get any answer and the door's locked."

  "You don't say so," said George.

  An uneasy feeling arose in his own breast. He hurried into his room. Whatever plans he was forming were instantly brushed aside by a most unexpected sight. There on the dressing table was the little packet which had been stolen from him the night before!

  George picked it up and examined it. Yes, it was undoubtedly the same. But the seals had been broken. After a minute's hesitation, he unwrapped it. If other people had seen its contents, there was no reason why he should not see them also. Besides, it was possible that the contents had been abstracted. The unwound paper revealed a small cardboard box, such as jewellers use.

  George opened it. Inside, nestling on a bed of cotton wool, was a plain gold wedding ring.

  He picked it up and examined it. There was no inscription inside nothing whatever to mark it out from any other wedding ring.

  George dropped his head into his hands with a groan.

  "Lunacy," he murmured. "That's what it is. Stark, staring lunacy.

  There's no sense anywhere."

  Suddenly he remembered the chambermaid's statement, and at the same time he observed that there was a broad parapet outside the window. It was not a feat he would ordinarily have attempted, but he was so aflame with curiosity and anger that he was in the mood to make light of difficulties. He sprang upon the window sill.

  A few seconds later he was peering in at the window of the room occupied by the black-bearded man. The window was open and the room was empty. A little farther along was a fire escape. It was clear how the quarry had taken his departure.

  George jumped in through the window. The missing man's effects were still scattered about. There might be some clue among them to shed light on George's perplexities. He began to hunt about, starting with the contents of a battered kit bag.

  It was a sound that arrested his search - a very slight sound, but a sound indubitably in the room. George's glance leapt to the big wardrobe. He sprang up and wrenched open the door. As he did so, a man jumped out from it and went rolling over the floor locked in George's embrace. He was no mean antagonist. All George's special tricks availed very little. They fell apart at length in sheer exhaustion, and for the first time George saw who his adversary was. It was the little man with the ginger moustache!

  "Who the devil are you?" demanded George.

  For answer the other drew out a card and handed it to him. George read it aloud.

  "Detective-Inspector Jarrold, Scotland Yard."

  "That's right, sir. And you'd do well to tell me all you know about this business."

  "I would, would I?" said George thoughtfully. "Do you know, inspector, I believe you're right. Shall we adjourn to a more cheerful spot?"

  In a quiet corner of the bar George unfolded his soul. Inspector Jarrold listened sympathetically.

  "Very puzzling, as you say, sir," he remarked when George had finished. "There's a lot as I can't make head or tail of myself, but there's one or two points I can clear up for you. I was here after Mardenberg (your black-bearded friend) and your turning up and watching him the way you did made me suspicious. I couldn't place you. I slipped into your room last night when you were out of it, and it was I who sneaked the little packet from under your pillow. When I opened it and found it wasn't what I was after, I took the first opportunity of returning it to your room."

  "That makes things a little clearer certainly," said George thoughtfully. "I seem to have made rather an ass of myself all through."

  "I wouldn't say that, sir. You did uncommon well for a beginner.

  You say you visited the bathroom this morning and took away what was concealed behind the skirting board?"

  "Yes. But it's only a rotten love letter," said George gloomily.

  "Dash it all, I didn't mean to go nosing out the poor fellow's private life."

  "Would you mind letting me see it, sir?"

  George took a folded letter from his pocket and passed it to the inspector. The latter unfolded it.

  "As you say, sir. But I rather fancy that if you drew lines from one dotted i to another, you'd get a different result. Why, bless you, sir, this is a plan of the Portsmouth harbour defences."

  "What?"

  "Yes. We've had our eye on the gentleman for some time. But he was too sharp for us. Got a woman to do most of the dirty work."

  "A woman?" said George in a faint voice. "What was her name?"

  "She goes by a good many, sir. Most usually known as Betty Brighteyes. A remarkably good-looking young woman she is."

  "Betty - Brighteyes," said George. "Thank you, inspector."

  "Excuse me, sir, but you're not looking well."

  "I'm not well. I'm very ill. In fact, I think I'd better take the first train back to town."

  The inspector looked at his watch.

  "That will be a slow train, I'm afraid, sir. Better wait for the express."

  "It doesn't matter," said George gloomily. "No train could be slower than the one I came down by yesterday."

  Seated once more in a first-class carriage, George leisurely perused the day's news. Suddenly he sat bolt upright and stared at the sheet in front of him.

  "A romantic wedding took place yesterday in London when Lord Roland Gaigh, second son of the Marquis of Axminster, was married to the Grand Duchess Anastasia of Catonia. The ceremony was kept a profound secret. The Grand Duchess has been living in Paris with her uncle since the upheaval in Catonia.

  She met Lord Roland when he was secretary to the British Embassy in Catonia and their attachment dates from that time."

  "Well, I'm -"

  Mr Rowland could not think of anything strong enough to express his feelings. He continued to stare into space. The train stopped at a small station and a lady got in. She sat down opposite him.

  "Good morning, George," she said sweetly.

  "Good heavens!" cried George. "Elizabeth!"

  She smiled at him. She was, if possible, lovelier than ever.

  "Look here," cried George, clutching his head. "For God's sake tell me. Are you the Grand Duchess Anastasia, or are you Betty Brighteyes?"

  She stared at him.

  "I'm not either. I'm Elizabeth Gaigh. I can tell you all about it now.

  And I've got to apologize too. You see, Roland (that's my brother) has always been in love with Alexa -"

  "Meaning the Grand Duchess?"

  "Yes that's what the family call her. Well, as I say, Roland was always in love with her, and she with him. And then the revolution came, and Alexa was in Paris, and they were just going to fix it up when old Stþrm, the chancellor, came along and insisted on carrying off Alexa and forcing her to marry Prince Karl, her cousin, a horrid pimply person -"

  "I fancy I've met him," said George.

  "Whom she simply hates. And old Prince Osric, her uncle, forbade her to see Roland again. So she ran away to England, and I came up to town and met her, and we wired to Roland, who was in Scotland. And just at the very last minute, when we were driving to the Registry Office in a taxi, whom should we meet in another taxi face to face, but old Prince Osric. Of course he followed us, and we were at our wits' end what to do because he'd have made the most fearful scene, and, anyway, he is her guardian. Then I had the brilliant idea of changing places. You can practically see nothing of a girl nowadays but the tip of her nose. I put on Alexa's red hat and brown wrap coat, and she put on my grey. Then we told the
taxi to go to Waterloo, and I skipped out there and hurried into the station. Old Osric followed the red hat all right, without a thought for the other occupant of the taxi sitting huddled up inside, but of course it wouldn't do for him to see my face. So I just bolted into your carriage and threw myself on your mercy."

  "I've got that all right," said George. "It's the rest of it."

  "I know. That's what I've got to apologize about. I hope you won't be awfully cross. You see, you looked so keen on its being a real mystery - like in books, that I really couldn't resist the temptation. I picked out a rather sinister-looking man on the platform and told you to follow him. And then I thrust the parcel on you."

  "Containing a wedding ring."

  "Yes. Alexa and I bought that, because Roland wasn't due to arrive from Scotland until just before the wedding. And of course I knew that by the time I got to London, they wouldn't want it - they would have had to use a curtain ring or something."

  "I see," said George. "It's like all these things - so simple when you know! Allow me, Elizabeth."

  He stripped off her left glove and uttered a sigh of relief at the sight of the bare third finger.

  "That's all right," he remarked. "That ring won't be wasted after all."

  "Oh!" cried Elizabeth. "But I don't know anything about you."

  "You know how nice I am," said George. "By the way, it has just occurred to me, you are the Lady Elizabeth Gaigh, of course."

  "Oh! George, are you a snob?"

  "As a matter of fact, I am, rather. My best dream was one where King George borrowed half a crown from me to see him over the weekend. But I was thinking of my uncle - the one from whom I am estranged. He's a frightful snob. When he knows I'm going to marry you, and that we'll have a title in the family, he'll make me a partner at once!" "Oh! George, is he very rich?" "Elizabeth, are you mercenary?" "Very. I adore spending money. But I was thinking of Father. Five daughters, full of beauty and blue blood. He's just yearning for a rich son-in-law." "H'm," said George. "It will be one of those marriages made in heaven and approved on earth. Shall we live at Rowland's Castle? They'd be sure to make me Lord Mayor with you for a wife. Oh! Elizabeth, darling, it's probably contravening the company's bylaws, but I simply must kiss you!"

  SING A SONG OF SIXPENCE

  Sir Edward Palliser, K.C., lived at No. 9 Queen Anne's Close. Queen Anne's Close is a cul-de-sac. In the very heart of Westminster it manages to have a peaceful Old World atmosphere far removed from the turmoil of the twentieth century. It suited Sir Edward Palliser admirably. Sir Edward had been one of the most eminent criminal barristers of his day and now that he no longer practiced at the bar he had amused himself by amassing a very fine criminological library. He was also the author of a volume of Reminiscences of Eminent Criminals.

  On this particular evening Sir Edward was sitting in front of his library fire, sipping some very excellent black coffee and shaking his head over a volume of Lombroso. Such ingenious theories and so completely out of date!

  The door opened almost noiselessly and his well-trained manservant approached over the thick pile carpet, and murmured discreetly:

  "A young lady wishes to see you, sir."

  "A young lady!"

  Sir Edward was surprised. Here was something quite out of the usual course of events. Then he reflected that it might be his niece, Ethel - but no, in that case Armour would have said so.

  He inquired cautiously. "The lady did not give her name?"

  "No, sir, but she said she was quite sure you would wish to see her."

  "Show her in," said Sir Edward Palliser. He felt pleasurably intrigued.

  A tall, dark girl of close on thirty, wearing a black coat and skirt, well cut, and a little black hat, came to Sir Edward with outstretched hand and a look of eager recognition on her face.

  Armour withdrew, closing the door noiselessly behind him.

  "Sir Edward - you do know me, don't you? I'm Magdalen Vaughan."

  "Why, of course." He pressed the outstretched hand warmly.

  He remembered her perfectly now. That trip home from America on the Siluric! This charming child - for she had been little more than a child. He had made love to her, he remembered, in a discreet, elderly man-of-the-world fashion. She had been so adorably young - so eager - so full of admiration and hero-worship just made to captivate the he art of a man near sixty. The remembrance brought additional warmth into the pressure of his hand.

  "This is most delightful of you. Sit down, won't you." He arranged an armchair for her, talking easily and evenly, wondering all the time why she had come. When at last he brought the easy flow of small talk to an end, there was a silence.

  Her hand closed and unclosed on the arm of the chair, she moistened her lips. Suddenly she spoke - abruptly.

  "Sir Edward - I want you to help me."

  He was surprised and murmured mechanically: "Yes?"

  She went on, speaking more intensely: "You said that if ever I needed help - that if there were anything in the world you could do for me - you would do it."

  Yes, he had said that. It was the sort of thing one did say particularly at the moment of parting. He could recall the break in his voice - the way he had raised her hand to his lips.

  "If there is ever anything I can do - remember, I mean it..."

  Yes, one said that sort of thing... But very, very rarely did one have to fulfil one's words! And certainly not after - how many? - nine or ten years. He flashed a quick glance at her - she was still a very good-looking girl, but she had lost what had been to him her charm - that look of dewy untouched youth. It was a more interesting face now, perhaps - a younger man might have thought so - but Sir Edward was far from feeling the tide of warmth and emotion that had been his at the end of that Atlantic voyage.

  His face became legal and cautious. He said in a rather brisk way:

  "Certainly, my dear young lady, I shall be delighted to do anything in my power - though I doubt if I can be very helpful to anyone in these days."

  If he were preparing his way of retreat she did not notice it. She was of the type that can only see one thing at a time and what she was seeing at this moment was her own need. She took Sir Edward's willingness to help for granted.

  "We are in terrible trouble, Sir Edward."

  "We? You are married?"

  "No - I meant my brother and I. Oh, and William and Emily, too, for that matter. But I must explain. I have - I had an aunt - Miss Crabtree. You may have read about her in the papers? It was horrible. She was killed - murdered."

  "Ah!" A flash of interest lit up Sir Edward's face. "About a month ago, wasn't it?"

  The girl nodded. "Rather less than that - three weeks."

  "Yes, I remember. She was hit on the head in her own house. They didn't get the fellow who did it."

  Again Magdalen Vaughan nodded. "They didn't get the man - I don't believe they ever will get the man. You see - there mightn't be any man to get."

  "What?"

  "Yes - it's awful. Nothing's come out about it in the papers. But that's what the police think. They know nobody came to the house that night."

  "You mean -?"

  "That it's one of us four. It must be. They don't know which - and we don't know which... We don't know. And we sit there every day looking at each other surreptitiously and wondering. Oh! if only it could have been someone from outside - but I don't see how it can..."

  Sir Edward stared at her, his interest rising.

  "You mean that the members of the family are under suspicion?"

  "Yes, that's what I mean. The police haven't said so, of course.

  They've been quite polite and nice. But they've ransacked the house, they've questioned us all, and Martha again and again...

  And because they don't know which, they're holding their hand. I'm so frightened - so horribly frightened..."

  "My dear child. Come now, surely you are exaggerating."

  "I'm not. It's one of us four - it must be."

 
"Who are the four to whom you refer?"

  Magdalen sat up straight and spoke more composedly.

  "There's myself and Matthew. Aunt Lily was our great aunt. She was my grandmother's sister. We've lived with her ever since we were fourteen (we're twins, you know). Then there was William Crabtree. He was her nephew - her brother's child. He lived there, too, with his wife, Emily."

  "She supported them?"

  "More or less. He has a little money of his own, but he's not strong and has to live at home. He's a quiet, dreamy sort of man. I'm sure it would have been impossible for him to have - oh! it's awful of me to think of it even!"

  "I am still very far from understanding the position. Perhaps you would not mind running over the facts - if it does not distress you too much."

  "Oh, no! I want to tell you. And it's all quite clear in my mind still horribly clear. We'd had tea, you understand, and we'd all gone off to do things of our own. I to do some dressmaking, Matthew to type an article - he does a little journalism; William to do his stamps.

  Emily hadn't been down to tea. She'd taken a headache powder and was lying down. So there we were, all of us, busy and occupied. And when Martha went in to lay supper at half-past seven, there Aunt Lily was - dead. Her head - oh, it's horrible! - all crushed in."

  "The weapon was found, I think?"

  "Yes. It was a heavy paper weight that always lay on the table by the door. The police tested it for fingerprints, but there were none.

  It had been wiped clean."

  "And your first surmise?"

  "We thought, of course, it was a burglar. There were two or three drawers of the bureau pulled out, as though a thief had been looking for something. Of course we thought it was a burglar! And then the police came - and they said she had been dead at least an hour, and asked Martha who had been to the house, and Martha said nobody. And all the windows were fastened on the inside, and there seemed no signs of anything having been tampered with.

  And then they began to ask us questions..."

  She stopped. Her breast heaved. Her eyes, frightened and imploring, sought Sir Edward's in search of reassurance.