The Hollow hp-24

by Agatha Christie

  Yes, a skilfully suggested picture… drawing attention to a Harley Street background-away from The Hollow-away from the moment when Henrietta Savernake, stepping forward, had taken the revolver from Gerda Christow's unresisting hand… away from that other moment when John Christow, dying, had said Henrietta. …

  Suddenly opening his eyes, which had been half closed, Hercule Poirot demanded with irresistible curiosity:

  "Do your boys play with Meccano?"

  "Eh, what?" Inspector Grange came back from a frowning reverie to stare at Poirot.

  "Why, what on earth? As a matter of fact, they're a bit young-but I was thinking of giving Teddy a Meccano set for Christmas.

  What made you ask?"

  Poirot shook his head.

  What made Lady Angkatell dangerous, he thought, was the fact that those intuitive wild guesses others might often be right…

  With a careless (seemingly careless) word she built up a picture-and if part of the picture was right, wouldn't you, in spite of yourself, believe in the other half of the picture…

  Inspector Grange was speaking.

  "There's a point I want to put to you, M. Poirot. This Miss Cray, the actress-she traipses over here borrowing matches. If she wanted to borrow matches why didn't she come to your place only a step or two away? Why come about half a mile?"

  Hercule Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

  "There might be reasons. Snob reasons, shall we say? My little cottage, it is small, unimportant. I am only a week-ender but Sir Henry and Lady Angkatell are important-they live here-they are what is called gentry in the county. This Miss Veronica Cray, she may have wanted to get to know them-and after all, this was a way." Inspector Grange got up.

  "Yes," he said, "that's perfectly possible, of course, but one doesn't want to overlook anything. Still, I've no doubt that everything's going to be plain sailing. Sir Henry has identified the gun as one of his collection.

  It seems they were actually practising with it the afternoon before. All Mrs. Christow had to do was to go into the study and get it from where she'd seen Sir Henry put it and the ammunition away. It's all quite simple."

  "Yes," Poirot murmured. "It seems all quite simple."

  Just so, he thought, would a woman like Gerda Christow commit a crime. Without subterfuge or complexity-driven suddenly to violence by the bitter anguish of a narrow but deeply loving nature…

  And yet surely-surely, she would have had some sense of self-preservation. Or had she acted in that blindness-that darkness of the spirit-when reason is entirely laid aside?

  He recalled her blank dazed face.

  He did not know-he simply did not know.

  But he felt that he ought to know.

  Chapter XVI

  Gerda Christow pulled the black dress up over her head and let it fall on a chair.

  Her eyes were piteous with uncertainty.

  She said, "I don't know… I really don't know… Nothing seems to matter."

  "I know, dear, I know." Mrs. Patterson was kind but firm. She knew exactly how to treat people who had had a bereavement.

  "Elsie is wonderful in a crisis," her family said of her.

  At the present moment she was sitting in her sister Gerda's bedroom in Harley Street, being wonderful. Elsie Patterson was tall and spare with an energetic manner. She was looking now at Gerda with a mixture of irritation and compassion.

  Poor dear Gerda-tragic for her to lose her husband in such an awful way-and really, even now, she didn't seem to take in the-well, the implications properly! Of course, Mrs. Patterson reflected, Gerda always was terribly slow. And there was shock, too, to take into account.

  She said in a brisk voice, "I think I should decide on that black marocain at twelve guineas." One always did have to make up Gerda's mind for her.

  Gerda stood motionless, her brow puckered.

  She said hesitantly:

  "I don't really know if John liked mourning. I think I once heard him say he didn't…"

  John, she thought. If only John were here to tell me what to do.

  But John would never be there again.

  Never-never-never… Mutton getting cold-congealing on the table… the bang of the consulting room door, John running up two steps at a time, always in a hurry, so vital, so alive…

  Alive…

  Lying on his back by the swimming pool … the slow drip of blood over the edge… the feel of the revolver in her hand…

  A nightmare, a bad dream, presently she would wake up and none of it would be true…

  Her sister's crisp voice came cutting through her nebulous thoughts.

  "You must have something black for the inquest. It would look most odd if you turned up in bright blue."

  Gerda said, "That awful inquest!" and half shut her eyes.

  "Terrible for you, darling," said Elsie Patterson quickly. "But after it is all over you will come straight down to us and we shall take great care of you."

  The nebulous blur of Gerda Christow's thoughts hardened. She said, and her voice was frightened, almost panic-stricken:

  "What am I going to do without John?"

  Elsie Patterson knew the answer to that one. "You've got your children. You've got to live for them."

  Zena, sobbing and crying… "My Daddy's dead!" Throwing herself on her bed.

  Terry, pale, inquiring, shedding no tears…

  An accident with a revolver, she had told them-poor Daddy has had an accident.

  Beryl Collins (so thoughtful of her) had confiscated the morning papers so that the children should not see them. She had warned the servants, too. Really, Beryl had been most kind and thoughtful…

  Terence coming to his mother in the dim drawing-room. His lips pursed close together, his face almost greenish in its odd pallor.

  "Why was Father shot?"

  "An accident, dear. I-I can't talk about it."

  "It wasn't an accident. Why do you say what isn't true? Father was killed. It was murder. The paper says so."

  "Terry, how did you get hold of a paper? I told Miss Collins-"

  He had nodded-queer repeated nods like a very old man.

  "I went out and bought one, of course. I knew there must be something in them that you weren't telling us, or else why did Miss Collins hide them?"

  It was never any good hiding truth from Terence. That queer, detached, scientific curiosity of his had always to be satisfied.

  "Why was he killed, Mother?"

  She had broken down then, becoming hysterical.

  "Don't ask me about it-don't talk about it-I can't talk about it… it's all too dreadful."

  "But they'll find out, won't they? I mean they have to find out. It's necessary."

  So reasonable, so detached… It made Gerda want to scream and laugh and cry.

  She thought. He doesn't care-he can't care-he just goes on asking questions.

  Why, he hasn't cried, even.

  Terence had gone away, evading his Aunt Elsie's ministrations, a lonely little boy with a stiff pinched face. He had always felt alone.

  But it hadn't mattered until today.

  Today, he thought, was different. If only there was someone who would answer questions reasonably and intelligently.

  Tomorrow, Tuesday, he and Nicholson Minor were going to make nitroglycerine.

  He had been looking forward to it with a thrill. The thrill had gone. He didn't care if he never made nitroglycerine.

  Terence felt almost shocked at himself.

  Not to care any more about scientific experiment!

  But when a chap's father had been murdered… He thought. My father-murdered…

  And something stirred-took root- grew … a slow anger.

  Beryl Collier tapped on the bedroom door and came in. She was pale, composed, efficient.

  She said:

  "Inspector Grange is here." And as Gerda gasped and looked at her piteously. Beryl went on quickly, "He said/there was no need for him to worry you. He'll have a word with you before
he goes, but it is just routine questions about Dr. Christow's practice and I can tell him everything he wants to know."

  "Oh, thank you. Collie."

  Beryl made a rapid exit and Gerda sighed out:

  "Collie is such a help. She's so practical."

  "Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Patterson. "An excellent secretary, I'm sure. Very plain, poor girl, isn't she? Oh, well, I always think that's just as well. Especially with an attractive man like John was."

  Gerda flamed out at her:

  "What do you mean, Elsie? John would never-he never-you talk as though John would have flirted or something horrid if he had had a pretty secretary. John wasn't like that at all."

  "Of course not, darling," said Mrs. Patterson.

  "But after all, one knows what men are like!"

  In the consulting room Inspector Grange faced the cool, belligerent glance of Beryl Collier. It was belligerent, he noted that.

  Well, perhaps that was only natural.

  Plain bit of goods, he thought. Nothing between her and the doctor, I shouldn't think. She may have been sweet on him, though. It works that way sometimes.

  But not this time, he came to the conclusion, when he leaned back in his chair a quarter of an hour later. Beryl Collier's answers to his questions had been models of clearness. She replied promptly, and obviously had every detail of the doctor's practice at her fingertips. He shifted his ground and began to probe gently into the relations existing between John Christow and his wife.

  They had been. Beryl said, on excellent terms.

  "I suppose they quarrelled every now and then like most married couples?" The Inspector sounded easy and confidential.

  "I do not remember any quarrels. Mrs. Christow was quite devoted to her husband-really quite slavishly so."

  There was a faint edge of contempt in her voice. Inspector Grange heard it.

  Bit of a feminist, this girl, he thought.

  Aloud he said:

  "Didn't stand up for herself at all?"

  "No. Everything revolved round Dr. Christow."

  "Tyrannical, eh?"

  Beryl considered.

  "No, I wouldn't say that… But he was what I should call a very selfish man. He took it for granted that Mrs. Christow would always fall in with his ideas."

  "Any difficulties with patients-women, I mean? You needn't mind about being frank, Miss Collier. One knows doctors have their difficulties in that line."

  "Oh, that sort of thing!" Beryl's voice was scornful. "Dr. Christow was quite equal to dealing with any difficulties in that line. He had an excellent manner with patients." She added, "He was really a wonderful doctor."

  There was an almost grudging admiration in her voice.

  Grange said, "Was he tangled up with any woman? Don't be loyal, Miss Collier, it's important that we should know."

  "Yes, I can appreciate that. Not to my knowledge."

  A little too brusque, he thought. She doesn't know, but perhaps she guesses…

  He said sharply, "What about Miss Henrietta Savernake?"

  Beryl's lips closed tightly.

  "She was a close friend of the family's."

  "No-trouble between Dr. and Mrs. Christow on her account?"

  "Certainly not."

  The answer was emphatic. (Overemphatic?) The Inspector shifted his ground.

  "What about Miss Veronica Cray?"

  "Veronica Cray?"

  There was pure astonishment in Beryl's voice.

  "She was a friend of Dr. Christow's, was she not?"

  "I never heard of her. At least, I seem to know the name-"

  "The motion picture actress."

  Beryl's brow cleared.

  "Of course! I wondered why the name was familiar. But I didn't even know that Dr. Christow knew her."

  She seemed so positive on the point that the Inspector abandoned it at once. He went on to question her about Dr. Christow's manner on the preceding Saturday. And here, for the first time, the confidence of Beryl's replies wavered. She said, slowly:

  "His manner wasn't quite as usual."

  "What was the difference?"

  "He seemed distrait. There was quite a long gap before he rang for his last patient -and yet normally he was always in a hurry to get through when he was going away. I thought-yes, I definitely thought he had something on his mind."

  But she could not be more definite.

  Inspector Grange was not very satisfied with his investigations. He'd come nowhere near establishing motive-and motive had to be established before there was a case to go to the Public Prosecutor.

  He was quite certain in his own mind that Gerda Christow had shot her husband. He suspected jealousy as the motive-but so far he had found nothing to go on. Sergeant Coombes had been working on the maids but they all told the same story. Mrs. Christow worshipped the ground her husband walked on.

  Whatever happened, he thought, must have happened down at The Hollow. And remembering The Hollow, he felt a vague disquietude. They were an odd lot down there.

  The telephone on the desk rang and Miss Collier picked up the receiver.

  She said, "It's for you, Inspector," and passed the instrument to him.

  "Hullo, Grange here… What's that?…" Beryl heard the alteration in his tone and looked at him curiously. The wooden-looking face was impassive as ever.

  He was grunting-listening-"Yes… yes, I've got that… That's absolutely certain, is it?… No margin of error… Yes… yes… yes, I'll be down. I've about finished here… Yes."

  He put the receiver back and sat for a moment motionless. Beryl looked at him curiously.

  He pulled himself together and asked in a voice that was quite different from the voice of his previous questions:

  "You've no ideas of your own, I suppose, Miss Collier, about this matter?"

  "You mean-"

  "I mean no ideas as to who it was killed Dr. Christow?"

  She said flatly:

  "I've absolutely no idea at all, Inspector."

  Grange said slowly:

  "When the body was found, Mrs. Christow was standing beside it with the revolver in her hand-"

  He left it purposely as an unfinished sentence.

  Her reaction came promptly. Not heated, cool and judicial.

  "If you think Mrs. Christow killed her husband, I am quite sure you are wrong. Mrs. Christow is not at all a violent woman. She is very meek and submissive and she was entirely under the doctor's thumb. It seems to me quite ridiculous that anyone could imagine for a moment that she shot him, however much appearances may be against her."

  "Then if she didn't, who did?" he asked sharply.

  Beryl said slowly, "I've no idea…"

  The Inspector moved to the door. Beryl asked:

  "Do you want to see Mrs. Christow before you go?"

  "No-yes, perhaps I'd better."

  Again Beryl wondered; this was not the same man who had been questioning her before the telephone rang. What news had he got that had altered him so much?

  Gerda came into the room nervously. She looked unhappy and bewildered. She said in a low, shaky voice:

  "Have you found out any more about who killed John?"

  "Not yet, Mrs. Christow."

  "It's so impossible-so absolutely impossible."

  "But it happened, Mrs. Christow."

  She nodded, looking down, screwing a handkerchief into a little ball.

  He said quietly:

  "Had your husband any enemies, Mrs. Christow?"

  "John? Oh, no. He was wonderful. Everyone adored him."

  "You can't think of anyone who had a grudge against him," he paused, "or against you?"

  "Against me?" She seemed amazed. "Oh, no, Inspector."

  Inspector Grange sighed.

  "What about Miss Veronica Cray?"

  "Veronica Cray? Oh, you mean the one who came that night to borrow matches?"

  "Yes, that's the one. You knew her?"

  Gerda shook her head.

  "I'd nev
er seen her before. John knew her years ago-or so she said."

  "I suppose she might have had a grudge against him that you didn't know about?"

  Gerda said with dignity:

  "I don't believe anybody could have had a grudge against John. He was the kindest and most unselfish-oh, and one of the noblest men."

  "H'm," said the Inspector. "Yes. Quite so. Well, good morning, Mrs. Christow. You understand about the inquest? Eleven o'clock Wednesday in Market Depleach. It will be very simple-nothing to upset you -probably be adjourned for a week so that we can make further inquiries."

  "Oh, I see. Thank you."

  She stood there staring after him. He wondered whether, even now, she had grasped the fact that she was the principal suspect.

  He hailed a taxi-justifiable expense in view of the piece of information he had just been given over the telephone. Just where that piece of information was leading him, he did not know. On the face of it, it seemed completely irrelevant-crazy. It simply did not make sense. But in some way that he could not yet see, it must make sense.

  The only inference to be drawn from it was that the case was not quite the simple straightforward one that he had hitherto assumed it to be.

  Chapter XVII

  Sir Henry stared curiously at Inspector Grange.

  He said slowly, "I'm not quite sure that I understand you, Inspector."

  "It's quite simple, Sir Henry. I'm asking you to check over your collection of firearms. I presume they are catalogued and indexed?"

  "Naturally. But I have already identified the revolver as part of my collection."

  "It isn't quite so simple as that, Sir Henry." Grange paused a moment. His instincts were always against giving out any information, but his hand was being forced in this particular instance. Sir Henry was a person of importance. He would doubtless comply with the request that was being made to him, but he would also require a reason.

  The Inspector decided that he had got to give him the reason.

  He said quietly:

  "Dr. Christow was not shot with the revolver you identified this morning."

  Sir Henry's eyebrows rose.

  "Remarkable!" he said.

  Grange felt vaguely comforted. Remarkable was exactly what he felt himself. He was grateful to Sir Henry for saying so, and equally grateful for his not saying any more.