The Hollow hp-24

by Agatha Christie

  He saw her hands creep together, saw the twisted fingers and the knuckles stand out.

  They were large, rather cruel hands.

  The strong emotion that she was feeling communicated itself to him. It was not sorrow, not grief-no, it was anger. The anger, he thought, of a baffled egoist.

  "Well, M. Poirot?" Her voice was controlled and smooth again. "What am I to do? Tell the story, or keep it to myself. It's what happened-but it takes a bit of believing."

  Poirot looked at her, a long considering gaze.

  He did not think that Veronica Cray was telling the truth, and yet there was an undeniable undercurrent of sincerity. It happened, he thought, but it did not happen like that…

  And suddenly he got it. It was a true story, inverted. It was she who had been unable to forget John Christow. It was she who had I been baffled and repulsed. And now, unable to bear in silence the furious anger of a tigress deprived of what she considered her legitimate prey, she had invented a version of the truth that should satisfy her wounded pride and feed a little the aching hunger for a man who had gone beyond the reach of her clutching hands. Impossible to admit that she, Veronica Cray, could not have what she wanted! So she had changed it all round.

  Poirot drew a deep breath and spoke:

  "If all this had any bearing on John Christow's death, you would have to speak out, but if it has not-and I cannot see why it should have-then I think you are quite justified in keeping it to yourself."

  He wondered if she was disappointed. He had a fancy that in her present mood, she would like to hurl her story into the printed page of a newspaper. She had come to him -why? To try out her story? To test his reaction? Or to use him-to induce him to pass the story on.

  If his mild response disappointed her, she did not show it. She got up and gave him one of those long, well-manicured hands.

  "Thank you, M. Poirot. What you say seems eminently sensible. I'm so glad I came to you. I-I felt I wanted somebody to know."

  "I shall respect your confidence, Madame."

  When she had gone, he opened the windows a little. Scents affected him. He did not like Veronica's scent. It was expensive but cloying, overpowering like her personality.

  He wondered, as he flapped the curtains, whether Veronica Cray had killed John Christow.

  She would have been willing to kill him -he believed that. She would have enjoyed pressing the trigger-would have enjoyed seeing him stagger and fall.

  But behind that vindictive anger was something cold and shrewd, something that appraised chances, a cool, calculating intelligence.

  However much Veronica Cray wished to kill John Christow, he doubted whether she would have taken the risk.

  Chapter XXIII

  The inquest was over. It had been the merest formality of an affair, and though warned of this beforehand, yet nearly everyone had a resentful sense of anticlimax.

  Adjourned for a fortnight at the request of the police.

  Gerda had driven down with Mrs. Patterson from London in a hired Daimler. She had on a black dress and an unbecoming hat and looked nervous and bewildered.

  Preparatory to stepping back into the Daimler, she paused as Lady Angkatell came up to her.

  "How are you, Gerda dear? Not sleeping too badly, I hope. I think it went off as well as we could hope for, don't you? So sorry we haven't got you with us at The Hollow, but I quite understand how distressing that would be."

  Mrs. Patterson said in her bright voice, glancing reproachfully at her sister for not introducing her properly:

  "This was Miss Collier's idea-to drive straight down and back. Expensive, of course, but we thought it was worth it."

  "Oh, I do so agree with you."

  Mrs. Patterson lowered her voice.

  "I am taking Gerda and the children straight down to Bexhill. What she needs is rest and quiet. The reporters! You've no idea! Simply swarming round Harley Street."

  A young man snapped off a camera, and Elsie Patterson pushed her sister into the car and they drove off.

  The others had a momentary view of Gerda's face beneath the unbecoming hat brim.

  It was vacant, lost-she looked for the moment like a half-witted child.

  Midge Hardcastle muttered under her breath, "Poor devil."

  Edward said irritably:

  "What did everybody see in Christow?

  That wretched woman looks completely heartbroken."

  "She was absolutely wrapped up in him," said Midge.

  "But why? He was a selfish sort of fellow, good company in a way-but-" He broke off. Then he asked, "What did you think of him, Midge?"

  "I?" Midge reflected. She said at last, rather surprised at her own words, "I think I respected him."

  "Respected him? For what?"

  "Well, he knew his job."

  "You're thinking of him as a doctor?"

  "Yes."

  There was no time for more.

  Henrietta was driving Midge back to London in her car. Edward was returning to lunch at The Hollow and going up by the afternoon train with David. He said vaguely to Midge, "You must come out and lunch one day?" and Midge said that that would be very nice but that she couldn't take more than an hour off. Edward gave her his charming smile and said:

  "Oh, it's a special occasion. I'm sure they'll understand."

  Then he moved towards Henrietta. "I'll ring you up, Henrietta."

  "Yes, do, Edward. But I may be out a good deal."

  "Out?"

  She gave him a quick mocking smile.

  "Drowning my sorrow. You don't expect me to sit at home and mope, do you?"

  He said slowly, "I don't understand you nowadays, Henrietta. You are quite different."

  Her face softened. She said unexpectedly, "Darling Edward," and gave his arm a quick squeeze.

  Then she turned to Lucy Angkatell. "I can come back if I want to, can't I, Lucy?"

  Lady Angkatell said, "Of course, darling. And anyway there will be the inquest again in a fortnight."

  Henrietta went to where she had parked the car in the market square. Her suitcases and Midge's were already inside.

  They got in and drove off.

  The car climbed the long hill and came out on the road over the ridge. Below them the brown and golden leaves shivered a little in the chill of a grey Autumn day.

  Midge said suddenly, "I'm glad to get away-even from Lucy. Darling as she is, she gives me the creeps sometimes."

  Henrietta was looking intently into the small driving mirror.

  She said rather inattentively:

  "Lucy has to give the coloratura touch-even to murder."

  "You know, I'd never thought about murder before."

  "Why should you? It isn't a thing one thinks about. It's a six-letter word in a crossword, or a pleasant entertainment between the covers of a book. But the real thing-"

  She paused. Midge finished:

  "Is real! That is what startles one."

  Henrietta said:

  "It needn't be startling to you. You are outside it. Perhaps the only one of us who is."

  Midge said:

  "We're all outside it now. We've got away."

  Henrietta murmured, "Have we?"

  She was looking in the driving mirror again. Suddenly she put her foot down on the accelerator. The car responded. She glanced at the speedometer. They were doing over fifty. Presently the needle reached sixty…

  Midge looked sideways at Henrietta's profile.

  It was not like Henrietta to drive recklessly.

  She liked speed, but the winding road hardly justified the pace they were going.

  There was a grim smile hovering round Henrietta's mouth.

  She said, "Look over your shoulder, Midge. See that car way back there?"

  "Yes."

  "It's a Ventnor 10."

  "Is it?" Midge was not particularly interested.

  "They're useful little cars, low petrol consumption, keep the road well, but they're not fast."


  "No?"

  Curious, thought Midge, how fascinated Henrietta always was by cars and their performance.

  "As I say, they're not fast-but that car, Midge, has managed to keep its distance, although we've been going over sixty."

  Midge turned a startled face to her.

  "Do you mean that-"

  Henrietta nodded. "The police, I believe, have special engines in very ordinary-looking cars."

  Midge said:

  "You mean they're still keeping an eye on us all?"

  "It seems rather obvious."

  Midge shivered.

  "Henrietta, can you understand the meaning of this second gun business?"

  "No, it lets Gerda out. But beyond that it just doesn't seem to add up to anything."

  "But, if it was one of Henry's guns-"

  "We don't know that it was. It hasn't been found yet, remember."

  "No, that's true. It could be someone outside altogether. Do you know who I'd like to think killed John, Henrietta? That woman."

  "Veronica Cray?"

  "Yes."

  Henrietta said nothing. She drove on with her eyes fixed sternly on the road ahead of her.

  "Don't you think it's possible?" persisted Midge.

  "Possible, yes," said Henrietta slowly.

  "Then you don't think-"

  "It's no good thinking a thing because you want to think it. It's the perfect solution- letting all of us out!"

  "Us? But-"

  "We're in it-all of us. Even you, Midge darling-though they'd be hard put to it to find a motive for your shooting John! Of course, I'd like it to be Veronica. Nothing would please me better than to see her giving a lovely performance, as Lucy would put it, in the dock!"

  Midge shot a quick look at her.

  "Tell me, Henrietta, does it all make you feel vindictive?"

  "You mean"-Henrietta paused a moment-"because I loved John?"

  "Yes."

  As she spoke. Midge realized with a slight sense of shock that this was the first time the bald fact had been put into words. It had been accepted by them all, by Lucy and Henry, by Midge, by Edward even, that Henrietta loved John Christow, but nobody had ever so much as hinted at the fact in words before.

  There was a pause whilst Henrietta seemed to be thinking. Then she said in a thoughtful voice:

  "I can't explain to you what I feel. Perhaps I don't know myself."

  They were driving now over Albert Bridge.

  Henrietta said:

  "You'd better come to the studio, Midge. We'll have tea and I'll drive you to your digs afterwards."

  Here in London the short afternoon light was already fading. They drew up at the studio door and Henrietta put her key into the door. She went in and switched on the light.

  "It's chilly," she said. "We'd better light the gas fire. Oh, bother-I meant to get some matches on the way."

  "Won't a lighter do?"

  "Mine's no good and anyway it's difficult to light a gas fire with one. Make yourself at home. There's an old blind man stands on the corner. I usually get my matches off him. I shan't be a minute or two."

  Left alone in the studio. Midge wandered round, looking at Henrietta's work. It gave her an eerie feeling to be sharing the empty studio with these creations of wood and bronze.

  There was a bronze head with high cheekbones and a tin hat, possibly a Red Army soldier, and there was an airy structure of twisted, ribbon-like aluminum which intrigued her a good deal. There was a vast static frog in pinkish granite, and at the end of the studio she came to an almost life-sized wooden figure.

  She was staring at it when Henrietta's key turned in the lock and Henrietta herself came in slightly breathless.

  Midge turned.

  "What's this, Henrietta? It's rather frightening."

  "That? That's The Worshipper. It's going to the International Group."

  Midge repeated, staring at it: "It's frightening…"

  Kneeling to light the gas fire, Henrietta said over her shoulder:

  "It's interesting your saying that. Why do you find it frightening?"

  "I think-because it hasn't any face…

  "How right you are, Midge…"

  "It's very good, Henrietta."

  Henrietta said lightly: "It's a nice bit of pear wood…"

  She rose from her knees. She tossed her big satchel bag and her furs on to the divan, and threw down a couple of boxes of matches on the table.

  Midge was struck by the expression on her face-it had a sudden quite inexplicable exultation.

  "Now for tea," said Henrietta, and in her voice was the same warm jubilation that Midge had already glimpsed in her face.

  It struck an almost jarring note-but Midge forgot it in a train of thought aroused by the sight of the two boxes of matches.

  "You remember those matches Veronica Cray took away with her?"

  "When Lucy insisted on foisting a whole half dozen on her? Yes."

  "Did anyone ever find out whether she had matches in her cottage all the time?"

  "I expect the police did. They're very thorough."

  A faintly triumphant smile was curving Henrietta's lips. Midge felt puzzled and almost repelled.

  She thought. Can Henrietta really have cared for John? Can she? Surely not.

  And a faint desolate chill struck through her as she reflected:

  Edward will not have to wait very long…

  Ungenerous of her not to let that thought bring warmth. She wanted Edward to be happy, didn't she? It wasn't as though she could have Edward herself. To Edward she would be always "little Midge." Never more than that. Never a woman to be loved.

  Edward, unfortunately, was the faithful kind. Well, the faithful kind usually got what they wanted in the end.

  Edward and Henrietta at Ainswick… that was the proper ending to the story. Edward and Henrietta living happy ever afterwards …

  She could see it all very clearly…

  "Cheer up, Midge," said Henrietta. "You mustn't let murder get you down. Shall we go out later and have a spot of dinner together?"

  But Midge said quickly that she must get back to her rooms. She had things to do-letters to write. In fact, she'd better go as soon as she'd finished her cup of tea.

  "All right. I'll drive you there."

  "I could get a taxi."

  "Nonsense. Let's use the car as it's here."

  They went out into damp evening air. As they drove past the end of the Mews, Henrietta pointed out a car drawn in to the side.

  "A Ventnor 10. Our shadow. You'll see. He'll follow us."

  "How beastly it all is!"

  "Do you think so? I don't really mind."

  Henrietta dropped Midge at her rooms and came back to the Mews and put her car away in the garage.

  Then she let herself into the studio once more.

  For some minutes she stood abstractedly drumming with her fingers on the mantelpiece.

  Then she sighed and murmured to herself:

  "Well-to work… Better not waste time."

  She threw off her tweeds and got into her overall.

  An hour and a half later she drew back and studied what she had done. There were dabs of clay on her cheek and her hair was dishevelled, but she nodded approval at the model on the stand.

  It was the rough similitude of a horse. The clay had been slapped on in great irregular lumps. It was the kind of horse that would have given the Colonel of a Cavalry Regiment apoplexy, so unlike was it to any flesh and blood horse that had ever been foaled.

  It would also have distressed Henrietta's Irish hunting forebears. Nevertheless, it was a horse-a horse conceived in the abstract.

  Henrietta wondered what Inspector Grange would think of it if he ever saw it, and her mouth widened a little in amusement as she pictured his face.

  Chapter XXIV

  Edward Angkatell stood hesitantly in the swirl of foot traffic in Shaftesbury Avenue.

  He was nerving himself to enter the establishment which bore t
he gold-lettered sign "Madame Alfrege."

  Some obscure instinct had prevented him from merely ringing up and asking Midge to come out and lunch. That fragment of telephone conversation at The Hollow had disturbed him-more, had shocked him.

  There had been in Midge's voice a submission, a subservience that had outraged all his feelings.

  For Midge, the free, the cheerful, the outspoken, to have to adopt that attitude. To have to submit, as she clearly was submitting, to rudeness and insolence on the other end of the wire. It was all wrong-the whole thing was wrong! And then, when he had shown his concern, she had met him point blank with the unpalatable truth that one had to keep one's job, that jobs weren't easy to get, and that the holding down of a job entailed more unpleasantnesses than the mere performing of a stipulated task.

  Up till then Edward had vaguely accepted the fact that a great many young women had "jobs" nowadays. If he had thought about it at all, he had thought that, on the whole, they had jobs because they liked jobs-that it flattered their sense of independence and gave them an interest of their own in life.

  The fact that a working day of nine to six, with an hour off for lunch, cut a girl off from most of the pleasures and relaxations of a leisured class had simply not occurred to Edward.

  That Midge, unless she sacrificed her lunch hour, could not drop into a picture gallery, that she could not go to an afternoon concert, drive out of town on a fine summer's day, lunch in a leisurely way at a distant restaurant, but had instead to relegate her excursions into the country to Saturday afternoons and Sundays and to snatch her lunch in a crowded Lyons or a snack bar was a new and unwelcome discovery. He was very fond of Midge. Little Midge-that was how he thought of her. Arriving shy and wide-eyed at Ainswick for the holidays, tongue-tied at first, then opening up into enthusiasm and affection.

  Edward's tendency to live exclusively in the past, and to accept the present dubiously as something as yet untested, had delayed his recognition of Midge as a wage-earning adult.

  It was on that evening at The Hollow when he had come in cold and shivering from that strange upsetting clash with Henrietta and when Midge had knelt to build up the fire, that he had been first aware of a Midge who was not an affectionate child but a woman.