Endless Night

by Agatha Christie

  “What about the gipsy?” I said. “Have you had news of her, found her?”

  He shook his head slowly.

  “We know some of the places she used to go when she left here. East Anglia, that way. She’d friends there among the gipsy clan. She’s not been there, they say, but they’d say that anyway. They clam up, you know. She’s fairly well known by sight in those parts but nobody’s seen her. All the same, I don’t think she’s as far away as East Anglia.”

  There was something peculiar about the way he said the words.

  “I don’t quite understand,” I said.

  “Look at it this way, she’s scared. She’s got good reason to be. She’s been threatening your wife, frightening her, and now, say, she caused an accident and your wife died. The police’ll be after her. She knows that, so she’ll go to earth, as you might say. She’ll put as big a distance between herself and us as she possibly can. But she won’t want to show herself. She’d be afraid of public transport.”

  “But you’ll find her? She’s a woman of striking appearance.”

  “Ah yes, we shall find her eventually. These things take a little time. That is, if it was that way.”

  “But you think it was some other way.”

  “Well, you know what I’ve wondered all along. Whether somebody was paying her to say the things she did?”

  “Then she might be even more anxious to get away,” I pointed out.

  “But somebody else would be anxious too. You’ve got to think of that, Mr. Rogers.”

  “You mean,” I said slowly, “the person who paid her.”

  “Yes.”

  “Supposing it was a—a woman who paid her.”

  “And supposing somebody else has some idea of that. And so they start sending anonymous messages. The woman would be scared too. She needn’t have meant this to happen, you know. However much she got that gipsy woman to frighten your wife away from this place she wouldn’t have meant it to result in Mrs. Rogers’ death.”

  “No,” I said. “Death wasn’t meant. It was just to frighten us. To frighten my wife and to frighten me into leaving here.”

  “And now who’s going to be frightened? The woman who caused the accident. And that’s Mrs. Esther Lee. And so she’s going to come clean, isn’t she? Say it wasn’t really her doing. She’ll admit even that she was paid money to do it. And she’ll mention a name. She’ll say who paid her. And somebody wouldn’t like that would they, Mr. Rogers?”

  “You mean this unknown woman that we’ve more or less postulated without even knowing there’s any such person?”

  “Man or woman, say someone paid her. Well, that someone would want her silenced pretty quickly, wouldn’t they?”

  “You’re thinking she might be dead?”

  “It’s a possibility, isn’t it?” said Keene. Then he made what seemed quite an abrupt change of subject. “You know that kind of Folly place, Mr. Rogers, that you’ve got up at the top of your woods?”

  “Yes,” I said, “what of it? My wife and I had it repaired and fixed up a bit. We used to go up there occasionally but not very often. Not lately certainly. Why?”

  “Well, we’ve been hunting about, you know. We looked into this Folly. It wasn’t locked.”

  “No,” I said, “we never bothered to lock it. There was nothing of value in there, just a few odd bits of furniture.”

  “We thought it possible old Mrs. Lee had been using it but we found no traces of her. We did find this, though. I was going to show it to you anyway.” He opened a drawer and took out a small delicate gold-chased lighter. It was a woman’s lighter and it had an initial on it in diamonds. The letter C. “It wouldn’t be your wife’s, would it?”

  “Not with the initial C. No, it’s not Ellie’s,” I said. “She hadn’t anything of that kind. And it’s not Miss Andersen’s either. Her name is Greta.”

  “It was up there where somebody had dropped it. It’s a classy bit of goods—cost money.”

  “C,” I said, repeating the initial thoughtfully. “I can’t think of anyone who’s been with us whose initial is C except Cora,” I said. “That’s my wife’s stepmother. Mrs. van Stuyvesant, but I really can’t see her scrambling up to the Folly along that overgrown path. And anyway she hasn’t been staying with us for quite a long time. About a month. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her using this lighter. Perhaps I wouldn’t notice anyway,” I said. “Miss Andersen might know.”

  “Well, take it up with you and show it to her.”

  “I will. But if so, if it’s Cora’s, it seems odd that we’ve never seen it when we’ve been in the Folly lately. There’s not much stuff there. You’d notice something like this lying on the floor—it was on the floor?”

  “Yes, quite near the divan. Of course anybody might use that Folly. It’s a handy place, you know, for a couple of lovers to meet any time. The locals I’m talking about. But they wouldn’t be likely to have an expensive thing of this kind.”

  “There’s Claudia Hardcastle,” I said, “but I doubt if she’d have anything as fancy as this. And what would she be doing in the Folly?”

  “She was quite a friend of your wife’s, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes,” I said, “I think she was Ellie’s best friend down here. And she’d know we wouldn’t mind her using the Folly any time.”

  “Ah,” said Sergeant Keene.

  I looked at him rather hard. “You don’t think Claudia Hardcastle was a—an enemy of Ellie’s do you? That would be absurd.”

  “Doesn’t seem any reason why she should be, I agree, but you never know with ladies.”

  “I suppose—” I began and then stopped because what I was going to say would seem perhaps rather odd.

  “Yes, Mr. Rogers?”

  “I believe that Claudia Hardcastle was originally married to an American—an American named Lloyd. Actually—the name of my wife’s principal trustee in America is Stanford Lloyd. But there must be hundreds of Lloyds and anyway it would only be a coincidence if it was the same person. And what would it have to do with all this?”

  “It doesn’t seem likely. But then—” he stopped.

  “The funny thing is that I thought I saw Stanford Lloyd down here on the day of the—the accident—Having lunch in the George at Bartington—”

  “He didn’t come to see you?”

  I shook my head.

  “He was with someone who looked rather like Miss Hardcastle. But probably it was just a mistake on my part. You know, I suppose, that it was her brother who built our house?”

  “Does she take an interest in the house?”

  “No,” I said, “I don’t think she likes her brother’s type of architecture.” Then I got up. “Well, I won’t take any more of your time. Try and find the gipsy.”

  “We shan’t stop looking, I can tell you that. Coroner wants her too.”

  I said good-bye and went out of the police station. In the queer way that so often happens when you suddenly meet someone you’ve been talking about, Claudia Hardcastle came out of the post office just as I was passing it. We both stopped. She said with that slight embarrassment that you have when you meet someone that’s been recently bereaved:

  “I’m so terribly sorry, Mike, about Ellie. I won’t say any more. It’s beastly when people say things to you. But I have just—just to say that.”

  “I know,” I said. “You were very nice to Ellie. You made her feel at home here. I’ve been grateful.”

  “There was one thing I wanted to ask you and I thought perhaps I’d better do it now before you go to America. I hear you’re going quite soon.”

  “As soon as I can. I’ve got a lot to see to there.”

  “It was only—if you were putting your house on the market I thought it might be a thing you’d set in motion before you went away…And if so—if so, I’d rather like to have the first refusal of it.”

  I stared at her. This really did surprise me. It was the last thing I’d expected.

  “You mean you�
��d like to buy it? I thought you didn’t even care for that type of architecture?”

  “My brother Rudolf said to me that it was the best thing he’d done. I dare say he knows. I expect you’ll want a very large price for it but I could pay it. Yes, I’d like to have it.”

  I couldn’t help thinking it was odd. She’d never shown the faintest appreciation of our house when she’d come to it. I wondered as I’d wondered once or twice before what her links with her half-brother really were. Had she really a great devotion to him? Sometimes I’d almost thought that she disliked him, perhaps hated him. She spoke of him certainly in a very odd way. But whatever her actual emotions were, he meant something to her. Meant something important. I shook my head slowly.

  “I can see that you might think I’d want to sell the place and leave here because of Ellie’s death,” I said. “But actually that’s not so at all. We lived here and were happy and this is the place I shall remember her best. I shan’t sell Gipsy’s Acre—not for any consideration! You can be quite sure of that.”

  Our eyes met. It was like a kind of tussle between us. Then hers dropped.

  I took my courage in both hands and spoke.

  “It’s no business of mine, but you were married once. Was the name of your husband Stanford Lloyd?”

  She looked at me for a moment without speaking. Then she said abruptly:

  “Yes,” and turned away.

  Twenty-one

  Confusion—That’s all I can remember when I look back. Newspapermen asking questions—wanting interviews—masses of letters and telegrams—Greta coping with them—

  The first really startling thing was that Ellie’s family were not as we supposed in America. It was quite a shock to find that most of them were actually in England. It was understandable, perhaps, that Cora van Stuyvesant should be. She was a very restless woman, always dashing across to Europe, to Italy, to Paris, to London and back again to America, to Palm Beach, out West to the ranch; here, there and everywhere. On the actual day of Ellie’s death she had been not more than fifty miles away, still pursuing her whim of having a house in England. She had rushed over to stay in London for two or three days and gone to fresh house agents for fresh orders to view and had been touring round the country seeing half a dozen on that particular day.

  Stanford Lloyd, it turned out, had flown over in the same plane ostensibly for a business meeting in London. These people learnt of Ellie’s death, not from the cables which we had dispatched to the United States but from the public Press.

  An ugly wrangle developed about where Ellie should be buried. I had assumed it was only natural that she’d be buried here where she had died. Here where she and I had lived.

  But Ellie’s family objected violently to this. They wanted the body brought to America to be buried with her forebears. Where her grandfather and her father, her mother and others had been laid to rest. I suppose it was natural, really, when one comes to think of it.

  Andrew Lippincott came down to talk to me about it. He put the matter in a reasonable way.

  “She never left any directions as to where she wished to be buried,” he pointed out to me.

  “Why should she?” I demanded hotly. “How old was she—twenty-one? You don’t think at twenty-one you’re going to die. You don’t start thinking then the way you want to be buried. If we’d ever thought about it we’d assume we’d be buried together somewhere even if we didn’t die at the same time. But who thinks of death in the middle of life?”

  “A very just observation,” said Mr. Lippincott. Then he said, “I’m afraid you’ll also have to come to America, you know. There’s a great deal of business interests you’ll have to look into.”

  “What sort of business? What have I got to do with business?”

  “You could have a great deal to do with it,” he said. “Don’t you realize that you’re the principal beneficiary under the will?”

  “You mean because I’m Ellie’s next of kin or something?”

  “No. Under her will.”

  “I didn’t know she ever made a will.”

  “Oh yes,” said Mr. Lippincott. “Ellie was quite a businesslike young woman. She’d had to be, you know. She’d lived in the middle of that kind of thing. She made a will on coming of age and almost immediately after she was married. It was lodged with her lawyer in London with a request that one copy should be sent to me.” He hesitated and then said, “If you do come to the States, which I advise, I also think that you should place your affairs in the hands of some reputable lawyer there.”

  “Why?”

  “Because in the case of a vast fortune, large quantities of real estate, stocks, controlling interests in varying industries, you will need technical advice.”

  “I’m not qualified to deal with things like that,” I said. “Really I’m not.”

  “I quite understand,” said Mr. Lippincott.

  “Couldn’t I place the whole thing in your hands?”

  “You could do so.”

  “Well then, why don’t I?”

  “All the same, I think you should be separately represented. I am already acting for some members of the family and a conflict of interests might arise. If you will leave it in my hands, I will see that your interests are safeguarded by your being represented by a thoroughly able attorney.”

  “Thank you,” I said, “you’re very kind.”

  “If I may be slightly indiscreet—” he looked a little uncomfortable—it pleased me rather thinking of Lippincott being indiscreet.

  “Yes?” I said.

  “I should advise you to be very careful of anything you sign. Any business documents. Before you sign anything, read it thoroughly and carefully.”

  “Would the kind of document you’re talking about mean anything to me if I do read it?”

  “If it is not all clear to you, you will then hand it over to your legal adviser.”

  “Are you warning me against somebody or someone?” I said, with a suddenly aroused interest.

  “That is not at all a proper question for me to answer,” said Mr. Lippincott. “I will go this far. Where large sums of money are concerned it is advisable to trust nobody.”

  So he was warning me against someone, but he wasn’t going to give me any names. I could see that. Was it against Cora? Or had he had suspicions—perhaps suspicions of some long standing—of Stanford Lloyd, that florid banker so full of bonhomie, so rich and carefree, who had recently been over here “on business?” Might it be Uncle Frank who might approach me with some plausible documents? I had a sudden vision of myself, a poor innocent boob, swimming in a lake surrounded by evilly disposed crocodiles, all smiling false smiles of amity.

  “The world,” said Mr. Lippincott, “is a very evil place.”

  It was perhaps a stupid thing to say, but quite suddenly I asked him a question.

  “Does Ellie’s death benefit anyone?” I asked.

  He looked at me sharply.

  “That’s a very curious question. Why do you ask that?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, “it just came into my head.”

  “It benefits you,” he said.

  “Of course,” I said. “I take that for granted. I really meant—does it benefit anyone else?”

  Mr. Lippincott was silent for quite a long time.

  “If you mean,” he said, “does Fenella’s will benefit certain other people in the way of legacies, that is so in a minor degree. Some old servants, an old governess, one or two charities but nothing of any particular moment. There’s a legacy to Miss Andersen but not a large one for she has already, as you probably know, settled a very considerable sum on Miss Andersen.”

  I nodded. Ellie had told me she was doing that.

  “You were her husband. She had no other near relations. But I take it that your question did not mean specifically that.”

  “I don’t know quite what I meant by it,” I said. “But somehow or other, you’ve succeeded, Mr. Lippincott, in making me feel su
spicious. Suspicious of I don’t know who, or why. Only—well, suspicious. I don’t understand finance,” I added.

  “No, that is quite apparent. Let me say only that I have no exact knowledge, no exact suspicions of any kind. At someone’s death there is usually an accounting of their affairs. This may take place quickly or it may be delayed for a period of many years.”

  “What you really mean,” I said, “is that some of the others quite likely might put a few fast ones over and ball up things generally. Get me perhaps to sign releases—whatever you call the things.”

  “If Fenella’s affairs were not, shall we say, in the healthy state they ought to be, then—yes, possibly her premature death might be, shall we say, fortunate for someone, we will name no names, someone perhaps who could cover his traces more easily if he had a fairly simple person, if I may say so, like yourself to deal with. I will go that far but I do not wish to speak further on the matter. It would not be equitable to do so.”

  There was a simple funeral service held in the little church. If I could have stayed away I would have done so. I hated all those people who were staring at me lining up outside the church. Curious eyes. Greta pulled me through things. I don’t think I’d realized until now what a strong, reliable character she was. She made the arrangements, ordered flowers, arranged everything. I understood better now how Ellie had come to depend upon Greta as she had done. There aren’t many Gretas in the world.

  The people in the church were mostly our neighbours—some, even, that we had hardly known. But I noticed one face that I had seen before, but which I could not at the moment place. When I got back to the house, Carson told me there was a gentleman in the drawing room waiting to see me.

  “I can’t see anyone today. Send him away. You shouldn’t have let him in!”

  “Excuse me, sir. He said he was a relation.”

  “A relation?”

  Suddenly I remembered the man I’d seen in the church.

  Carson was handing me a card.