Taken at the Flood

by Agatha Christie

  Lynn half-closed her eyes. Was that the truth of it? When, breathless, swearing, David had emerged from the copse, had it been a murderer fresh from his crime who had taken her in his arms? She remembered his curious excitement—the recklessness of his mood. Was that the way that murder would affect him? It might. She had to admit it. Were David and murder so far removed from each other? Would he kill a man who had never done him any harm—a ghost from the past? A man whose only crime was to stand between Rosaleen and a big inheritance—between David and the enjoyment of Rosaleen’s money.

  She murmured:

  “Why should he kill Underhay?”

  “My God, Lynn, can you ask? I’ve just told you! Underhay’s being alive means that we get Gordon’s money! Anyway, Underhay was blackmailing him.”

  Ah, that fell more into the pattern. David might kill a blackmailer—in fact, wasn’t it just the way he would deal with a blackmailer? Yes, it all fell into pattern. David’s haste, his excitement—his fierce, almost angry, lovemaking. And, later, his renouncement of her. “I’d better clear out…” Yes, it fitted.

  From a long way away, she heard Rowley’s voice asking:

  “What’s the matter, Lynn? Are you feeling all right?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Well, for heaven’s sake, don’t look so glum.” He turned, looking down the hillside to Long Willows. “Thank goodness, we can have the place smartened up a bit now—get some labour-saving gadgets put in—make it right for you. I don’t want you to pig it, Lynn.”

  That was to be her home—that house. Her home with Rowley….

  And one morning at eight o’clock, David would swing by the neck until he was dead….

  Three

  With a pale determined face and watchful eyes, David had his hands on Rosaleen’s shoulders.

  “It will be all right, I’m telling you, it will be all right. But you must keep your head and do exactly as I tell you.”

  “And if they take you away? You said that! You did say that they might take you away.”

  “It’s a possibility, yes. But it won’t be for long. Not if you keep your head.”

  “I’ll do what you tell me, David.”

  “There’s the girl! All you have to do, Rosaleen, is to stick to your story. Hold to it that the dead man is not your husband, Robert Underhay.”

  “They’ll trap me into saying things I don’t mean.”

  “No—they won’t. It’s all right, I tell you.”

  “No, it’s wrong—it’s been wrong all along. Taking money that doesn’t belong to us. I lie awake nights thinking of it, David. Taking what doesn’t belong to us. God is punishing us for our wickedness.”

  He looked at her, frowning. She was cracking—yes, definitely she was cracking. There had always been that religious streak. Her conscience had never been quite stilled. Now, unless he was extremely lucky, she’d break down completely. Well, there was only one thing to be done.

  “Listen, Rosaleen,” he said gently. “Do you want me to be hanged?”

  Her eyes widened in horror.

  “Oh, David, you wouldn’t—they couldn’t—”

  “There’s only one person who can hang me—that’s you. If you once admit, by look or sign or word, that the dead man might be Underhay, you put the rope round my neck! Do you understand that?”

  Yes, that had got home. She gazed at him with wide, horrified eyes.

  “I’m so stupid, David.”

  “No, you’re not. In any case you haven’t got to be clever. You’ll have to swear solemnly that the dead man is not your husband. You can do that?”

  She nodded.

  “Look stupid if you like. Look as if you don’t understand quite what they’re asking you. That will do no harm. But stand firm on the points I’ve gone over with you. Gaythorne will look after you. He’s a very able criminal lawyer—that’s why I’ve got him. He’ll be at the inquest and he’ll protect you from any heckling. But even to him stick to your story. For God’s sake don’t try to be clever or think you can help me by some line of your own.”

  “I’ll do it, David. I’ll do exactly what you tell me.”

  “Good girl. When it’s all over we’ll go away—to the South of France—to America. In the meantime, take care of your health. Don’t lie awake at nights fretting and working yourself up. Take those sleepings things Dr. Cloade prescribed for you—bromide or something. Take one every night, cheer up, and remember there’s a good time coming!

  “Now—” he looked at his watch. “It’s time to go to the inquest. It’s called for eleven.”

  He looked round the long beautiful drawing room. Beauty, comfort, wealth…He’d enjoyed it all. A fine house, Furrowbank. Perhaps this was Goodbye….

  He’d got himself into a jam—that was certain. But even now he didn’t regret. And for the future—well, he’d go on taking chances. “And we must take the current when it serves or lose our ventures.”

  He looked at Rosaleen. She was watching him with large appealing eyes and intuitively he knew what she wanted.

  “I didn’t kill him, Rosaleen,” he said gently. “I swear it to you by every saint in your calendar!”

  Four

  The Inquest was held in the Cornmarket.

  The coroner, Mr. Pebmarsh, was a small fussy man with glasses and a considerable sense of his own importance.

  Beside him sat the large bulk of Superintendent Spence. In an unobtrusive seat was a small foreign-looking man with a large black moustache. The Cloade family: the Jeremy Cloades, the Lionel Cloades, Rowley Cloade, Mrs. Marchmont and Lynn—they were all there. Major Porter sat by himself, fidgeting and ill at ease. David and Rosaleen arrived last. They sat by themselves.

  The coroner cleared his throat and glancing round the jury of nine local worthies, started proceedings.

  Constable Peacock—

  Sergeant Vane….

  Dr. Lionel Cloade….

  “You were attending a patient professionally at the Stag, when Gladys Aitkin came to you. What did she say?”

  “She informed me that the occupant of No. 5 was lying on the floor dead.”

  “In consequence you went up to No. 5?”

  “I did.”

  “Will you describe what you found there?”

  Dr. Cloade described. Body of a man…face downwards…head injuries…back of skull…fire tongs.

  “You were of opinion, that the injuries were inflicted with the tongs in question?”

  “Some of them unquestionably were.”

  “And that several blows had been struck?”

  “Yes. I did not make a detailed examination as I considered that the police should be called before the body was touched or its position altered.”

  “Very proper. The man was dead?”

  “Yes. He had been dead for some hours.”

  “How long in your opinion had he been dead?”

  “I should hesitate to be very definite about that. At least eleven hours—quite possibly thirteen or fourteen—let us say between 7:30 and 10:30 p.m. the preceding evening.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Cloade.”

  Then came the police surgeon—giving a full and technical description of the wounds. There was an abrasion and swelling on the lower jaw and five or six blows had been struck on the base of the skull, some of which had been delivered after death.

  “It was an assault of great savagery?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Would great strength have been needed to inflict these blows?”

  “N-no, not exactly strength. The tongs, grasped by the pincers end, could be easily swung without much exertion. The heavy steel ball which forms the head of the tongs makes them a formidable weapon. Quite a delicate person could have inflicted the injuries if, that is to say, they were struck in a frenzy of excitement.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  Details as to the condition of the body followed—well nourished, healthy, age about forty-five. No signs of illness or disease
—heart, lungs, etc., all good.

  Beatrice Lippincott gave evidence of the arrival of the deceased. He had registered as Enoch Arden, Cape Town.

  “Did deceased produce a ration book?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did you ask him for one?”

  “Not at first. I did not know how long he was staying.”

  “But you did eventually ask him?”

  “Yes, sir. He arrived on the Friday and on Saturday I said if he was staying more than five days would he please let me have his ration book.”

  “What did he say to that?”

  “He said he would give it to me.”

  “But he did not actually do so?”

  “No.”

  “He did not say that he had lost it? Or had not got one?”

  “Oh, no. He just said, ‘I’ll look it out and bring it along.’”

  “Miss Lippincott, did you, on the night of Saturday, overhear a certain conversation?”

  With a good deal of elaborate explanation as to the necessity she was under of visiting No. 4, Beatrice Lippincott told her tale. The coroner guided her astutely.

  “Thank you. Did you mention this conversation you had overheard to anybody?”

  “Yes, I told Mr. Rowley Cloade.”

  “Why did you tell Mr. Cloade?”

  “I thought he ought to know.” Beatrice flushed.

  A tall thin man (Mr. Gaythorne) rose and asked permission to put a question.

  “In the course of the conversation between the deceased and Mr. David Hunter did the deceased at any time mention definitely that he himself was Robert Underhay?”

  “No—no—he didn’t.”

  “In fact he spoke of ‘Robert Underhay’ as though Robert Underhay was quite another person?”

  “Yes—yes, he did.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Coroner, that was all I wanted to get clear.”

  Beatrice Lippincott stood down and Rowley Cloade was called.

  He confirmed that Beatrice had repeated the story to him and then gave his account of his interview with the deceased.

  “His last words to you were, ‘I don’t think you’ll prove that without my cooperation?’ ‘That’—being the fact that Robert Underhay was still alive.”

  “That’s what he said, yes. And he laughed.”

  “He laughed, did he? What did you take those words to mean?”

  “Well—I just thought he was trying to get me to make him an offer, but afterwards I got thinking—”

  “Yes, Mr. Cloade—but what you thought afterwards is hardly relevant. Shall we put it that as a result of that interview you set about trying to find some person who was acquainted with the late Robert Underhay? And that, with certain help, you were successful.”

  Rowley nodded.

  “That’s right.”

  “What time was it when you left the deceased?”

  “As nearly as I can tell it was five minutes to nine.”

  “What made you fix on that time?”

  “As I went along the street I heard the nine o’clock chimes through an open window.”

  “Did the deceased mention at what time he was expecting this client?”

  “He said ‘At any minute.’”

  “He did not mention any name?”

  “No.”

  “David Hunter!”

  There was just a faint soft buzz as the inhabitants of Warmsley Vale craned their necks to look at the tall thin bitter-looking young man who stood defiantly facing the coroner.

  The preliminaries went rapidly. The coroner continued:

  “You went to see the deceased on Saturday evening?”

  “Yes. I received a letter from him asking for assistance and stating he had known my sister’s first husband in Africa.”

  “You have got that letter?”

  “No, I don’t keep letters.”

  “You have heard the account given by Beatrice Lippincott of your conversation with the deceased. Is that a true account?”

  “Quite untrue. The deceased spoke of knowing my late brother-in-law, complained of his own bad luck and of having come down in the world, and begged for some financial assistance which, as is usual, he was quite confident of being able to repay.”

  “Did he tell you that Robert Underhay was still alive?”

  David smiled:

  “Certainly not. He said, ‘If Robert were still alive I know he would help me.’”

  “That is quite different from what Beatrice Lippincott tells us.”

  “Eavesdroppers,” said David, “usually hear only a portion of what goes on and frequently get the whole thing wrong owing to supplying the missing details from their own fertile imaginations.”

  Beatrice flounced angrily and exclaimed, “Well, I never—” The coroner said repressively, “Silence, please.”

  “Now, Mr. Hunter, did you visit the deceased again on the night of Tuesday—”

  “No, I did not.”

  “You have heard Mr. Rowley Cloade say that the deceased expected a visitor?”

  “He may have expected a visitor. If so, I was not that visitor. I’d given him a fiver before. I thought that was quite enough for him. There was no proof that he’d ever known Robert Underhay. My sister, since she inherited a large income from her husband, has been the target of every begging letter writer and every sponger in the neighbourhood.”

  Quietly he let his eyes pass over the assembled Cloades.

  “Mr. Hunter, will you tell us where you were on the evening of Tuesday?”

  “Find out!” said David.

  “Mr. Hunter!” The coroner rapped the table. “That is a most foolish and ill-advised thing to say.”

  “Why should I tell you where I was, and what I was doing? Time enough for that when you accuse me of murdering the man.”

  “If you persist in that attitude it may come to that sooner than you think. Do you recognize this, Mr. Hunter?”

  Leaning forward, David took the gold cigarette lighter into his hand. His face was puzzled. Handing it back, he said slowly: “Yes, it’s mine.”

  “When did you have it last?”

  “I missed it—” He paused.

  “Yes, Mr. Hunter?” The coroner’s voice was suave.

  Gaythorne fidgeted, seemed about to speak. But David was too quick for him.

  “I had it last Friday—Friday morning. I don’t remember seeing it since.”

  Mr. Gaythorne rose.

  “With your permission, Mr. Coroner. You visited the deceased Saturday evening. Might you not have left the lighter there then?”

  “I might have, I suppose,” David said slowly. “I certainly don’t remember seeing it after Friday—” He added: “Where was it found?”

  The coroner said:

  “We shall go into that later. You can stand down now, Mr. Hunter.”

  David moved slowly back to his seat. He bent his head and whispered to Rosaleen Cloade.

  “Major Porter.”

  Hemming and hawing a little, Major Porter took the stand. He stood there, an erect soldierly figure, as though on parade. Only the way he moistened his lips showed the intense nervousness from which he was suffering.

  “You are George Douglas Porter, late Major of the Royal African Rifles?”

  “Yes.”

  “How well did you know Robert Underhay?”

  In a parade-ground voice Major Porter barked out places and dates.

  “You have viewed the body of the deceased?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you identify that body?”

  “Yes. It is the body of Robert Underhay.”

  A buzz of excitement went round the court.

  “You state that positively and without the least doubt?”

  “I do.”

  “There is no possibility of your being mistaken?”

  “None.”

  “Thank you, Major Porter. Mrs. Gordon Cloade.”

  Rosaleen rose. She passed Major Porter. He looked at her with some c
uriosity. She did not even glance at him.

  “Mrs. Cloade, you were taken by the police to see the body of the deceased?”

  She shivered.

  “Yes.”

  “You stated definitely that it was the body of a man completely unknown to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “In view of the statement just made by Major Porter would you like to withdraw or amend your own statement?”

  “No.”

  “You still assert definitely that the body was not that of your husband, Robert Underhay?”

  “It was not my husband’s body. It was a man I had never seen in my life.”

  “Come now, Mrs. Cloade, Major Porter has definitely recognized it as the body of his friend Robert Underhay.”

  Rosaleen said expressionlessly:

  “Major Porter is mistaken.”

  “You are not under oath in this court, Mrs. Cloade. But it is likely that you will be under oath in another court shortly. Are you prepared then to swear that the body is not that of Robert Underhay but of an unknown stranger?”

  “I am prepared to swear that it is not the body of my husband but of a man quite unknown to me.”

  Her voice was clear and unfaltering. Her eyes met the coroner unshrinkingly.

  He murmured: “You can stand down.”

  Then, removing his pince-nez, he addressed the jury.

  They were there to discover how this man came to his death. As to that, there could be little question. There could be no idea of accident or suicide. Nor could there be any suggestion of manslaughter. There remained only one verdict—wilful murder. As to the identity of the dead man, that was not clearly established.

  They had heard one witness, a man of upright character and probity whose word could be relied upon, say that the body was that of a former friend of his, Robert Underhay. On the other hand Robert Underhay’s death from fever in Africa had been established apparently to the satisfaction of the local authorities and no question had then been raised. In contradiction of Major Porter’s statement, Robert Underhay’s widow, now Mrs. Gordon Cloade, stated positively that the body was not that of Robert Underhay. These were diametrically opposite statements. Passing from the question of identity they would have to decide if there was any evidence to show whose hand had murdered the deceased. They might think that the evidence pointed to a certain person, but a good deal of evidence was needed before a case could be made out—evidence and motive and opportunity. The person must have been seen by someone in the vicinity of the crime at the appropriate time. If there was not such evidence the best verdict was that of Wilful Murder without sufficient evidence to show by whose hand. Such a verdict would leave the police free to pursue the necessary inquiries.