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The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

Page 17

by Agatha Christie


  turned blindingly away from the figure in the

  chair. What did I seemthe famous patchwork

  dressing-gown, the beaked nose (faked with that

  useful substance, nose putty), the white crest of hair, the powerful lenses concealing the eyes.

  What evidence is there that Mr. Farley ever had a

  dream? Only the story I was told and the evidence

  of Mrs. Farley. What evidence is there that

  Benedict Farley kept a revolver in his desk? Again

  only the story told me and the word of Mrs. Farley.

  Two people carried this fraud throughJMrs.

  Farley and Hugo Cornworthy. Cornworthy wrote

  the letter to me, gave instructions to the butler,

  went out ostensibly to the cinema, but let himself

  in again immediately with a key, went to his room,

  made himself up, and played the part of Benedict

  Farley.

  I "And so we come to this afternoon. The oppor-

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  Agatha Christie

  tunity for which Mr. Cornworthy has been waiting

  arrives. There are two witnesses on the landing to

  swear that no one goes in or out of Benedict

  Farley's room. Cornworthy waits until a Particu-larly

  heavy batch of traffic is about to pass. Then

  he leans out of his window, and with the lazytongs

  which he has purloined from the desk next door he

  holds an. object against the window of that room.

  Benedict Farley comes to the window. Corn-worthy

  snatches back the tongs and as Farley leans

  out, and the lorries are passing outside, Corn-worthy

  shoots him with the revolver that he has

  ready. There is a blank wall opposite, remember.

  There can be no witness of the crime. Cornworthy

  waits for OVer half an hour, then gathers up some

  papers, conceals the lazytongs and the revolver

  between thea and goes out on to the landing and

  into the next room. He replaces the tongs on the

  desk, lays down the revolver after pressing the

  dead man's fingers on it, and hurries out with the

  news of Mr. Farley's 'suicide.'

  "He arranges that the letter to me shall be

  found and that I shall arrive with my story--the

  story I hearl .from Mr. Farley's own lips--of his

  extraordinary 'dream'--the strange compulsion

  he felt to kill himself! A few credulous people will

  discuss the hypnotism theory--but the main result

  will be to confirm without a doubt that the actual

  hand that held the revolver was Benedict Farley's

  own."

  Hercule Poirot's eyes went to the widow's face

  --the dismay--the ashy pallor--the blind fear.

  "And in due course," he finished gently, "the

  happy ending would have been achieved. A

  THE DREAM

  177

  quarter of a million and two hearts that beat as

  one .... "

  John Stillingfleet, M.D., and Hercule Poirot

  walked along the side of Northway House. On

  their right was the towering wall of the factory.

  Above them, on their left, were the windows of

  Benedict Farley's and Hugo Cornworthy's rooms.

  Hercule Poirot stopped and picked up a small ob-ject--a

  black stuffed cat.

  "Voild," he said. "That is what Cornworthy

  held in the lazytongs against Farley's window.

  You remember, he hated cats? Naturally he

  rushed to the window."

  "Why on earth didn't Cornworthy come out

  and pick it up after he'd dropped it?"

  "How could he? To do so would have been

  definitely suspicious. After all, if this object where

  found what would anyone think--that some child

  had wandered round here and dropped it."

  "Yes," said Stillingfleet with a sigh. "That's

  probably what the ordinary person would have

  thought. But not good old Hercule! D'you know,

  old horse, up to the very last minute I thought you

  were leading up to some subtle theory of highfalu-tin

  psychological 'suggested' murder? I bet those

  two thought so too! Nasty bit of goods, the Far-ley.

  Goodness, how she cracked! Cornworthy

  might have got away with it if she hadn't had

  hysterics and tried to spoil your beauty by going

  for you with her nails. I only got her off you just

  in 'time."

  He paused a minute and then said:

  "I rather like the girl. Grit, you know, and

  brains. I suppose I'd be thought to be a fortune

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  hunter if I had a shot at her... ?"

  "You are too late, my friend. There is already

  someone sur le tapis. Her father's death has

  opened the way to happiness."

  "Take it all round, she had a pretty good

  motive for bumping off the unpleasant parent."

  "Motive and opportunity are not enough," said

  Poirot. "There must also be the criminal tempera-ment!''

  "I wonder if you'll ever commit a crime,

  Poirot?" said Stillingfleet. "I bet you could get

  away with it all right. As a matter of fact, it would

  be too easy for you--I mean the thing would be

  off as definitely too unsporting."

  "That," said Poirot, "is a typically English

  idea."

  Glass Darkly

  I've no explanation of this story. I've no theories

  about the why and wherefore of it. It's just a

  thing--that happened.

  All the same, I sometimes wonder how things

  would have gone if I'd noticed at the time just that

  one essential detail that I never appreciated until

  so many years afterwards. If I had noticed it--well,

  I suppose the course of three lives would

  have been entirely altered. Somehow--that's a

  very frightening thought.

  For the beginning of it all, I've got to go back to

  the summer of 1914--just before the war--when I

  went down to Badgeworthy with Neil Carslake.

  Neil was, I suppose, about my best friend. I'd

  known his brother Alan too, but not so well.

  Sylvia, their sister, I'd never met. She was two

  years younger than Alan and three years younger

  than Neil. Twice, while we were at school to181

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  Agatha Christie

  the other door from the passage and asked me

  what the hell I was trying to do.

  He must have thought me slightly barmy as I

  turned on him and demanded whether there was a

  door behind the wardrobe. He said, yes, there was

  a door, it led into the next room. I asked him we

  was occupying the room and he said some people

  called Oldham--a Major Oldham and his wife. I

  asked him then if Mrs. Oldham had very fair hair

  and when he replied dryly that she was dark I

  began to realize that I was probably making a fool

  of myself. I pulled myself together, made some

  lame explanation and we went downstairs together.

  I told myself that I must have had some

  kind of hallucination--and felt generally rather

  ashamed and a bit of an ass.

  And then--and then--Nell said, "My sister

  Sylvia," and I was looking into the lovely face of

  the
girl I had just seen being suffocated to death

  ·.. and I was introduced to her fiance, a tall, dark

  man with a scar down the left side of his face.

  Wellwthat's that. I'd like you to think and say

  what you'd have done in my place. Here was the

  girl--the identical girl--and here was the man I'd

  seen throttling her--and they were to be married

  in about a month's time ....

  Had I--or had I not--had a prophetic vision of

  the future? Would Sylvia and her husband come

  down here to stay sometime in the future, and be

  given that room (the best spare room) and would

  that scene I'd witnessed take place in grim reality?

  What was I to do about it? Could I do anything?

  Would anyone--Neil--or the girl herself--would

  they believe me?

  IN A GLASS DARKLY

  18 I

  turned the whole business over and over in m}

  mind the week I was down there. To speak or not

  to speak? And almost at once another complica

  tion set in. You see, I fell in love with Sylvia Cars-

  lake the first moment I saw her I

  wanted her

  more

  than anything on earth And in

  a way

  that tied

  my hands.

  And yet,

  if I didn't say anything, Sylvia would marry Charles

  Crawley and Crawley would kill her ....

  And so,

  the day before I left, I blurted it all out to her.

  I said I expected she'd think me touched in the intellect

  or something but I swore solemnly that

  I'd seen the thing just as I told it to her and that

  I felt if she was determined to marry Crawley, I

  ought to tell her my strange experience.

  She

  listened very quietly. There was something in

  her eyes I didn't understand. She wasn't angry at

  all. When I'd finished, she just thanked me gravely.

  I kept repeating like an idiot, "I did see it. I

  really did see it," and she said, "I'm sure you did if

  you say so. I believe you."

  Well,

  the upshot was that I went off not knowing

  whether I'd done right or been a fool, and a week later

  Sylvia broke off her engagement to Charles Crawley.

  After that

  the war happened, and there wash'! much leisure

  for thinking of anything else. Once or twice

  when I was on leave, I came acr. oss Sylvia, but as

  far as possible I avoided her.

  I loved

  her and wanted her just as badly as ever, but I

  felt, somehow, that it wouldn't be playing the game.

  It was owing to me that she'd broken off her

  engagement to Crawley, and 1 kept sayin8

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  Agatha Christie

  to myself that I could only justify the action I had

  taken by making my attitude a purely disinterested

  one.

  Then, in 1916, Nell was killed and it fell to me

  to tell Sylvia about his last moments. We couldn't

  remain on a formal footing after that. Sylvia had

  adored Nell and he had been my best friend. She

  was sweet--adorably sweet in her grief. I just

  managed to hold my tongue and went out again

  praying that a bullet might end the whole miser-able

  business. Life without Sylvia wasn't worth

  living.

  But there was no bullet with my name on it. One

  nearly got me below the right ear and one was

  deflected by a cigarette case in my pocket, but I

  came through unscathed. Charles Crawley was

  killed in action at the beginning of 1918.

  Somehow--that made a difference. I came

  home in the autumn of 1918 just before the Armis-tice

  and I went straight to Sylvia and told her that

  I loved her. I hadn't much hope that she'd care for

  me straight away, and you could have knocked me

  down with a feather when she asked me why I

  hadn't told her sooner. I stammered out some-thing

  about Crawley and she said, "But why did

  you think I broke it off with him?" And then she

  told me that she'd fallen in love with me just as I'd

  done with her--from the very first minute.

  I said I thought she'd broken off her engage-ment

  because of the story I told her and she

  laughed scornfully and said that if you loved a

  man you wouldn't be as cowardly as that, and we

  went over that old vision of mine again and agreed

  that it was queer, but nothing more.

  Well, there's nothing much to tell for some time

  IN A GLASS DARKLY

  187

  after that. Sylvia and I were married and we were

  happy. But I realized, as soon as she was really

  mine, that I wasn't cut out for the best kind of

  husband. I loved Sylvia devotedly, but I was jeal-ous,

  absurdly jealous of anyone she so much as

  smiled at. It amused her at first. I think she even

  rather liked it. It proved, at least, how devoted I

  was.

  As for me, I realized quite fully and unmistak-ably

  that I was not only making a fool of myself,

  but that I was endangering all the peace and hap-piness

  of our life together. I knew, I say, but I

  couldn't change. Every time Sylvia got a letter she

  didn't show to me I wondered who it was from. If

  she laughed and talked with any man, I found my-self

  getting sulky and watchful.

  At first, as I say, Sylvia laughed at me. She

  thought it a huge joke. Then she didn't think the

  joke so funny. Finally she didn't think it a joke at

  all--

  And slowly, she began to draw away from me.

  Not in any physical sense, but she withdrew her

  secret mind from me. I no longer knew what her

  thoughts were. She was kind--but sadly, as though

  from a long distance.

  Little by little I realized that she no longer loved

  me. Her love had died and it was I who had killed

  it ....

  The next step was inevitable. I found myself

  waiting for it--dreading it ....

  Then Derek Wainwright came into our lives. He

  had everything that I hadn't. He had brains and

  a witty tongue. He was good-looking, too, and--I'm

  forced to admit it--a thoroughly good chap.

  As soon as I saw him I said to myself, "This is just

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  Agatha Christie

  the man for Sylvia .... "

  She fought against it. I know she struggled...

  but I gave her no help. I couldn't. I was en

  trenched in my gloomy, sullen reserve. I was suf

  fering like hell--and I couldn't stretch out a finger

  to save myself. I didn't help her. I made things

  worse. I let loose at her one day--a string of sav

  age, unwarranted abuse. I was nearly mad with

  jealousy and misery. The things I said were cruel

  and untrue and I knew while I was saying them

  how cruel and how untrue they were. And yet I

  took a savage pleasure in saying them ....

  I remember how Sylvia flushed and shrank ....

  I drove her to the edge of endurance.

  I remember she said, "This can't go on "

  Whe
n

  I came home that night the house was empty--empty.

  There was a note--quite in the traditional

  fashion.

  In

  it she said that she was leaving me--for good. She

  was going down to Badgeworthy for a day or two.

  After that she was going to the one person who

  loved her and needed her. I was to take tha as

  final.

  I

  suppose that up to then I hadn't really believed my

  own suspicions. This confirmation in black and

  white of my worst fears sent me raving mad. I went

  down to Badgeworthy after her as fast as the car

  would take me.

  She

  had just changed her frock for dinner, I remember,

  when I burst into the room. I can see her

  face--startled--beautiful--afraid.

  I

  said, "No one but me shall ever have you. No one."

  And

  I caught her throat in my hands and gripped

  it and bent her backwards.

  IN A GLASS DARKLY

  189

  And stddenly I saw our reflection in the mirror.

  Sylvia choking amd myself strangling her, and the

  scar on rny cheek: where the bullet grazed it under

  the right ear.

  No--I didn't kill her. That sudden revelation

  paralyzed me and I loosened my grasp and let her

  slip onto the floo ....

  And then I broke down--and she comforted

  me .... Yes, she comforted me.

  I told her everything and she told me that by the

  phrase "the one person who loved and needed

  her" she had meant her brother Alan .... We saw

 

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