The Moving Finger Read online

  “What with?”

  Nash said:

  “The ladies round here usually carry large sizes in handbags. No saying what mightn’t be inside it.”

  “And then stabs her through the back of the neck and bundles her into the cupboard? Wouldn’t that be a hefty job for a woman?”

  Superintendent Nash looked at me with rather a queer expression.

  “The woman we’re after isn’t normal—not by a long way—and that type of mental instability goes with surprising strength. Agnes wasn’t a big girl.”

  He paused and then asked: “What made Miss Megan Hunter think of looking in that cupboard?”

  “Sheer instinct,” I said.

  Then I asked: “Why drag Agnes into the cupboard? What was the point?”

  “The longer it was before the body was found, the more difficult it would be to fix the time of death accurately. If Miss Holland, for instance, fell over the body as soon as she came in, a doctor might be able to fix it within ten minutes or so—which might be awkward for our lady friend.”

  I said, frowning:

  “But if Agnes were suspicious of this person—”

  Nash interrupted me.

  “She wasn’t. Not to the pitch of definite suspicion. She just thought it ‘queer.’ She was a slow-witted girl, I imagine, and she was only vaguely suspicious with a feeling that something was wrong. She certainly didn’t suspect that she was up against a woman who would do murder.”

  “Did you suspect that?” I asked.

  Nash shook his head. He said, with feeling:

  “I ought to have known. That suicide business, you see, frightened Poison Pen. She got the wind up. Fear, Mr. Burton, is an incalculable thing.”

  “Yes, fear. That was the thing we ought to have foreseen. Fear—in a lunatic brain….

  “You see,” said Superintendent Nash, and somehow his words made the whole thing seem absolutely horrible. “We’re up against someone who’s respected and thought highly of—someone, in fact, of good social position!”

  III

  Presently Nash said that he was going to interview Rose once more. I asked him, rather diffidently, if I might come too. Rather to my surprise he assented cordially.

  “I’m very glad of your cooperation, Mr. Burton, if I may say so.”

  “That sounds suspicious,” I said. “In books when a detective welcomes someone’s assistance, that someone is usually the murderer.”

  Nash laughed shortly. He said: “You’re hardly the type to write anonymous letters, Mr. Burton.”

  He added: “Frankly, you can be useful to us.”

  “I’m glad, but I don’t see how.”

  “You’re a stranger down here, that’s why. You’ve got no preconceived ideas about the people here. But at the same time, you’ve got the opportunity of getting to know things in what I may call a social way.”

  “The murderer is a person of good social position,” I murmured.

  “Exactly.”

  “I’m to be the spy within the gates?”

  “Have you any objection?”

  I thought it over.

  “No,” I said, “frankly I haven’t. If there’s a dangerous lunatic about driving inoffensive women to suicide and hitting miserable little maidservants on the head, then I’m not averse to doing a bit of dirty work to put that lunatic under restraint.”

  “That’s sensible of you, sir. And let me tell you, the person we’re after is dangerous. She’s about as dangerous as a rattlesnake and a cobra and a black mamba rolled into one.”

  I gave a slight shiver. I said:

  “In fact, we’ve got to make haste?”

  “That’s right. Don’t think we’re inactive in the force. We’re not. We’re working on several different lines.”

  He said it grimly.

  I had a vision of a fine far-flung spider’s web….

  Nash wanted to hear Rose’s story again, so he explained to me, because she had already told him two different versions, and the more versions he got from her, the more likely it was that a few grains of truth might be incorporated.

  We found Rose washing up breakfast, and she stopped at once and rolled her eyes and clutched her heart and explained again how she’d been coming over queer all the morning.

  Nash was patient with her but firm. He’d been soothing the first time, so he told me, and peremptory the second, and he now employed a mixture of the two.

  Rose enlarged pleasurably on the details of the past week, of how Agnes had gone about in deadly fear, and had shivered and said, “Don’t ask me,” when Rose had urged her to say what was the matter. “It would be death if she told me,” that’s what she said, finished Rose, rolling her eyes happily.

  Had Agnes given no hint of what was troubling her?

  No, except that she went in fear of her life.

  Superintendent Nash sighed and abandoned the theme, contenting himself with extracting an exact account of Rose’s own activities the preceding afternoon.

  This, put baldly, was that Rose had caught the 2:30 bus and had spent the afternoon and evening with her family, returning by the 8:40 bus from Nether Mickford. The recital was complicated by the extraordinary presentiments of evil Rose had had all the afternoon and how her sister had commented on it and how she hadn’t been able to touch a morsel of seed cake.

  From the kitchen we went in search of Elsie Holland, who was superintending the children’s lessons. As always, Elsie Holland was competent and obliging. She rose and said:

  “Now, Colin, you and Brian will do these three sums and have the answers ready for me when I come back.”

  She then led us into the night nursery. “Will this do? I thought it would be better not to talk before the children.”

  “Thank you, Miss Holland. Just tell me, once more, are you quite sure that Agnes never mentioned to you being worried over anything—since Mrs. Symmington’s death, I mean?”

  “No, she never said anything. She was a very quiet girl, you know, and didn’t talk much.”

  “A change from the other one, then!”

  “Yes, Rose talks much too much. I have to tell her not to be impertinent sometimes.”

  “Now, will you tell me exactly what happened yesterday afternoon? Everything you can remember.”

  “Well, we had lunch as usual. One o’clock, and we hurry just a little. I don’t let the boys dawdle. Let me see. Mr. Symmington went back to the office, and I helped Agnes by laying the table for supper—the boys ran out in the garden till I was ready to take them.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Towards Combeacre, by the field path—the boys wanted to fish. I forgot their bait and had to go back for it.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Let me see, we started about twenty to three—or just after. Megan was coming but changed her mind. She was going out on her bicycle. She’s got quite a craze for bicycling.”

  “I mean what time was it when you went back for the bait? Did you go into the house?”

  “No. I’d left it in the conservatory at the back. I don’t know what time it was then—about ten minutes to three, perhaps.”

  “Did you see Megan or Agnes?”

  “Megan must have started, I think. No, I didn’t see Agnes. I didn’t see anyone.”

  “And after that you went fishing?”

  “Yes, we went along by the stream. We didn’t catch anything. We hardly ever do, but the boys enjoy it. Brian got rather wet. I had to change his things when we got in.”

  “You attend to tea on Wednesdays?”

  “Yes. It’s all ready in the drawing room for Mr. Symmington. I just make the tea when he comes in. The children and I have ours in the schoolroom—and Megan, of course. I have my own tea things and everything in the cupboard up there.”

  “What time did you get in?”

  “At ten minutes to five. I took the boys up and started to lay tea. Then when Mr. Symmington came in at five I went down to make his but he said he
would have it with us in the schoolroom. The boys were so pleased. We played Animal Grab afterwards. It seems so awful to think of now—with that poor girl in the cupboard all the time.”

  “Would anybody go to that cupboard normally?”

  “Oh no, it’s only used for keeping junk. The hats and coats hang in the little cloakroom to the right of the front door as you come in. No one might have gone to the other cupboard for months.”

  “I see. And you noticed nothing unusual, nothing abnormal at all when you came back?”

  The blue eyes opened very wide.

  “Oh no, inspector, nothing at all. Everything was just the same as usual. That’s what was so awful about it.”

  “And the week before?”

  “You mean the day Mrs. Symmington—”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, that was terrible—terrible!”

  “Yes, yes, I know. You were out all that afternoon also?”

  “Oh yes, I always take the boys out in the afternoon—if it’s fine enough. We do lessons in the morning. We went up on the moor, I remember—quite a long way. I was afraid I was late back because as I turned in at the gate I saw Mr. Symmington coming from his office at the other end of the road, and I hadn’t even put the kettle on, but it was just ten minutes to five.”

  “You didn’t go up to Mrs. Symmington?”

  “Oh no. I never did. She always rested after lunch. She had attacks of neuralgia—and they used to come on after meals. Dr. Griffith had given her some cachets to take. She used to lie down and try to sleep.”

  Nash said in a casual voice:

  “So no one would take her up the post?”

  “The afternoon post? No, I’d look in the letter box and put the letters on the hall table when I came in. But very often Mrs. Symmington used to come down and get it herself. She didn’t sleep all the afternoon. She was usually up again by four.”

  “You didn’t think anything was wrong because she wasn’t up that afternoon?”

  “Oh, no, I never dreamed of such a thing. Mr. Symmington was hanging up his coat in the hall and I said, ‘Tea’s not quite ready, but the kettle’s nearly boiling,’ and he nodded and called out, ‘Mona, Mona!’—and then as Mrs. Symmington didn’t answer he went upstairs to her bedroom, and it must have been the most terrible shock to him. He called me and I came, and he said, ‘Keep the children away,’ and then he phoned Dr. Griffith and we forgot all about the kettle and it burnt the bottom out! Oh dear, it was dreadful, and she’d been so happy and cheerful at lunch.”

  Nash said abruptly: “What is your own opinion of that letter she received, Miss Holland?”

  Elsie Holland said indignantly:

  “Oh, I think it was wicked—wicked!”

  “Yes, yes, I don’t mean that. Did you think it was true?”

  Elsie Holland said firmly:

  “No, indeed I don’t. Mrs. Symmington was very sensitive—very sensitive indeed. She had to take all sorts of things for her nerves. And she was very—well, particular.” Elsie flushed. “Anything of that sort—nasty, I mean—would have given her a great shock.”

  Nash was silent for a moment, then he asked:

  “Have you had any of these letters, Miss Holland?”

  “No. No, I haven’t had any.”

  “Are you sure? Please”—he lifted a hand—“don’t answer in a hurry. They’re not pleasant things to get, I know. And sometimes people don’t like to admit they’ve had them. But it’s very important in this case that we should know. We’re quite aware that the statements in them are just a tissue of lies, so you needn’t feel embarrassed.”

  “But I haven’t, superintendent. Really I haven’t. Not anything of the kind.”

  She was indignant, almost tearful, and her denials seemed genuine enough.

  When she went back to the children, Nash stood looking out of the window.

  “Well,” he said, “that’s that! She says she hasn’t received any of these letters. And she sounds as though she’s speaking the truth.”

  “She did certainly. I’m sure she was.”

  “H’m,” said Nash. “Then what I want to know is, why the devil hasn’t she?”

  He went on rather impatiently, as I stared at him.

  “She’s a pretty girl, isn’t she?”

  “Rather more than pretty.”

  “Exactly. As a matter of fact, she’s uncommonly good-looking. And she’s young. In fact she’s just the meat an anonymous letter writer would like. Then why has she been left out?”

  I shook my head.

  “It’s interesting, you know. I must mention it to Graves. He asked if we could tell him definitely of anyone who hadn’t had one.”

  “She’s the second person,” I said. “There’s Emily Barton, remember.”

  Nash gave a faint chuckle.

  “You shouldn’t believe everything you’re told, Mr. Burton. Miss Barton had one all right—more than one.”

  “How do you know?”

  “That devoted dragon she’s lodging with told me—her late parlourmaid or cook. Florence Elford. Very indignant she was about it. Would like to have the writer’s blood.”

  “Why did Miss Emily say she hadn’t had any?”

  “Delicacy. Their language isn’t nice. Little Miss Barton has spent her life avoiding the coarse and unrefined.”

  “What did the letters say?”

  “The usual. Quite ludicrous in her case. And incidentally insinuated that she poisoned off her old mother and most of her sisters!”

  I said incredulously:

  “Do you mean to say there’s really this dangerous lunatic going about and we can’t spot her right away?”

  “We’ll spot her,” said Nash, and his voice was grim. “She’ll write just one letter too many.”

  “But, my goodness, man, she won’t go on writing these things—not now.”

  He looked at me.

  “Oh yes she will. You see, she can’t stop now. It’s a morbid craving. The letters will go on, make no mistake about that.”

  Nine

  I

  I went and found Megan before leaving the house. She was in the garden and seemed almost back to her usual self. She greeted me quite cheerfully.

  I suggested that she should come back to us again for a while, but after a momentary hesitation she shook her head.

  “It’s nice of you—but I think I’ll stay here. After all, it is—well, I suppose, it’s my home. And I dare say I can help with the boys a bit.”

  “Well,” I said, “it’s as you like.”

  “Then I think I’ll stay. I could— I could—”

  “Yes?” I prompted.

  “If—if anything awful happened, I could ring you up, couldn’t I, and you’d come.”

  I was touched. “Of course. But what awful thing do you think might happen?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She looked vague. “Things seem rather like that just now, don’t they?”

  “For God’s sake,” I said. “Don’t go nosing out anymore bodies! It’s not good for you.”

  She gave me a brief flash of a smile.

  “No, it isn’t. It made me feel awfully sick.”

  I didn’t much like leaving her there, but after all, as she had said, it was her home. And I fancied that now Elsie Holland would feel more responsible for her.

  Nash and I went up together to Little Furze. Whilst I gave Joanna an account of the morning’s doings, Nash tackled Partridge. He rejoined us looking discouraged.

  “Not much help there. According to this woman, the girl only said she was worried about something and didn’t know what to do and that she’d like Miss Partridge’s advice.”

  “Did Partridge mention the fact to anyone?” asked Joanna.

  Nash nodded, looking grim.

  “Yes, she told Mrs. Emory—your daily woman—on the lines, as far as I can gather, that there were some young women who were willing to take advice from their elders and didn’t think they could settle everything
for themselves offhand! Agnes mightn’t be very bright, but she was a nice respectful girl and knew her manners.”

  “Partridge preening herself, in fact,” murmured Joanna. “And Mrs. Emory could have passed it round the town?”

  “That’s right, Miss Burton.”

  “There’s one thing rather surprises me,” I said. “Why were my sister and I included among the recipients of the anonymous letters? We were strangers down here—nobody could have had a grudge against us.”

  “You’re failing to allow for the mentality of a Poison Pen—all is grist that comes to their mill. Their grudge, you might say, is against humanity.”

  “I suppose,” said Joanna thoughtfully, “that that is what Mrs. Dane Calthrop meant.”

  Nash looked at her inquiringly, but she did not enlighten him. The superintendent said:

  “I don’t know if you happened to look closely at the envelope of the letter you got, Miss Burton. If so, you may have noticed that it was actually addressed to Miss Barton, and the a altered to a u afterwards.”

  That remark, properly interpreted, ought to have given us a clue to the whole business. As it was, none of us saw any significance in it.

  Nash went off, and I was left with Joanna. She actually said: “You don’t think that letter can really have been meant for Miss Emily, do you?”

  “It would hardly have begun ‘You painted trollop,’” I pointed out, and Joanna agreed.

  Then she suggested that I should go down to the town. “You ought to hear what everyone is saying. It will be the topic this morning!”

  I suggested that she should come too, but rather to my surprise Joanna refused. She said she was going to mess about in the garden.

  I paused in the doorway and said, lowering my voice:

  “I suppose Partridge is all right?”

  “Partridge!”

  The amazement in Joanna’s voice made me feel ashamed of my idea. I said apologetically: “I just wondered. She’s rather ‘queer’ in some ways—a grim spinster—the sort of person who might have religious mania.”

  “This isn’t religious mania—or so you told me Graves said.”

  “Well, sex mania. They’re very closely tied up together, I understand. She’s repressed and respectable, and has been shut up here with a lot of elderly women for years.”