The Moving Finger mm-3 Read online

  "I rather fancy," I said, "that it's the Hidden Hand again."

  She turned an astonished face toward me and the car swerved.

  "Careful, wench," I said.

  Joanna refixed her attention on the road. She was frowning.

  "You mean a letter like the one you got."

  "That's my guess."

  "What is this place?" asked Joanna. "It looks the most innocent, sleepy, harmless little bit of England you can imagine."

  "Where, to quote Mr. Pye, nothing ever happens," I cut in.

  "He chose the wrong minute to say that. Something has happened."

  "Jerry," said Joanna. "I don't think I like this."

  For the first time, there was a note of fear in her voice.

  I did not answer, for I, too, did not like it…

  Such a peaceful smiling happy countryside – and down underneath something evil…

  It was as though at that moment I had a premonition of all that was to come…

  The days passed. We went and played bridge at the Symmingtons and Mrs. Symmington annoyed me a good deal by the way she referred to Megan.

  "The poor child's so awkward. They are at that age, when they've left school and before they are properly grown up."

  Joanna said sweetly,

  "But Megan's twenty, isn't she?"

  "Oh, yes, yes. But of course, she's very young for her age. Quite a child still. It's so nice, I think, when girls don't grow up too quickly."

  She laughed.

  "I expect all mothers want their children to remain babies."

  "I can't think why," said Joanna.

  "After all, it would be a bit awkward if one had a child who remained mentally six while his body grew up."

  Mrs. Symmington looked annoyed and said Miss Burton mustn't take things so literally.

  I was pleased with Joanna, and it occurred to me that I did not really much care for Mrs. Symmington. That anaemic middle-aged prettiness concealed, I thought, a selfish, grasping nature.

  Joanna asked maliciously if Mrs. Symmington were going to give a dance for Megan.

  "A dance?" Mrs. Symmington seemed surprised and amused. "Oh, no, we don't do things like that down here."

  "I see. Just tennis parties and things like that."

  "Our tennis court has not been played on for years. Neither Richard nor I play. I suppose, later, when the boys grow up – oh, Megan will find plenty to do. She's quite happy just pottering about, you know. Let me see, did I deal? Two no trumps."

  As we drove home, Joanna said with a vicious pressure on the accelerator pedal that made the car leap forward:

  "I feel awfully sorry for that girl."

  "Megan?"

  "Yes. Her mother doesn't like her."

  "Oh, come now, Joanna, it's not as bad as that."

  "Yes, it is. Lots of mothers don't like their children. Megan, I should imagine, is an awkward sort of creature to have about the house. She disturbs the pattern – the Symmington pattern. It's a complete unit without her – and that's a most unhappy feeling for a sensitive creature to have – and she is sensitive."

  "Yes," I said, "I think she is."

  I was silent a moment.

  Joanna suddenly laughed mischievously. "Bad luck for you about the governess."

  "I don't know what you mean," I said with dignity.

  "Nonsense. Masculine chagrin was written on your face every time you looked at her. I agree with you, it is a waste. And I don't see who else there is here for you. You'll have to fall back upon Aimée Griffith."

  "God forbid," I said with a shudder.

  "And anyway," I added, "why all this concern about my love life? What about you, my girl? You'll need a little distraction down here, if I know you. No unappreciated genius knocking about here. You'll have to fall back on Owen Griffith. He's the only unattached male in the place."

  Joanna tossed her head.

  "Dr. Griffith doesn't like me."

  "He's not seen much of you."

  "He's seen enough apparently to make him cross over if he sees me coming along the High Street!"

  "A most unusual reaction," I said sympathetically. "And one you're not used to."

  Joanna drove in silence through the gate of Little Furze and around to the garage. Then she said:

  "There may be something in that idea of yours. I don't see why any man should deliberately cross the street to avoid me. It's rude, apart from everything else."

  "I see," I said. "You're going to hunt the man down in cold blood."

  "Well, I don't like being avoided."

  I got slowly and carefully out of the car and balanced my sticks. Then I offered my sister a piece of advice:

  "Let me tell you this, girl. Owen Griffith isn't any of your tame, whining, artistic young men. Unless you're careful, you'll stir up a hornets' nest about your ears. That man could be dangerous."

  "Oh, do you think so?" demanded Joanna with every symptom of pleasure at the prospect.

  "Leave the poor devil alone," I said sternly.

  "How dare he cross the street when he saw me coming?"

  "All you women are alike. You harp on one theme. You'll have sister Aimée gunning for you, too, if I'm not mistaken."

  "She dislikes me already," said Joanna. She spoke meditatively, but with a certain satisfaction.

  "We have come down here," I said sternly, "for peace and quiet, and I mean to see we get it."

  But peace and quiet were the last things we were to have.

  Chapter 2

  It was about a week later that I came back to the house to find Megan sitting on the veranda steps, her chin resting on her knees.

  She greeted me with her usual lack of ceremony.

  "Hullo," she said. "Do you think I could come to lunch?"

  "Certainly," I said.

  "If it's chops, or anything difficult like that and they won't go round, just tell me," shouted Megan as I went around to apprise Partridge of the fact that there would be three to lunch.

  I fancy that Partridge sniffed. She certainly managed to convey, without saying a word of any kind, that she didn't think much of that Miss Megan.

  I went back to the veranda.

  "Is it all right?" asked Megan anxiously.

  "Quite all right," I said. "Irish stew."

  "Oh, well, that's rather like dogs' dinner anyway, isn't it? I mean it's mostly potato and flavour."

  "Quite," I said.

  We were silent while I smoked my pipe. It was quite a companionable silence.

  Megan broke it by saying suddenly and violently, "I suppose you think I'm awful, like everyone else."

  I was so startled that my pipe fell out of my mouth. It was a meerschaum, just colouring nicely, and it broke. I said angrily to Megan:

  "Now see what you've done."

  That most unaccountable of children, instead of being upset, merely grinned broadly.

  "I do like you," she said.

  It was a most warming remark. It is the remark that one fancies perhaps erroneously that one's dog would say if he could talk. It occurred to me that Megan, for all she looked like a horse, had the disposition of a dog. She was certainly not quite human.

  "What did you say before the catastrophe?" I asked, carefully picking up the fragments of my cherished pipe.

  "I said I supposed you thought me awful," said Megan but not at all in the same tone she had said it before.

  "Why should I?"

  Megan said gravely, "Because I am."

  I said sharply, "Don't be stupid."

  Megan shook her head.

  "That's just it. I'm not really stupid. People think I am. They don't know that inside I know just what they're like, and that all the time I'm hating them."

  "Hating them?"

  "Yes," said Megan.

  Her eyes, those melancholy, unchildlike eyes stared straight into mine, without blinking. It was a long, mournful gaze.

  "You would hate people if you were like me," she said. "If you weren't w
anted."

  "Don't you think you're being rather morbid?" I asked.

  "Yes," said Megan. "That's what people always say when you're saying the truth. And it is true. I'm not wanted and I can quite see why. Mummie doesn't like me a bit. I remind her, I think, of my father, who was cruel to her and pretty dreadful from all I can hear. Only mothers can't say they don't want their children and just go away. Or eat them. Cats eat the kittens they don't like. Awfully sensible, I think. No waste or mess. But human mothers have to keep their children, and look after them. It hasn't been so bad while I could be sent away to school – but you see what Mummie would really like is to be just herself and my stepfather and the boys."

  I said slowly, "I still think you're morbid, Megan, but accepting some of what you say as true, why don't you go away and have a life of your own?"

  She gave me an odd un-childlike smile. "You mean take up a career. Earn my living?"

  "Yes."

  "What at?"

  "You could train for something, I suppose. Shorthand, typing, bookkeeping."

  "I don't believe I could. I am stupid about doing things. And besides -"

  "Well?"

  She had turned her head away, now she turned it slowly back again. It was crimson and there were tears in her eyes.

  She spoke now with all the childishness back in her voice:

  "Why should I go away? And be made to go away? They don't want me, but I'll stay. I'll stay and make everyone sorry. I'll make them all sorry. Hateful pigs! I hate everyone here in Lymstock. They all think I'm stupid and ugly. I'll show them! I'll show them! I'll -"

  It was a childish, oddly pathetic rage.

  I heard a step on the gravel around the corner of the house.

  "Get up," I said savagely. "Go into the house through the drawing room. Go up to the bathroom. Wash your face. Quick."

  She sprang awkwardly to her feet and darted through the window as Joanna came around the corner of the house.

  I told her Megan had come to lunch.

  "Good," said Joanna, "I like Megan, though I rather think she's a changeling. Something left on a doorstep by the fairies. But she's interesting."

  I see that so far I have made little mention of the Reverend and Mrs. Calthrop.

  And yet both the vicar and his wife were distinct personalities. Dane Calthrop himself was perhaps a being more remote from everyday life than anyone I have ever met. His existence was in his books and in his study. Mrs. Dane Calthrop, on the other hand, was quite terrifyingly on the spot. Though she seldom gave advice and never interfered, yet she represented to the uneasy consciences of the village the Deity personified.

  She stopped me in the High Street the day after Megan had come to lunch. I had the usual feeling of surprise, because Mrs. Dane Calthrop's progress resembled coursing more than walking, thus according with her startling resemblance to a greyhound, and as her eyes were always fixed on the distant horizon you felt sure that her real objective was about a mile and a half away.

  "Oh!" she said. "Mr. Burton!"

  She said it rather triumphantly, as someone might who had solved a particularly clever puzzle. I admitted that I was Mr. Burton and Mrs. Dane Calthrop stopped focusing on the horizon and seemed to be trying to focus on me instead.

  "Now what," she said, "did I want to see you about?"

  I could not help her there. She stood frowning, deeply perplexed.

  "Something rather nasty," she said.

  "I'm sorry about that," I said startled.

  "Ah," cried Mrs. Dane Calthrop. "Anonymous letters! What's this story you've brought down here about anonymous letters?"

  "I didn't bring it," I said, "it was here already."

  "Nobody got any until you came, though," said Mrs. Dane Calthrop accusingly.

  "But they did, Mrs. Dane Calthrop. The trouble had already started."

  "Oh, dear," said Mrs. Dane Calthrop. "I don't like that."

  She stood there, her eyes absent and far away again. She said:

  "I can't help feeling it's all wrong. We're not like that here. Envy, of course, and malice, and all the mean spiteful little sins – but I didn't think there was anyone who would do that. No, I really didn't. And it distresses me, you see, because I ought to know."

  Her fine eyes came back from the horizon and met mine.

  They were worried, and seemed to hold the honest bewilderment of a child's.

  "Why ought you to know?" I said.

  "I usually do. I've always felt that's my function. Caleb preaches good sound doctrine and administers the sacraments. That's a priest's duty, but if you admit marriage at all for a priest, then I think his wife's duty is to know what people are feeling and thinking, even if she can't do anything about it. And I haven't the least idea whose mind is -"

  She broke off, adding absently, "They are such silly letters, too."

  "Have you – er – had any yourself?"

  I was a little diffident of asking, but Mrs. Dane Calthrop replied perfectly naturally, her eyes opening a little wider:

  "Oh, yes, two – no, three. I forget exactly what they said. Something very silly about Caleb and the schoolmistress, I think. Quite absurd, because Caleb has absolutely no taste for flirtation. He never has had. So lucky being a clergyman."

  "Quite," I said, "oh, quite."

  "Caleb would have been a saint," said Mrs. Dane Calthrop, "if he hadn't been just a little too intellectual."

  I did not feel qualified to answer this criticism, and anyway Mrs. Dane Calthrop went on, leaping back from her husband to the letters in rather a puzzling way.

  "There are so many things the letters might say, but don't. That's what is so curious."

  "I should hardly have thought they erred on the side of restraint," I said bitterly.

  "But they don't seem to know anything. None of the real things."

  "You mean?"

  Those fine vague eyes met mine.

  "Well, of course. There's plenty of wrongdoing here – any amount of shameful secrets. Why doesn't the writer use those?"

  She paused and then asked abruptly, "What did they say in your letter?"

  "They suggested that my sister wasn't my sister."

  "And she is?"

  Mrs. Dane Calthrop asked the question with unembarrassed friendly interest.

  "Certainly Joanna is my sister."

  Mrs. Dane Calthrop nodded her head. "That just shows you what I mean. I daresay there are other things -"

  Her clear uninterested eyes looked at me thoughtfully, and I suddenly understood why Lymstock was afraid of Mrs. Dane Calthrop.

  In everybody's life there are hidden chapters which they hope may never be known. I felt that Mrs. Dane Calthrop knew them.

  For once in my life, I was positively delighted when Aimée Griffith's hearty voice boomed out:

  "Hullo, Maud. Glad I've just caught you. I want to suggest an alteration of date for the Sale of Work. Morning, Mr. Burton."

  She went on:

  "I must just pop into the grocer's and leave my order, then I'll come along to the Institute if that suits you?"

  "Yes, yes, that will do quite well," said Mrs. Dane Calthrop. Aimée Griffith went into the International Stores.

  Mrs. Dane Calthrop said, "Poor thing."

  I was puzzled. Surely she could not be pitying Aimée?

  She went on, however: "You know, Mr. Burton, I'm rather afraid -"

  "About this letter business?"

  "Yes, you see it means – it must mean -"

  She paused, lost in thought, her eyes screwed up. Then she said slowly, as one who solves a problem, "Blind hatred… yes, blind hatred. But even a blind man might stab to the heart by pure chance… And what would happen then, Mr. Burton?"

  We were to know that before another day had passed.

  Partridge, who enjoys calamity, came into Joanna's room at an early hour the following morning, and told her with considerable relish that Mrs. Symmington had committed suicide on the preceding afternoon.
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br />   Joanna, who had been lost in the mists of sleep, sat up in bed shocked wide awake.

  "Oh, Partridge, how awful."

  "Awful it is, Miss. It's wickedness taking your own life. Not but what she was drove to it, poor soul."

  Joanna had an inkling of the truth then. She felt rather sick.

  "Not -?" Her eyes questioned Partridge and Partridge nodded.

  "That's right, Miss. One of them nasty letters."

  "How beastly," said Joanna. "How absolutely beastly! All the same, I don't see why she should kill herself for a letter like that."

  "Looks as though what was in the letter was true, Miss."

  "What was in it?"

  But that, Partridge couldn't or wouldn't say. Joanna came in to me, looking white and shocked. It seemed worse, somehow, that Mrs. Symmington was not the kind of person you associated with tragedy.

  Joanna suggested that we might ask Megan to come to us for a day or two. Elsie Holland, she said, would be all right with the children, but was the kind of person who would, almost certainly, drive Megan half mad.

  I agreed. I could imagine Elsie Holland uttering platitude after platitude and suggesting innumerable cups of tea.

  A kindly creature but not the right person for Megan. We drove down to the Symmingtons' house after breakfast.

  We were both of us a little nervous. Our arrival might look like sheer ghoulish curiosity. Luckily we met Owen Griffith just coming out. He greeted me with some warmth, his worried face lighting up.

  "Oh, hullo, Burton, I'm glad to see you. What I was afraid would happen sooner or later has happened. A damnable business!"

  "Good morning, Dr. Griffith," said Joanna, using the voice she keeps for one of our deafer aunts.

  Griffith started and flushed. "Oh – oh, good morning, Miss Burton."

  "I thought perhaps," said Joanna, "that you didn't see me."

  Owen Griffith got redder still. His shyness enveloped him like a mantle.

  "I'm – I'm so sorry – preoccupied – I didn't."

  Joanna went on mercilessly.

  "After all, I am life-size."

  "Merely kit-kat," I said in a stern aside to her. Then I went on:

  "My sister and I, Griffith, wondered whether it would be a good thing if the girl came and stopped with us for a day or two? What do you think? I don't want to butt in – but it must be rather grim for the poor child. What would Symmington feel about it, do you think?"