Agatha Christie Investigates Omnibus Page 3

  She was aware of her own confusion, wondering what to say, but before she could speak he said, ‘Did Bertha bring you here? It wouldn’t surprise me. She’s obsessed with that gravestone, poor woman.’

  ‘Gravestone?’

  ‘The old church yard, up the hill. It was the family chapel in the old days. Perhaps you remember?’

  Agatha shook her head. ‘Before my time, I fear,’ she said.

  ‘You haven’t been in the village long, then?’

  ‘Only eighteen months. We were in London before.’

  There was a silence. He had replaced his cap on his head, and now he scanned the distant horizon, before turning to her once more. ‘She’s moved into her sister’s house, down the hill there. Her sister recently died. And they say she was in love with that poor Mr. Coates too. A double blow for her, to lose him. Sometimes life deals people a very harsh hand, wouldn’t you say?’

  He turned and began to walk along the drive, and Agatha fell into step beside him.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t know who you were,’ he said, in his easy, friendly manner. ‘Yesterday. They told me afterwards that you’re a writer.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘It must be very enjoyable,’ he said.

  She wondered what to say, but he was still speaking. ‘I feel I’ve landed on my feet here,’ he was saying. ‘I’ve lived in villages before, where people will cross the street rather than talk to an incomer, but Sunningdale seems completely different.’ They’d reached the end of the drive, and the house stood before them.

  Hainault Hall had been empty for some years, and even now, as Agatha surveyed it, it had a neglected look. The fine yellow stone was shadowed with patches of moss. There were visible gaps between the tiles on the roof.

  ‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘I’ve got my work cut out, haven’t I? But I intend to restore it to its former glory. But that’s what I mean, about this village. No one seems to resent my having taken on the house. I’ve had offers of help from all manner of people. Mr. Selby said he’d cut back the hedges for me when he gets a moment. And your friend –’

  ‘Mrs. Ettridge,’ Agatha said.

  ‘Yes. She said if I need any wood there’s a church in the next village getting rid of its pews. And then it turns out she knows Phoebe Banks whom I met a couple of weeks ago – she’s working as a help for Mrs. Garvey, in between being at the stables, of course horses are her first love but Mrs. Garvey’s boy has got whooping cough at the moment, everyone’s been very worried about him.’ Arthur continued to chat as they walked around the front of the house. ‘To be honest, Mrs. Christie –’ He turned to her, his expression open, his blonde hair pale in the sunlight – ‘I’m rather keen on Phoebe. Very keen, in fact. We went up to London, to the theatre, last week, and I can’t have had such an enjoyable evening for years. But I don’t imagine she’s interested in a penniless artist.’

  ‘Hardly penniless,’ Agatha heard herself say, as her gaze alighted once more on the beauty of the building behind him.

  He shook his head. ‘I was lucky. An unwanted, neglected house. The lady owner had had nothing to do with it, inherited it from her aunt. She was clearly relieved, and I think, rather amazed, that I wanted it.’ He waved a hand towards it. ‘I have very little money, but every last penny of mine will go towards restoring this house to its former glory. I’m taking a chance, I have to say. Which is another reason Phoebe won’t look twice at me, theatre or not. I can gamble on my future worth, but I can’t expect her to … Well, back to work. For both of us, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, with a certain reluctance.

  He walked with her back towards the gate. ‘Perhaps yours is easier than mine,’ he said, suddenly. ‘Work, I mean. It doesn’t depend on anything other than itself. Whereas mine …’ Again, the warm expression, a touch of pink in his cheeks, a sudden awkwardness. ‘I have this terrible sense that I have to get it right. Restoration. I can’t risk betraying the original, and I find it almost paralyzing. What if it’s too new, too crisp? What if the materials I’m using now are somehow inappropriate, compared to what the artist used?’ They were out on the lane now, and Agatha was aware of the scent of wildflowers in the hedgerows. Arthur was still speaking. ‘You see, you can start with a clean slate. Whereas I am always worried by the feeling that I might be making something new rather than being true to what an artist so much greater than myself created all those years ago …’ He broke off, his attention caught by something further up the hill.

  Bertha Wilkins was walking slowly towards them. As she approached, she raised her eyes to them both, and murmured, ‘Good morning, Mr. Sutton. Good morning Mrs. Christie,’ as she passed.

  They watched her as she reached the bottom of the path, her small, quick steps in her lace-up boots, the weight of her skirt against her ankles.

  Arthur turned back to Agatha. ‘Or, then again, perhaps I’m wrong,’ he said to her. ‘Perhaps your work is also about restoring something that already exists. Telling a story whose truth resides in real life.’

  She smiled at him. ‘Having a natural curiosity about people is one thing. But what I write is fiction. Of that I am entirely clear.’

  ‘Well …’ He held out his hand. ‘No doubt we’ll see each other again soon. This awful business at the vicarage …’

  She shook his hand briefly. ‘Awful,’ she agreed.

  ‘I’m working there later today. You’re very welcome to pop in. I could show you the Holbein. The vicar’s hoping the money from it will pay for the restoration of the church bell, you know. You’re very welcome to have a look.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’d like that.’

  Agatha turned and began to walk away, down the hill. In her mind she still saw her, the slim black silhouette against the sky, the green grass and the yellow flowers.

  Art and life, she thought. Yesterday I wrote about a woman who had lost her much-loved sister. And today I hear about this Miss Wilkins, and her grief at her sister’s death. Fiction, and reality. And where does the truth lie?

  *

  Mr. Selby was only too pleased to talk about lavender cuttings, the difference between French and English plants, ‘I’d go for the English myself, you know where you are with it, people like the fuller flowers of the French one but it always seems to me it’s putting on airs and graces …’

  Agatha walked back to the village, having agreed that he would deliver her a cutting in time for her mother’s next visit.

  As she reached the main street, there was the loud revving of a motor car and the crunch of brakes. ‘Mrs. Christie,’ a voice said. She felt she was getting rather tired of these interruptions to her thoughts, and turned to find Mr. Fullerton in his shiny motor-car, having pulled up beside her.

  ‘I was hoping to bump into you,’ he said, his voice raised against the loud revving of the engine. ‘You’re just the person who can help.’

  ‘Help?’ she asked, weakly, aware that Alice and Sefton would be expecting her back for lunch with Rosalind, and also aware that she was very hungry.

  ‘Poor Bertha is beside herself. She’s waiting for the knock at the door at any time.’

  Agatha’s thoughts had been circling her new novel. She had been thinking about the bereaved sister, imagining a scene where she stands near a graveyard. ‘I really can’t imagine that that has anything to do with me,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, but it does. Your friend Mary Ansell employs young Phoebe Banks doesn’t she, at the stables?’

  ‘Well, yes, I believe so …’

  ‘Well, Bertha says that Phoebe will have seen something, something that will clear her name. Only Phoebe won’t say anything, because of course, the poor dead chap was in love with Phoebe, wasn’t he, having broken off his relationship with Bertha in order to be with Phoebe. So there is a terrible stand-off between the two women. Bertha is furious with Phoebe, just as she was with Cecil when he told her he couldn’t continue their relationship. And Phoebe is young and
pretty, and Bertha is not in the first flush of youth, but she has great virtues, great virtues …’ He stopped, smoothed his hand across the steering wheel. ‘Between you and me, Mrs. Christie, it is my good fortune that poor Cecil didn’t see what a wonderful woman Bertha Wilkins is.’

  ‘I still don’t see what this has got to do with me.’ Agatha took a step away from the kerb.

  His arm reached out and grabbed her hand. His expression was intense and his eyes were dark as they searched her face. ‘I fear that a grave injustice will take place,’ he said. ‘And you are singularly well-placed to prevent it. Come with me, please, to the stables, and we can both talk to Phoebe.’

  Agatha sighed. She was aware of her increasing hunger. She was aware too, that life at home would continue whether she was there or not. Rosalind would be fed, Sefton would put her down for her nap, the dogs would be walked by Alice, who adored them …

  She got into Clifford’s car and they set off for the stables.

  Chapter Five

  There was something comforting about stables, Agatha thought, as they closed the rickety gate behind them and walked into the yard. The warm, farmyard smell. The quiet activity of the grooms. The way the horses whinnied and gossiped gently from their stalls. Clifford strode ahead of her, just as Phoebe emerged from the tack room.

  There was no doubting that Phoebe was a very pretty girl. She greeted Clifford with a toss of blonde hair and a flirtatious smile. She was small and trim, and even in jodhpurs and an old sweater she looked somehow well-dressed.

  ‘Miss Banks,’ he said. ‘I want you to meet Mrs. Christie. She’s helping us with this awful business at the vicarage.’

  Agatha felt rather than saw the urgent glance he flashed at Phoebe. In response Phoebe fixed her with a sweet, blue gaze. ‘I know Mrs. Christie,’ she said.

  ‘We’re both friends of Mrs. Ansell,’ Agatha said.

  ‘Ah.’ Clifford looked between them. ‘Everyone knows everyone in this village.’ He turned back to Phoebe. ‘How’s the whooping cough?’

  ‘Oh, it’s been terrible,’ Phoebe said with a heavy sigh. ‘Poor Jack has been so poorly. But the doctor said at least no one else seems to have got it. And Mrs. Garvey said they were just lucky that Cecil was so helpful with it all, bringing medicine from London and all that. She says he saved her Jack’s life, and she’s terribly cut up about him having been … murdered … in that way …’ Her voice faltered. She turned her wide blue eyes to Clifford.

  ‘Mrs. Christie has met Bertha,’ he said, and the words felt weighted with meaning.

  ‘Oh.’ Phoebe glanced at Agatha.

  ‘Shall we walk up to the field?’ Clifford took her arm, and the three of them drifted away from the yard, along the path towards the grazing field. It was warm and sunny, and they watched the horses as they contentedly nibbled at the grass.

  ‘She was so cross with Cecil,’ Phoebe blurted out, once they were away from the yard. ‘Bertha was. She was telling him he didn’t deserve to live. She said she’d kill him herself given the chance.’

  ‘When was this?’ Agatha turned towards her.

  Phoebe was leaning on the gate. ‘Monday,’ she said, and seemed to shudder at the memory.

  ‘And what had brought about this terrible rage?’ Agatha asked.

  Phoebe glanced briefly at Clifford, before replying, ‘Well, because she felt jilted, I suppose.’

  ‘I see. And how long had they been, shall we say, seeing each other?’

  ‘I don’t rightly know. All I know is Cecil wasn’t that interested in her, you can always tell when a young man is interested, can’t you?’

  ‘Can you?’ Agatha asked.

  ‘Oh yes. Well, at least, I can.’ This was said with a certain pride.

  Clifford smiled.

  ‘And who was Cecil interested in?’ Agatha asked.

  Phoebe looked down at her muddy boots. She blushed. ‘Me,’ she said.

  ‘But lots of people are interested in you,’ Clifford said. His tone was avuncular, and Agatha realized that his attitude to Phoebe was not that of an interested suitor but more a kindly, older relative. ‘The young man of Hainault Hall, for example …’

  She blushed some more. ‘Arthur,’ she said. ‘We had such a lovely evening. He took me to the theatre …’

  ‘However,’ Clifford was suddenly serious, ‘Bertha threatened Cecil. And when she realized he was keen on you, she began to threaten you too, didn’t she?’

  Phoebe’s sweet blushing faded. She nodded.

  ‘All sorts of threats,’ Clifford said.

  ‘She didn’t mean them …’

  ‘I think she did.’ Clifford turned to Agatha. ‘This is my fear, Mrs. Christie. That Bertha is not acting in a rational way. That she’s a danger to others. And certainly, most importantly, she’s a danger to herself.’

  ‘Cecil had a secret.’ Phoebe’s voice cut through the gentle rural sounds around them. ‘That’s why she was angry with him. Not just about me, but because there was something he wouldn’t tell her. On Sunday, he’d said to Gwendoline, Miss Holgate, that he wanted to talk to her alone. She told me. We’ve become friends, recently, she loves the horses, she never learned to ride but I’ve promised to teach her. Anyway, she mentioned it on Sunday evening, we were laughing about it, we had no idea it would cause …’ Her face darkened. ‘We didn’t think it was so serious.’

  ‘And Cecil?’ Agatha watched her, her clear, innocent face, her puzzlement that something so awful should happen.

  ‘He’d come to stay with Robert at the vicarage, his friend from London, that’s how we met in the first place, when he paid a visit here, and he’d promised to come back and now he had. I was so pleased when I heard I’d be seeing him again …’ She sniffed, then went on, ‘He said he’d come to Mrs. Garvey’s when I’d finished for the day and we could go for a walk, this was on Monday. So he met me, and we started down the lane, and then Miss Wilkins appears from nowhere and she’s shouting, so angry, I was quite scared, wasn’t I?’ She turned to Clifford as if for verification.

  ‘And this was when she uttered all these threats?’ Agatha prompted.

  Phoebe nodded. ‘She told him she’d kill him.’

  ‘And the secret?’

  Phoebe glanced at Clifford again. He seemed to give a nod, as if in permission. ‘That’s what she said,’ Phoebe went on. ‘She said, “What have you told Miss Holgate that you can’t tell me?” And he said it didn’t concern her, and she got even more angry, and then eventually she stomped away down the hill, but she was still talking to herself …’ She sniffed again. ‘It’s just so awful that he’s gone.’ She lifted tearful eyes to Clifford. ‘Dear Cecil. I didn’t know him that well but he was the nicest, kindest young man you could hope to meet, and the idea that he’d be poisoned in that terrible way …’

  Clifford patted her arm. ‘Let’s go back to the yard,’ he said. ‘You can take comfort in the horses.’

  She nodded, brushed tears from her eyes. ‘I’m due at Mrs. Garvey’s soon,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll drive you up there.’ Clifford gently took Phoebe’s arm.

  They walked back to the yard. Agatha said her goodbyes, and a few minutes later was ringing the doorbell of the vicarage.

  Chapter Six

  The door was opened by Gwendoline Holgate herself. She was still in grey, but today she looked tidier, and more composed, and she stood quietly aside to let Agatha in.

  ‘Is Mr. Sutton here?’ Agatha asked her.

  Gwendoline shook her head. ‘He’s due later on, Ma’am, but he’s not here yet.’

  ‘Ah.’ Agatha studied her surroundings. The vicarage hall still seemed dark and gloomy, not helped by the overgrown trees that loomed outside.

  Agatha looked at Miss Holgate. ‘I wonder if I might ask you,’ she said, ‘about Cecil Coates?’

  The young woman fixed her with a deep brown gaze. ‘You’re the one who writes stories, aren’t you?’

  Agatha gave a reluctant nod.
/>   ‘And you know Robert’s godmother, Mrs. Ettridge?’

  Another reluctant nod.

  ‘It’s because of her friends in Bethnal Green that I got this job,’ Gwendoline said. ‘That’s what Robert said. When the vicar said he needed someone, that’s who he went to and they found me the place here.’

  ‘And are you glad they did?’ Agatha asked.

  The stern features broke into a smile. ‘Oh, yes, Ma’am. Very glad. I was working in the school there, and it was very hard.’

  ‘Shall we go and sit somewhere?’

  The smile faded. ‘Well … if you don’t mind, Ma’am, it’ll have to be the kitchen. I haven’t set foot in the library since … well … and the vicar tends to rest at this time so we can’t disturb him.’

  Agatha followed her down the little passageway into the kitchen. It was lighter here, and warm, with a residual smell of something like fresh bread.

  Miss Holgate flopped on to a chair, as if the air had been let out of her. ‘I try to be brave, I really do. But it’s been so difficult. And all this has made it a hundred times worse. When I was at school, I thought, nothing can be as bad as this. When I leave school, I will understand about life, and there’ll be music, and dancing, and I can go to the theatre, and wear lovely clothes, and I’ll drink tea from proper cups, and when people bring cakes they’ll be on a pink cake stand. And now …’ She raised a tearful face to Agatha. ‘And it’s even worse for Robert.’ Her voice wobbled at his name. ‘And the awful thing is, it’s all my fault.’

  ‘Your fault?’ Agatha sat down gently beside her.

  She nodded, her eyes welling with tears.

  ‘Miss Banks told me …’ Agatha began. ‘Miss Banks told me that Cecil had wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘Oh, if only he’d got the chance. If only I knew what it was.’ It was a heartfelt cry. ‘He meant no harm. I just wish Robert had trusted him. I met him just after Christmas, just after my appointment here, he’d come to see Robert. We got on very well, me and Cecil, we’d have a laugh, you know. A smile lightened her features briefly, then faded. ‘I didn’t like him in the way Robert thought. I really didn’t. Robert has always been the only man for me. I just assumed he knew that. So I didn’t notice how jealous Robert was becoming. And then on Monday night, Robert challenged me. He said, “Cecil came here to see you, not me, didn’t he?” And I didn’t know what to say, because … because it was true, you see.’