The Hollow

by Agatha Christie

  They had been, Beryl said, on excellent terms.

  “I suppose they quarrelled every now and then like most married couples?” The inspector sounded easy and confidential.

  “I do not remember any quarrels. Mrs. Christow was quite devoted to her husband—really quite slavishly so.”

  There was a faint edge of contempt in her voice. Inspector Grange heard it.

  “Bit of a feminist, this girl,” he thought.

  Aloud he said:

  “Didn’t stand up for herself at all?”

  “No. Everything revolved round Dr. Christow.”

  “Tyrannical, eh?”

  Beryl considered.

  “No, I wouldn’t say that. But he was what I should call a very selfish man. He took it for granted that Mrs. Christow would always fall in with his ideas.”

  “Any difficulties with patients—women, I mean? You needn’t think about being frank, Miss Collins. One knows doctors have their difficulties in that line.”

  “Oh, that sort of thing!” Beryl’s voice was scornful. “Dr. Christow was quite equal to dealing with any difficulties in that line. He had an excellent manner with patients.” She added, “He was really a wonderful doctor.”

  There was an almost grudging admiration in her voice.

  Grange said: “Was he tangled up with any woman? Don’t be loyal, Miss Collins, it’s important that we should know.”

  “Yes, I can appreciate that. Not to my knowledge.”

  A little too brusque, he thought. She doesn’t know, but perhaps she guesses.

  He said sharply, “What about Miss Henrietta Savernake?”

  Beryl’s lips closed tightly.

  “She was a close friend of the family’s.”

  “No—trouble between Dr. and Mrs. Christow on her account?”

  “Certainly not.”

  The answer was emphatic. (Overemphatic?)

  The inspector shifted his ground.

  “What about Miss Veronica Cray?”

  “Veronica Cray?”

  There was pure astonishment in Beryl’s voice.

  “She was a friend of Dr. Christow’s, was she not?”

  “I never heard of her. At least, I seem to know the name—”

  “The motion picture actress.”

  Beryl’s brow cleared.

  “Of course! I wondered why the name was familiar. But I didn’t even know that Dr. Christow knew her.”

  She seemed so positive on the point that the inspector abandoned it at once. He went on to question her about Dr. Christow’s manner on the preceding Saturday. And here, for the first time, the confidence of Beryl’s replies wavered. She said slowly:

  “His manner wasn’t quite as usual.”

  “What was the difference?”

  “He seemed distrait. There was quite a long gap before he rang for his last patient—and yet normally he was always in a hurry to get through when he was going away. I thought—yes, I definitely thought he had something on his mind.”

  But she could not be more definite.

  Inspector Grange was not very satisfied with his investigations. He’d come nowhere near establishing motive—and motive had to be established before there was a case to go to the Public Prosecutor.

  He was quite certain in his own mind that Gerda Christow had shot her husband. He suspected jealousy as the motive—but so far he had found nothing to go on. Sergeant Coombes had been working on the maids but they all told the same story. Mrs. Christow worshipped the ground her husband walked on.

  Whatever happened, he thought, must have happened down at The Hollow. And remembering The Hollow he felt a vague disquietude. They were an odd lot down there.

  The telephone on the desk rang and Miss Collins picked up the receiver.

  She said: “It’s for you, Inspector,” and passed the instrument to him.

  “Hallo, Grange here. What’s that?” Beryl heard the alteration in his tone and looked at him curiously. The wooden-looking face was impassive as ever. He was grunting—listening.

  “Yes…yes, I’ve got that. That’s absolutely certain, is it? No margin of error. Yes…yes…yes, I’ll be down. I’ve about finished here. Yes.”

  He put the receiver back and sat for a moment motionless. Beryl looked at him curiously.

  He pulled himself together and asked in a voice that was quite different from the voice of his previous questions:

  “You’ve no ideas of your own, I suppose, Miss Collins, about this matter?”

  “You mean—”

  “I mean no ideas as to who it was killed Dr. Christow?”

  She said flatly:

  “I’ve absolutely no idea at all, Inspector.”

  Grange said slowly:

  “When the body was found, Mrs. Christow was standing beside it with the revolver in her hand—”

  He left it purposely as an unfinished sentence.

  Her reaction came promptly. Not heated, cool and judicial.

  “If you think Mrs. Christow killed her husband, I am quite sure you are wrong. Mrs. Christow is not at all a violent woman. She is very meek and submissive, and she was entirely under the doctor’s thumb. It seems to me quite ridiculous that anyone could imagine for a moment that she shot him, however much appearances may be against her.”

  “Then if she didn’t, who did?” he asked sharply.

  Beryl said slowly, “I’ve no idea.”

  The inspector moved to the door. Beryl asked:

  “Do you want to see Mrs. Christow before you go?”

  “No—yes, perhaps I’d better.”

  Again Beryl wondered; this was not the same man who had been questioning her before the telephone rang. What news had he got that had altered him so much?

  Gerda came into the room nervously. She looked unhappy and bewildered. She said in a low, shaky voice:

  “Have you found out any more about who killed John?”

  “Not yet, Mrs. Christow.”

  “It’s so impossible—so absolutely impossible.”

  “But it happened, Mrs. Christow.”

  She nodded, looking down, screwing a handkerchief into a little ball.

  He said quietly:

  “Had your husband any enemies, Mrs. Christow?”

  “John? Oh, no. He was wonderful. Everyone adored him.”

  “You can’t think of anyone who had a grudge against him”—he paused—“or against you?”

  “Against me?” She seemed amazed. “Oh, no, Inspector.”

  Inspector Grange sighed.

  “What about Miss Veronica Cray?”

  “Veronica Cray? Oh, you mean the one who came that night to borrow matches?”

  “Yes, that’s the one. You knew her?”

  Gerda shook her head.

  “I’d never seen her before. John knew her years ago—or so she said.”

  “I suppose she might have had a grudge against him that you didn’t know about.”

  Gerda said with dignity:

  “I don’t believe anybody could have had a grudge against John. He was the kindest and most unselfish—oh, and one of the noblest men.”

  “H’m,” said the inspector. “Yes. Quite so. Well, good morning, Mrs. Christow. You understand about the inquest? Eleven o’clock Wednesday in Market Depleach. It will be very simple—nothing to upset you—probably be adjourned for a week so that we can make further inquiries.”

  “Oh, I see. Thank you.”

  She stood there staring after him. He wondered whether, even now, she had grasped the fact that she was the principal suspect.

  He hailed a taxi—justifiable expense in view of the piece of information he had just been given over the telephone. Just where that piece of information was leading him, he did not know. On the face of it, it seemed completely irrelevant—crazy. It simply did not make sense. Yet in some way he could not yet see, it must make sense.

  The only inference to be drawn from it was that the case was not quite the simple, straightforward one that he had hit
herto assumed it to be.

  Seventeen

  Sir Henry stared curiously at Inspector Grange.

  He said slowly: “I’m not quite sure that I understand you, Inspector.”

  “It’s quite simple, Sir Henry. I’m asking you to check over your collection of firearms. I presume they are catalogued and indexed?”

  “Naturally. But I have already identified the revolver as part of my collection.”

  “It isn’t quite so simple as that, Sir Henry.” Grange paused a moment. His instincts were always against giving out any information, but his hand was being forced in this particular instance. Sir Henry was a person of importance. He would doubtless comply with the request that was being made to him, but he would also require a reason. The inspector decided that he had got to give him the reason.

  He said quietly:

  “Dr. Christow was not shot with the revolver you identified this morning.”

  Sir Henry’s eyebrows rose.

  “Remarkable!” he said.

  Grange felt vaguely comforted. Remarkable was exactly what he felt himself. He was grateful to Sir Henry for saying so, and equally grateful for his not saying any more. It was as far as they could go at the moment. The thing was remarkable—and beyond that simply did not make sense.

  Sir Henry asked:

  “Have you any reason to believe that the weapon from which the fatal shot was fired comes from my collection?”

  “No reason at all. But I have got to make sure, shall we say, that it doesn’t.”

  Sir Henry nodded his head in confirmation.

  “I appreciate your point. Well, we will get to work. It will take a little time.”

  He opened the desk and took out a leather-bound volume.

  As he opened it he repeated:

  “It will take a little time to check up—”

  Grange’s attention was held by something in his voice. He looked up sharply. Sir Henry’s shoulders sagged a little—he seemed suddenly an older and more tired man.

  Inspector Grange frowned.

  He thought: “Devil if I know what to make of these people down here.”

  “Ah—”

  Grange spun round. His eyes noted the time by the clock, thirty minutes—twenty minutes—since Sir Henry had said, “It will take a little time.”

  Grange said sharply:

  “Yes, sir?”

  “A .38 Smith and Wesson is missing. It was in a brown leather holster and was at the end of the rack in this drawer.”

  “Ah!” The inspector kept his voice calm, but he was excited. “And when, sir, to your certain knowledge, did you last see it in its proper place?”

  Sir Henry reflected for a moment or two.

  “That is not very easy to say, Inspector. I last had this drawer open about a week ago and I think—I am almost certain—that if the revolver had been missing then I should have noticed the gap. But I should not like to swear definitely that I saw it there.”

  Inspector Grange nodded his head.

  “Thank you, sir, I quite understand. Well, I must be getting on with things.”

  He left the room, a busy, purposeful man.

  Sir Henry stood motionless for a while after the inspector had gone, then he went out slowly through the french windows on to the terrace. His wife was busy with a gardening basket and gloves. She was pruning some rare shrubs with a pair of secateurs.

  She waved to him brightly.

  “What did the inspector want? I hope he is not going to worry the servants again. You know, Henry, they don’t like it. They can’t see it as amusing or as a novelty like we do.”

  “Do we see it like that?”

  His tone attracted her attention. She smiled up at him sweetly.

  “How tired you look, Henry. Must you let all this worry you so much?”

  “Murder is worrying, Lucy.”

  Lady Angkatell considered a moment, absently clipping off some branches, then her face clouded over.

  “Oh, dear—that is the worst of secateurs, they are so fascinating—one can’t stop and one always clips off more than one means. What was it you were saying—something about murder being worrying? But really, Henry, I have never seen why. I mean, if one has to die, it may be cancer, or tuberculosis in one of those dreadful bright sanatoriums, or a stroke—horrid, with one’s face all on one side—or else one is shot or stabbed or strangled perhaps. But the whole thing comes to the same in the end. There one is, I mean, dead! Out of it all. And all the worry over. And the relations have all the difficulties—money quarrels and whether to wear black or not—and who was to have Aunt Selina’s writing desk—things like that!”

  Sir Henry sat down on the stone coping. He said:

  “This is all going to be more upsetting than we thought, Lucy.”

  “Well, darling, we shall have to bear it. And when it’s all over we might go away somewhere. Let’s not bother about present troubles but look forward to the future. I really am happy about that. I’ve been wondering whether it would be nice to go to Ainswick for Christmas—or leave it until Easter. What do you think?”

  “Plenty of time to make plans for Christmas.”

  “Yes, but I like to see things in my mind. Easter, perhaps…yes.” Lucy smiled happily. “She will certainly have got over it by then.”

  “Who?” Sir Henry was startled.

  Lady Angkatell said calmly:

  “Henrietta. I think if they were to have the wedding in October—October of next year, I mean, then we could go and stop for that Christmas. I’ve been thinking, Henry—”

  “I wish you wouldn’t, my dear. You think too much.”

  “You know the barn? It will make a perfect studio. And Henrietta will need a studio. She has real talent, you know. Edward, I am sure, will be immensely proud of her. Two boys and a girl would be nice—or two boys and two girls.”

  “Lucy—Lucy! How you run on.”

  “But, darling,” Lady Angkatell opened wide, beautiful eyes. “Edward will never marry anyone but Henrietta. He is very, very obstinate. Rather like my father in that way. He gets an idea in his head! So of course Henrietta must marry him—and she will now that John Christow is out of the way. He was really the greatest misfortune that could possibly have happened to her.”

  “Poor devil!”

  “Why? Oh, you mean because he’s dead? Oh, well, everyone has to die sometime. I never worry over people dying….”

  He looked at her curiously.

  “I always thought you liked Christow, Lucy?”

  “I found him amusing. And he had charm. But I never think one ought to attach too much importance to anybody.”

  And gently, with a smiling face, Lady Angkatell clipped remorselessly at a Viburnum Carlesii.

  Eighteen

  Hercule Poirot looked out of his window and saw Henrietta Savernake walking up the path to the front door. She was wearing the same green tweeds that she had worn on the day of the tragedy. There was a spaniel with her.

  He hastened to the front door and opened it. She stood smiling at him.

  “Can I come in and see your house? I like looking at people’s houses. I’m just taking the dog for a walk.”

  “But most certainly. How English it is to take the dog for a walk!”

  “I know,” said Henrietta. “I thought of that. Do you know that nice poem: ‘The days passed slowly one by one. I fed the ducks, reproved my wife, played Handel’s Largo on the fife and took the dog a run.’”

  Again she smiled, a brilliant, insubstantial smile.

  Poirot ushered her into his sitting room. She looked round its neat and prim arrangement and nodded her head.

  “Nice,” she said, “two of everything. How you would hate my studio.”

  “Why should I hate it?”

  “Oh, a lot of clay sticking to things—and here and there just one thing that I happen to like and which would be ruined if there were two of them.”

  “But I can understand that, Mademoiselle. You are an ar
tist.”

  “Aren’t you an artist, too, M. Poirot?”

  Poirot put his head on one side.

  “It is a question, that. But on the whole I would say, no. I have known crimes that were artistic—they were, you understand, supreme exercises of imagination. But the solving of them—no, it is not the creative power that is needed. What is required is a passion for the truth.”

  “A passion for the truth,” said Henrietta meditatively. “Yes, I can see how dangerous that might make you. Would the truth satisfy you?”

  He looked at her curiously.

  “What do you mean, Miss Savernake?”

  “I can understand that you would want to know. But would knowledge be enough? Would you have to go a step further and translate knowledge into action?”

  He was interested in her approach.

  “You are suggesting that if I knew the truth about Dr. Christow’s death—I might be satisfied to keep that knowledge to myself. Do you know the truth about his death?”

  Henrietta shrugged her shoulders.

  “The obvious answer seems to be Gerda. How cynical it is that a wife or a husband is always the first suspect.”

  “But you do not agree?”

  “I always like to keep an open mind.”

  Poirot said quietly:

  “Why did you come here, Miss Savernake?”

  “I must admit that I haven’t your passion for truth, M. Poirot. Taking the dog for a walk was such a nice English countryside excuse. But of course the Angkatells haven’t got a dog—as you may have noticed the other day.”

  “The fact had not escaped me.”

  “So I borrowed the gardener’s spaniel. I am not, you must understand, M. Poirot, very truthful.”

  Again that brilliant brittle smile flashed out. He wondered why he should suddenly find it unendurably moving. He said quietly:

  “No, but you have integrity.”

  “Why on earth do you say that?”

  She was startled—almost, he thought, dismayed.

  “Because I believe it to be true.”

  “Integrity,” Henrietta repeated thoughtfully. “I wonder what that word really means.”

  She sat very still, staring down at the carpet, then she raised her head and looked at him steadily.