The Hollow

by Agatha Christie

  Henrietta said calmly: “I am telling you the truth. Naturally you don’t believe it. You have your own ideas. What is your idea, by the way?”

  “I am suggesting that you were in the pavilion on Sunday morning after twelve o’clock when Gudgeon brought the glasses out. That you stood by that table watching someone, or waiting for someone, and unconsciously took out a pencil and drew Ygdrasil without being fully aware of what you were doing.”

  “I was not in the pavilion on Sunday morning. I sat out on the terrace for a while, then I got the gardening basket and went up to the dahlia border and cut off heads and tied up some of the Michaelmas daisies that were untidy. Then just on one o’clock I went along to the pool. I’ve been through it all with Inspector Grange. I never came near the pool until one o’clock, just after John had been shot.”

  “That,” said Hercule Poirot, “is your story. But Ygdrasil, Mademoiselle, testifies against you.”

  “I was in the pavilion and I shot John, that’s what you mean?”

  “You were there and you shot Dr. Christow, or you were there and you saw who shot Dr. Christow—or someone else was there who knew about Ygdrasil and deliberately drew it on the table to put suspicion on you.”

  Henrietta got up. She turned on him with her chin lifted.

  “You still think that I shot John Christow. You think that you can prove I shot him. Well, I will tell you this. You will never prove it. Never!”

  “You think that you are cleverer than I am?”

  “You will never prove it,” said Henrietta, and, turning, she walked away down the winding path that led to the swimming pool.

  Twenty-six

  Grange came in to Resthaven to drink a cup of tea with Hercule Poirot. The tea was exactly what he had had apprehensions it might be—extremely weak and China tea at that.

  “These foreigners,” thought Grange, “don’t know how to make tea. You can’t teach ’em.” But he did not mind much. He was in a condition of pessimism when one more thing that was unsatisfactory actually afforded him a kind of grim satisfaction.

  He said: “The adjourned inquest’s the day after tomorrow and where have we got? Nowhere at all. What the hell, that gun must be somewhere! It’s this damned country—miles of woods. It would take an army to search them properly. Talk of a needle in a haystack. It may be anywhere. The fact is, we’ve got to face up to it—we may never find that gun.”

  “You will find it,” said Poirot confidently.

  “Well, it won’t be for want of trying!”

  “You will find it, sooner or later. And I should say sooner. Another cup of tea?”

  “I don’t mind if I do—no, no hot water.”

  “Is it not too strong?”

  “Oh, no, it’s not too strong.” The inspector was conscious of understatement.

  Gloomily he sipped at the pale, straw-coloured beverage.

  “This case is making a monkey of me, M. Poirot—a monkey of me! I can’t get the hang of these people. They seem helpful—but everything they tell you seems to lead you away on a wild-goose chase.”

  “Away?” said Poirot. A startled look came into his eyes. “Yes, I see. Away….”

  The inspector was now developing his grievance.

  “Take the gun now. Christow was shot—according to the medical evidence—only a minute or two before your arrival. Lady Angkatell had that egg basket, Miss Savernake had a gardening basket full of dead flower heads, and Edward Angkatell was wearing a loose shooting coat with large pockets stuffed with cartridges. Any one of them could have carried the revolver away with them. It wasn’t hidden anywhere near the pool—my men have raked the place, so that’s definitely out.”

  Poirot nodded. Grange went on:

  “Gerda Christow was framed—but who by? That’s where every clue I follow seems to vanish into thin air.”

  “Their stories of how they spent the morning are satisfactory?”

  “The stories are all right. Miss Savernake was gardening. Lady Angkatell was collecting eggs. Edward Angkatell and Sir Henry were shooting and separated at the end of the morning—Sir Henry coming back to the house and Edward Angkatell coming down here through the woods. The young fellow was up in his bedroom reading. (Funny place to read on a nice day, but he’s the indoor, bookish kind.) Miss Hardcastle took a book down to the orchard. All sounds very natural and likely, and there’s no means of checking up on it. Gudgeon took a tray of glasses out to the pavilion about twelve o’clock. He can’t say where any of the house party were or what they were doing. In a way, you know, there’s something against almost all of them.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course the most obvious person is Veronica Cray. She had quarrelled with Christow, she hated his guts, she’s quite likely to have shot him—but I can’t find the least iota of proof that she did shoot him. No evidence as to her having had any opportunity to pinch the revolvers from Sir Henry’s collection. No one who saw her going to or from the pool that day. And the missing revolver definitely isn’t in her possession now.”

  “Ah, you have made sure of that?”

  “What do you think? The evidence would have justified a search warrant but there was no need. She was quite gracious about it. It’s not anywhere in that tin-pot bungalow. After the inquest was adjourned we made a show of letting up on Miss Cray and Miss Savernake, and we’ve had a tail on them to see where they went and what they’d do. We’ve had a man on at the film studios watching Veronica—no sign of her trying to ditch the gun there.”

  “And Henrietta Savernake?”

  “Nothing there either. She went straight back to Chelsea and we’ve kept an eye on her ever since. The revolver isn’t in her studio or in her possession. She was quite pleasant about the search—seemed amused. Some of her fancy stuff gave our man quite a turn. He said it beat him why people wanted to do that kind of thing—statues all lumps and swellings, bits of brass and aluminum twisted into fancy shapes, horses that you wouldn’t know were horses.”

  Poirot stirred a little.

  “Horses, you say?”

  “Well, a horse. If you’d call it a horse! If people want to model a horse, why don’t they go and look at a horse!”

  “A horse,” repeated Poirot.

  Grange turned his head.

  “What is there about that that interests you so, M. Poirot? I don’t get it.”

  “Association—a point of the psychology.”

  “Word association? Horse and cart? Rocking horse? Clothes horse. No, I don’t get it. Anyway, after a day or two, Miss Savernake packs up and comes down here again. You know that?”

  “Yes, I have talked with her and I have seen her walking in the woods.”

  “Restless, yes. Well, she was having an affair with the doctor all right, and his saying: ‘Henrietta’ as he died is pretty near to an accusation. But it’s not quite near enough, M. Poirot.”

  “No,” said Poirot thoughtfully, “it is not near enough.”

  Grange said heavily:

  “There’s something in the atmosphere here—it gets you all tangled up! It’s as though they all knew something. Lady Angkatell now—she’s never been able to put out a decent reason why she took out a gun with her that day. It’s a crazy thing to do—sometimes I think she is crazy.”

  Poirot shook his head very gently.

  “No,” he said, “she is not crazy.”

  “Then there’s Edward Angkatell. I thought I was getting something on him. Lady Angkatell said—no, hinted—that he’d been in love with Miss Savernake for years. Well, that gives him a motive. And now I find it’s the other girl—Miss Hardcastle—that he’s engaged to. So bang goes the case against him.”

  Poirot gave a sympathetic murmur.

  “Then there’s the young fellow,” pursued the inspector. “Lady Angkatell let slip something about him. His mother, it seems, died in an asylum—persecution mania—thought everybody was conspiring to kill her. Well, you can see what that might mean. If the boy had inheri
ted that particular strain of insanity, he might have got ideas into his head about Dr. Christow—might have fancied the doctor was planning to certify him. Not that Christow was that kind of doctor. Nervous affections of the alimentary canal and diseases of the super—super something. That was Christow’s line. But if the boy was a bit touched, he might imagine Christow was here to keep him under observation. He’s got an extraordinary manner, that young fellow, nervous as a cat.”

  Grange sat unhappily for a moment or two.

  “You see what I mean? All vague suspicions, leading nowhere.”

  Poirot stirred again. He murmured softly:

  “Away—not towards. From, not to. Nowhere instead of somewhere… Yes, of course, that must be it.”

  Grange stared at him. He said:

  “They’re queer, all these Angkatells. I’d swear, sometimes, that they know all about it.”

  Poirot said quietly:

  “They do.”

  “You mean, they know, all of them, who did it?” the inspector asked incredulously.

  Poirot nodded.

  “Yes, they know. I have thought so for some time. I am quite sure now.”

  “I see.” The inspector’s face was grim. “And they’re hiding it up between them? Well, I’ll beat them yet. I’m going to find that gun.”

  It was, Poirot reflected, quite the inspector’s theme song.

  Grange went on with rancour:

  “I’d give anything to get even with them.”

  “With—”

  “All of them! Muddling me up! Suggesting things! Hinting! Helping my men—helping them! All gossamer and spiders’ webs, nothing tangible. What I want is a good solid fact!”

  Hercule Poirot had been staring out of the window for some moments. His eye had been attracted by an irregularity in the symmetry of his domain.

  He said now:

  “You want a solid fact? Eh bien, unless I am much mistaken, there is a solid fact in the hedge by my gate.”

  They went down the garden path. Grange went down on his knees, coaxed the twigs apart till he disclosed more fully the thing that had been thrust between them. He drew a deep sigh as something black and steel was revealed.

  He said: “It’s a revolver all right.”

  Just for a moment his eye rested doubtfully on Poirot.

  “No, no, my friend,” said Poirot. “I did not shoot Dr. Christow and I did not put the revolver in my own hedge.”

  “Of course you didn’t, M. Poirot! Sorry! Well, we’ve got it. Looks like the one missing from Sir Henry’s study. We can verify that as soon as we get the number. Then we’ll see if it was the gun that shot Christow. Easy does it now.”

  With infinite care and the use of a silk handkerchief he eased the gun out of the hedge.

  “To give us a break, we want fingerprints. I’ve a feeling, you know, that our luck’s changed at last.”

  “Let me know.”

  “Of course I will, M. Poirot. I’ll ring you up.”

  Poirot received two telephone calls. The first came through that same evening. The inspector was jubilant.

  “That you, M. Poirot? Well, here’s the dope. It’s the gun all right. The gun missing from Sir Henry’s collection and the gun that shot John Christow! That’s definite. And there are a good set of prints on it. Thumb, first finger, part of middle finger. Didn’t I tell you our luck had changed?”

  “You have identified the fingerprints?”

  “Not yet. They’re certainly not Mrs. Christow’s. We took hers. They look more like a man’s than a woman’s for size. Tomorrow I’m going along to The Hollow to speak my little piece and get a sample from everyone. And then, M. Poirot, we shall know where we are!”

  “I hope so, I am sure,” said Poirot politely.

  The second telephone call came through on the following day and the voice that spoke was no longer jubilant. In tones of unmitigated gloom, Grange said:

  “Want to hear the latest? Those fingerprints aren’t the prints of anybody connected with the case! No, sir! They’re not Edward Angkatell’s, nor David’s, nor Sir Henry’s! They’re not Gerda Christow’s, nor the Savernake’s, nor our Veronica’s, nor her ladyship’s, nor the little dark girl’s! They’re not even the kitchen maid’s—let alone any of the other servants’!”

  Poirot made consoling noises. The sad voice of Inspector Grange went on:

  “So it looks as though, after all, it was an outside job. Someone, that is to say, who had a down on Dr. Christow and who we don’t know anything about. Someone invisible and inaudible who pinched the guns from the study, and who went away after the shooting by the path to the lane. Someone who put the gun in your hedge and then vanished into thin air!”

  “Would you like my fingerprints, my friend?”

  “I don’t mind if I do! It strikes me, M. Poirot, that you were on the spot, and that taking it all round you’re far and away the most suspicious character in the case!”

  Twenty-seven

  I

  The coroner cleared his throat and looked expectantly at the foreman of the jury.

  The latter looked down at the piece of paper he held in his hand. His Adam’s apple wagged up and down excitedly. He read out in a careful voice:

  “We find that the deceased came to his death by wilful murder by some person or persons unknown.”

  Poirot nodded his head quietly in his corner by the wall. There could be no other possible verdict.

  Outside the Angkatells stopped a moment to talk to Gerda and her sister. Gerda was wearing the same black clothes. Her face had the same dazed, unhappy expression. This time there was no Daimler. The train service, Elsie Patterson explained, was really very good. A fast train to Waterloo and they could easily catch the 1:20 to Bexhill.

  Lady Angkatell, clasping Gerda’s hand, murmured:

  “You must keep in touch with us, my dear. A little lunch, perhaps, one day in London? I expect you come up to do shopping occasionally.”

  “I—I don’t know,” said Gerda.

  Elsie Patterson said:

  “We must hurry, dear, our train,” and Gerda turned away with an expression of relief.

  Midge said:

  “Poor Gerda. The only thing John’s death has done for her is to set her free from your terrifying hospitality, Lucy.”

  “How unkind you are, Midge. Nobody could say I didn’t try.”

  “You are much worse when you try, Lucy.”

  “Well, it’s very nice to think it’s all over, isn’t it?” said Lady Angkatell, beaming at them. “Except, of course, for poor Inspector Grange. I do feel so sorry for him. Would it cheer him up, do you think, if we asked him back to lunch? As a friend, I mean.”

  “I should let well alone, Lucy,” said Sir Henry.

  “Perhaps you are right,” said Lady Angkatell meditatively. “And anyway it isn’t the right kind of lunch today. Partridges au Choux—and that delicious Soufflé Surprise that Mrs. Medway makes so well. Not at all Inspector Grange’s kind of lunch. A really good steak, a little underdone, and a good old-fashioned apple tart with no nonsense about it—or perhaps apple dumplings—that’s what I should order for Inspector Grange.”

  “Your instincts about food are always very sound, Lucy. I think we had better get home to those partridges. They sound delicious.”

  “Well, I thought we ought to have some celebration. It’s wonderful, isn’t it, how everything always seems to turn out for the best?”

  “Ye-es.”

  “I know what you’re thinking, Henry, but don’t worry. I shall attend to it this afternoon.”

  “What are you up to now, Lucy?”

  Lady Angkatell smiled at him.

  “It’s quite all right, darling. Just tucking in a loose end.”

  Sir Henry looked at her doubtfully.

  When they reached The Hollow, Gudgeon came out to open the door of the car.

  “Everything went off very satisfactorily, Gudgeon,” said Lady Angkatell. “Please tell Mrs. Medway a
nd the others. I know how unpleasant it has been for you all, and I should like to tell you now how much Sir Henry and I have appreciated the loyalty you have all shown.”

  “We have been deeply concerned for you, my lady,” said Gudgeon.

  “Very sweet of Gudgeon,” said Lucy as she went into the drawing room, “but really quite wasted. I have really almost enjoyed it all—so different, you know, from what one is accustomed to. Don’t you feel, David, that an experience like this has broadened your mind? It must be so different from Cambridge.”

  “I am at Oxford,” said David coldly.

  Lady Angkatell said vaguely: “The dear Boat Race. So English, don’t you think?” and went towards the telephone.

  She picked up the receiver and, holding it in her hand, she went on:

  “I do hope, David, that you will come and stay with us again. It’s so difficult, isn’t it, to get to know people when there is a murder? And quite impossible to have any really intellectual conversation.”

  “Thank you,” said David. “But when I come down I am going to Athens—to the British School.”

  Lady Angkatell turned to her husband.

  “Who’s got the Embassy now? Oh, of course. Hope-Remmington. No, I don’t think David would like them. Those girls of theirs are so terribly hearty. They play hockey and cricket and the funny game where you catch the thing in a net.”

  She broke off, looking down at the telephone receiver.

  “Now, what am I doing with this thing?”

  “Perhaps you were going to ring someone up,” said Edward.

  “I don’t think so.” She replaced it. “Do you like telephones, David?”

  It was the sort of question, David reflected irritably, that she would ask; one to which there could be no intelligent answer. He replied coldly that he supposed they were useful.

  “You mean,” said Lady Angkatell, “like mincing machines? Or elastic bands? All the same, one wouldn’t—”

  She broke off as Gudgeon appeared in the doorway to announce lunch.

  “But you like partridges,” said Lady Angkatell to David anxiously.