The Hollow

by Agatha Christie

  “Henry.”

  “My dear Lucy! It’s not cockcrow yet.”

  “No, but listen, Henry, this is really important. We must have electricity installed to cook by and get rid of that gas stove.”

  “Why, it’s quite satisfactory, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, yes, dear. But it’s the sort of thing that gives people ideas, and everybody mightn’t be as practical as dear Midge.”

  She flitted elusively away. Sir Henry turned over with a grunt. Presently he awoke with a start just as he was dozing off. “Did I dream it,” he murmured, “or did Lucy come in and start talking about gas stoves?”

  Outside in the passage, Lady Angkatell went into the bathroom and put a kettle on the gas ring. Sometimes, she knew, people liked an early cup of tea. Fired with self-approval, she returned to bed and lay back on her pillows, pleased with life and with herself.

  Edward and Midge at Ainswick—the inquest over. She would go and talk to M. Poirot again. A nice little man….

  Suddenly another idea flashed into her head. She sat upright in bed. “I wonder now,” she speculated, “if she has thought of that.”

  She got out of bed and drifted along the passage to Henrietta’s room, beginning her remarks as usual long before she was within earshot.

  “—and it suddenly came to me, dear, that you might have overlooked that.”

  Henrietta murmured sleepily: “For heaven’s sake, Lucy, the birds aren’t up yet!”

  “Oh, I know, dear, it is rather early, but it seems to have been a very disturbed night—Edward and the gas stove and Midge and the kitchen window—and thinking of what to say to M. Poirot and everything—”

  “I’m sorry, Lucy, but everything you say sounds like complete gibberish. Can’t it wait?”

  “It was only the holster, dear. I thought, you know, that you might not have thought about the holster.”

  “Holster?” Henrietta sat up in bed. She was suddenly wide awake. “What’s this about a holster?”

  “That revolver of Henry’s was in a holster, you know. And the holster hasn’t been found. And of course nobody may think of it—but on the other hand somebody might—”

  Henrietta swung herself out of bed. She said:

  “One always forgets something—that’s what they say! And it’s true!”

  Lady Angkatell went back to her room.

  She got into bed and quickly went fast asleep.

  The kettle on the gas ring boiled and went on boiling.

  Twenty-nine

  Gerda rolled over to the side of the bed and sat up.

  Her head felt a little better now but she was still glad that she hadn’t gone with the others on the picnic. It was peaceful and almost comforting to be alone in the house for a bit.

  Elsie, of course, had been very kind—very kind—especially at first. To begin with, Gerda had been urged to stay in bed for breakfast, trays had been brought up to her. Everybody urged her to sit in the most comfortable armchair, to put her feet up, not to do anything at all strenuous.

  They were all so sorry for her about John. She had stayed cowering gratefully in that protective dim haze. She hadn’t wanted to think, or to feel, or to remember.

  But now, every day, she felt it coming nearer—she’d have to start living again, to decide what to do, where to live. Already Elsie was showing a shade of impatience in her manner. “Oh, Gerda, don’t be so slow!”

  It was all the same as it had been—long ago, before John came and took her away. They all thought her slow and stupid. There was nobody to say, as John had said: “I’ll look after you.”

  Her head ached and Gerda thought: “I’ll make myself some tea.”

  She went down to the kitchen and put the kettle on. It was nearly boiling when she heard a ring at the front door.

  The maids had been given the day out. Gerda went to the door and opened it. She was astonished to see Henrietta’s rakish-looking car drawn up to the kerb and Henrietta herself standing on the doorstep.

  “Why, Henrietta!” she exclaimed. She fell back a step or two. “Come in. I’m afraid my sister and the children are out but—”

  Henrietta cut her short. “Good, I’m glad. I wanted to get you alone. Listen, Gerda, what did you do with the holster?”

  Gerda stopped. Her eyes looked suddenly vacant and uncomprehending. She said: “Holster?”

  Then she opened a door on the right of the hall.

  “You’d better come in here. I’m afraid it’s rather dusty. You see, we haven’t had much time this morning.”

  Henrietta interrupted again urgently.

  She said: “Listen, Gerda, you’ve got to tell me. Apart from the holster everything’s all right—absolutely watertight. There’s nothing to connect you with the business. I found the revolver where you’d shoved it into that thicket by the pool. I hid it in a place where you couldn’t possibly have put it—and there are fingerprints on it which they’ll never identify. So there’s only the holster. I must know what you did with that?”

  She paused, praying desperately that Gerda would react quickly.

  She had no idea why she had this vital sense of urgency, but it was there. Her car had not been followed—she had made sure of that. She had started on the London road, had filled up at a garage and had mentioned that she was on her way to London. Then, a little farther on, she had swung across country until she had reached a main road leading south to the coast.

  Gerda was still staring at her. The trouble with Gerda, thought Henrietta, was that she was so slow.

  “If you’ve still got it, Gerda, you must give it to me. I’ll get rid of it somehow. It’s the only possible thing, you see, that can connect you now with John’s death. Have you got it?”

  There was a pause and then Gerda slowly nodded her head.

  “Didn’t you know it was madness to keep it?” Henrietta could hardly conceal her impatience.

  “I forgot about it. It was up in my room.”

  She added: “When the police came up to Harley Street I cut it in pieces and put it in the bag with my leather work.”

  Henrietta said: “That was clever of you.”

  Gerda said: “I’m not quite so stupid as everybody thinks.” She put her hand up to her throat. She said: “John—John!” Her voice broke.

  Henrietta said: “I know, my dear, I know.”

  Gerda said: “But you can’t know…John wasn’t—he wasn’t—” She stood there, dumb and strangely pathetic. She raised her eyes suddenly to Henrietta’s face. “It was all a lie—everything! All the things I thought he was. I saw his face when he followed that woman out that evening. Veronica Cray. I knew he’d cared for her, of course, years ago before he married me, but I thought it was all over.”

  Henrietta said gently:

  “But it was all over.”

  Gerda shook her head.

  “No. She came there and pretended that she hadn’t seen John for years—but I saw John’s face. He went out with her. I went up to bed. I lay there trying to read—I tried to read that detective story that John was reading. And John didn’t come. And at last I went out….”

  Her eyes seemed to be turning inwards, seeing the scene.

  “It was moonlight. I went along the path to the swimming pool. There was a light in the pavilion. They were there—John and that woman.”

  Henrietta made a faint sound.

  Gerda’s face had changed. It had none of its usual slightly vacant amiability. It was remorseless, implacable.

  “I’d trusted John. I’d believed in him—as though he were God. I thought he was the noblest man in the world. I thought he was everything that was fine and noble. And it was all a lie! I was left with nothing at all. I—I’d worshipped John!”

  Henrietta was gazing at her fascinated. For here, before her eyes, was what she had guessed at and brought to life, carving it out of wood. Here was The Worshipper. Blind devotion thrown back on itself, disillusioned, dangerous.

  Gerda said: “I couldn’t be
ar it! I had to kill him! I had to—you do see that, Henrietta?”

  She said it quite conversationally, in an almost friendly tone.

  “And I knew I must be careful because the police are very clever. But then I’m not really as stupid as people think! If you’re very slow and just stare, people think you don’t take things in—and sometimes, underneath, you’re laughing at them! I knew I could kill John and nobody would know because I’d read in that detective story about the police being able to tell which gun a bullet has been fired from. Sir Henry had shown me how to load and fire a revolver that afternoon. I’d take two revolvers. I’d shoot John with one and then hide it, and let people find me holding the other, and first they’d think I’d shot him and then they’d find he couldn’t have been killed with that revolver and so they’d say I hadn’t done it after all!”

  She nodded her head triumphantly.

  “But I forgot about the leather thing. It was in the drawer in my bedroom. What do you call it, a holster? Surely the police won’t bother about that now!”

  “They might,” said Henrietta. “You’d better give it to me, and I’ll take it away with me. Once it’s out of your hands, you’re quite safe.”

  She sat down. She felt suddenly unutterably weary.

  Gerda said: “You don’t look well. I was just making tea.”

  She went out of the room. Presently she came back with a tray. On it was a teapot, milk jug and two cups. The milk jug had slopped over because it was over-full. Gerda put the tray down and poured out a cup of tea and handed it to Henrietta.

  “Oh, dear,” she said, dismayed, “I don’t believe the kettle can have been boiling.”

  “It’s quite all right,” said Henrietta. “Go and get that holster, Gerda.”

  Gerda hesitated and then went out of the room. Henrietta leant forward and put her arms on the table and her head down on them. She was so tired, so dreadfully tired. But now it was nearly done. Gerda would be safe, as John had wanted her to be safe.

  She sat up, pushed the hair off her forehead and drew the teacup towards her. Then at a sound in the doorway she looked up. Gerda had been quite quick for once.

  But it was Hercule Poirot who stood in the doorway.

  “The front door was open,” he remarked as he advanced to the table, “so I took the liberty of walking in.”

  “You!” said Henrietta. “How did you get here?”

  “When you left The Hollow so suddenly, naturally I knew where you would go. I hired a very fast car and came straight here.”

  “I see.” Henrietta sighed. “You would.”

  “You should not drink that tea,” said Poirot, taking the cup from her and replacing it on the tray. “Tea that has not been made with boiling water is not good to drink.”

  “Does a little thing like boiling water really matter?”

  Poirot said gently: “Everything matters.”

  There was a sound behind him and Gerda came into the room. She had a workbag in her hands. Her eyes went from Poirot’s face to Henrietta’s.

  Henrietta said quickly:

  “I’m afraid, Gerda, I’m rather a suspicious character. M. Poirot seems to have been shadowing me. He thinks that I killed John—but he can’t prove it.”

  She spoke slowly and deliberately. So long as Gerda did not give herself away.

  Gerda said vaguely: “I’m so sorry. Will you have some tea, M. Poirot?”

  “No, thank you, Madame.”

  Gerda sat down behind the tray. She began to talk in her apologetic, conversational way.

  “I’m so sorry that everybody is out. My sister and the children have all gone for a picnic. I didn’t feel very well, so they left me behind.”

  “I am sorry, Madame.”

  Gerda lifted a teacup and drank.

  “It is all so very worrying. Everything is so worrying. You see, John always arranged everything and now John is gone…” Her voice tailed off. “Now John is gone.”

  Her gaze, piteous, bewildered, went from one to the other.

  “I don’t know what to do without John. John looked after me. He took care of me. Now he is gone, everything is gone. And the children—they ask me questions and I can’t answer them properly. I don’t know what to say to Terry. He keeps saying: ‘Why was Father killed?’ Some day, of course, he will find out why. Terry always has to know. What puzzles me is that he always asks why, not who!”

  Gerda leaned back in her chair. Her lips were very blue.

  She said stiffly:

  “I feel—not very well—if John—John—”

  Poirot came round the table to her and eased her sideways down in the chair. Her head dropped forward. He bent and lifted her eyelid. Then he straightened up.

  “An easy and comparatively painless death.”

  Henrietta stared at him.

  “Heart? No.” Her mind leaped forward. “Something in the tea. Something she put there herself. She chose that way out?”

  Poirot shook his head gently.

  “Oh, no, it was meant for you. It was in your teacup.”

  “For me?” Henrietta’s voice was incredulous. “But I was trying to help her.”

  “That did not matter. Have you not seen a dog caught in a trap—it sets its teeth into anyone who touches it. She saw only that you knew her secret and so you, too, must die.”

  Henrietta said slowly:

  “And you made me put the cup back on the tray—you meant—you meant her—”

  Poirot interrupted her quietly:

  “No, no, Mademoiselle. I did not know that there was anything in your teacup. I only knew that there might be. And when the cup was on the tray it was an even chance if she drank from that or the other—if you call it chance. I say myself that an end such as this is merciful. For her—and for two innocent children.”

  He said gently to Henrietta: “You are very tired, are you not?”

  She nodded. She asked him: “When did you guess?”

  “I do not know exactly. The scene was set; I felt that from the first. But I did not realize for a long time that it was set by Gerda Christow—that her attitude was stagey because she was, actually, acting a part. I was puzzled by the simplicity and at the same time the complexity. I recognized fairly soon that it was your ingenuity that I was fighting against, and that you were being aided and abetted by your relations as soon as they understood what you wanted done!” He paused and added: “Why did you want it done?”

  “Because John asked me to! That’s what he meant when he said ‘Henrietta.’ It was all there in that one word. He was asking me to protect Gerda. You see, he loved Gerda. I think he loved Gerda much better than he ever knew he did. Better than Veronica Cray. Better than me. Gerda belonged to him, and John liked things that belonged to him. He knew that if anyone could protect Gerda from the consequences of what she’d done, I could. And he knew that I would do anything he wanted, because I loved him.”

  “And you started at once,” said Poirot grimly.

  “Yes, the first thing I could think of was to get the revolver away from her and drop it in the pool. That would obscure the fingerprint business. When I discovered later that he had been shot with a different gun, I went out to look for it, and naturally found it at once because I knew just the sort of place Gerda would have put it. I was only a minute or two ahead of Inspector Grange’s men.”

  She paused and then went on: “I kept it with me in that satchel bag of mine until I could take it up to London. Then I hid it in the studio until I could bring it back, and put it where the police would not find it.”

  “The clay horse,” murmured Poirot.

  “How did you know? Yes, I put it in a sponge bag and wired the armature round it, and then slapped up the clay model round it. After all, the police couldn’t very well destroy an artist’s masterpiece, could they? What made you know where it was?”

  “The fact that you chose to model a horse. The horse of Troy was the unconscious association in your mind. But the fingerpr
ints—how did you manage the fingerprints?”

  “An old blind man who sells matches in the street. He didn’t know what it was I asked him to hold for a moment while I got some money out!”

  Poirot looked at her for a moment.

  “C’est formidable!” he murmured. “You are one of the best antagonists, Mademoiselle, that I have ever had.”

  “It’s been dreadfully tiring always trying to keep one move ahead of you!”

  “I know. I began to realize the truth as soon as I saw that the pattern was always designed not to implicate any one person but to implicate everyone—other than Gerda Christow. Every indication always pointed away from her. You deliberately planted Ygdrasil to catch my attention and bring yourself under suspicion. Lady Angkatell, who knew perfectly what you were doing, amused herself by leading poor Inspector Grange in one direction after another. David, Edward, herself.

  “Yes, there is only one thing to do if you want to clear a person from suspicion who is actually guilty. You must suggest guilt elsewhere but never localize it. That is why every clue looked promising and then petered out and ended in nothing.”

  Henrietta looked at the figure huddled pathetically in the chair. She said: “Poor Gerda.”

  “Is that what you have felt all along?”

  “I think so. Gerda loved John terribly, but she didn’t want to love him for what he was. She built up a pedestal for him and attributed every splendid and noble and unselfish characteristic to him. And if you cast down an idol, there’s nothing left.” She paused and then went on: “But John was something much finer than an idol on a pedestal. He was a real, living, vital human being. He was generous and warm and alive, and he was a great doctor—yes, a great doctor. And he’s dead, and the world has lost a very great man. And I have lost the only man I shall ever love.”

  Poirot put his hand gently on her shoulder. He said:

  “But you are one of those who can live with a sword in their hearts—who can go on and smile—”

  Henrietta looked up at him. Her lips twisted into a bitter smile.

  “That’s a little melodramatic, isn’t it?”

  “It is because I am a foreigner and I like to use fine words.”