‘So you don’t know what Cecil wanted to tell you?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ll never know. He’d arrived at the weekend, and on the Sunday he took me on one side and said he had something very important to talk to me about. But Robert made sure we were never alone together, and then … and then …’ She began to sob, pulling out an embroidered handkerchief, dabbing at her eyes. ‘He was like a friend to me. And now he’s gone. And I know it’s something to do with me.’
She was still sobbing when the green baize door was quietly pushed open. Arthur was standing there. ‘Forgive me,’ he began. ‘I came to do some work on the painting.’
‘Miss Holgate has been very kind.’ Agatha got to her feet. ‘But I ought to be going.’
The young woman dried her tears. ‘I’ve got work to do too. The vicar wanted his sermon typed up and I’ve only just begun.’
‘Come and see the painting.’ Arthur smiled at Agatha.
After assurances from Gwendoline that she was all right, really, Agatha followed Arthur out into the kitchen corridor. He led the way out to the garden door, through the vegetable patch, and out to an outbuilding.
‘Rather of a compromise, keeping the painting here, but the vicar assures me he’ll hang it properly as soon as I’ve finished.’ He pushed the door open.
Agatha’s eyes adjusted to the gloom.
‘They say there were soldiers housed here on manoeuvres,’ Arthur said. ‘Not sure I believe it myself.’
Agatha saw a high-ceilinged, barn-like space with a smooth wood floor and windows all around the upper edge. Large hulks of farm machinery lurked in the shadows, some covered by rough tarpaulins. A shaft of sunlight cut through the gloom, a beam of light across the old wood floor, illuminating a large gold frame at the end of the space.
They approached the painting.
‘You won’t see much,’ Arthur said. ‘It’s been very badly damaged, and the paint is very dark. It’s a portrait of a man, probably from about 1530, maybe a bit later.’
Agatha looked. The whole painting appeared as a cracked, faded veneer. But the edge of the man’s face was illumined, and the collar of his coat had a few patches of a bright, rust-red colour. His eyes shone expressively, although as Agatha peered closer she could see it was a clever arrangement of white pigment in the midst of dark brown.
‘It must be him,’ Arthur was saying. ‘So gifted. The attention to detail … The vicar thinks so too. The vicar’s hoping it will show one of the saints, but I’m sure this is a secular creation.’
‘An act of faith,’ Agatha said. ‘Of believing in one’s art.’ She stared at the painting.
‘Not necessarily. They did as they were told. Just as we do,’ he said.
A rustling above them interrupted their conversation. ‘Bats,’ Arthur said. ‘I’m keeping them off this end of the building. You can see why I want to get this into the church sharpish.’
He bent to the painting. He picked up a tool, a tiny scalpel, and began to scrape away at one edge of it. ‘Personally I’d rather this was a society portrait,’ he said. ‘Any faith I had, I rather lost it in these last few years.’
‘Were you …?’ Agatha hesitated.
‘The fields of Flanders,’ he said. ‘Not a place to sustain any belief in a God who loves us. What about you?’
‘My husband …’ she began. ‘He fought, yes.’
‘You’re lucky he survived.’ Arthur put down the scalpel and chose another.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I suppose I am.’
‘I have felt burdened, at times,’ he said. ‘The souls of the departed …’ The instrument scraped rhythmically against the aged layers.
‘I’m going to a séance,’ Agatha said. ‘Tomorrow.’
‘That Russian woman? I heard them talking about her at the Hare and Hounds.’
‘My friend Mary insisted …’ She saw the red of the coat begin to emerge. She wondered why she’d felt moved to confide in Arthur about her spiritualism.
‘False comfort,’ he said. ‘It’s bad enough, grief, without being told lies about the hereafter.’
Agatha turned to him. ‘I don’t think Mme. Litvinoff thinks it’s lies,’ she said.
‘Even if she means well –’ He put down the scalpel. ‘It’s wrong to give people false hope.’
Agatha took a step back. ‘It will be very beautiful,’ she said. ‘When you’ve finished your work.’
He smiled. ‘I hope so.’
‘I really have to go,’ she said. Agatha found she was feeling faint, whether from the stale air in the barn or the lack of lunch, she wasn’t sure.
‘Do let me show you out,’ he said.
They walked back into the house, and out into the hall.
‘I wouldn’t worry too much about Miss Holgate,’ Arthur said. ‘I think she feels all this more keenly than she needs. And anyway, she has Robert to look after her. He’s a good man.’
Agatha nodded.
‘And do come back and see the painting. Whenever you like.’
There were thanks and goodbyes and then she was outside.
It had clouded over and the air was humid. Agatha walked away from the vicarage with a sense of heaviness.
Ahead of her, there was shouting. A woman’s voice. She rounded the corner to see Bertha Wilkins, striding along the main street, shouting, apparently to no one in particular.
‘He’ll have asked her to marry him,’ she was saying. Her voice was loud and hoarse. ‘Cecil will have asked Phoebe to marry him. Fat lot of good it’ll do her now …’ Her words were followed by a cackle of laughter.
‘Miss Wilkins …’ Agatha approached her.
Bertha glared up at her from under the black rim of her bonnet. A stray lock of hair blew across her face in the sticky breeze, and she brushed it away.
‘What do you want?’ She stared angrily at Agatha. ‘You come to ask me nosy questions too?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘Well, then, you can leave me alone, can’t you.’
A cyclist came down the hill fast, and narrowly missed her, shouting warnings as he passed.
‘Miss Wilkins, please –’ Agatha took hold of her arm.
She snatched her hand away. ‘Don’t you touch me.’ She laughed, a harsh, mirthless laugh. ‘You don’t know where I’ve been.’ She turned, suddenly, and ran off, leaving the path, taking the path across the rain-soaked fields.
Agatha watched her go.
It was time to stop, she thought. It was time to retreat from these events at the vicarage.
She wondered what her husband would make of all this. He too would advise her to keep a distance. ‘Village politics,’ he’d always say, with a tone of disdain. ‘We’re not born to all that.’ Perhaps he’d say the same of murder, hiding behind his newspaper as he always seemed to do these days.
He’s right, of course. I will go back home. I will have something to eat. And then I will go back to my desk and stay there.
In her mind was the image of a woman in black, standing by a gravestone. The strange woman who lives alone at the edge of the village, troubled by the souls of the departed. I shall call her Dorothea.
Agatha hurried towards her home. She had a sense of the story emerging, tugging at her, waiting for her to put pen to paper.
Chapter Seven
Inspector Jerome followed Dorothea along the pathway by the cemetery. It was raining, and he was not in a good mood. He’d encountered the elder Miss Flowers only ten minutes before, and he so wanted to ask after her younger sister, Bunty
A ringing at the doorbell made Agatha put down her pen with a sigh. The rain she’d been writing was echoed by the real morning rain which now hammered against the windows. She wondered about pretending to be out, but the dogs were barking, and Alice was nowhere to be seen, and so she dragged herself to the front door.
It was Sylvia. She seemed to be struggling to speak.
‘I’m working,’ Agatha said, before she could say anything.
<
br /> Mrs. Ettridge looked terrible, ashen-faced, her hair awry, bare headed, not even wearing gloves.
‘What is it?’ Agatha was aware of a rising sense of anxiety.
‘She’s dead.’ Sylvia’s voice was barely audible.
‘Dead? Who’s dead?’
‘Phoebe.’ The name was almost lost in a sob.
Agatha stood to one side, gestured to her neighbour to follow her. She pulled up a chair in the hall, and sat down next to her.
‘They found her this morning,’ Sylvia said. ‘Her mother’s beside herself. Been looking all night, she didn’t come home, most out of character, they’ve been searching the village. They found her in the little summerhouse behind the graveyard, just lying there. Same thing.’ Her voice was shaking.
‘Same thing?’
‘Poisoned.’
The shock of this word was followed by silence.
‘Who found her?’ Agatha asked, after a moment.
Sylvia composed herself, settled her voice. ‘Well, that’s the very peculiar thing. Miss Holgate found her. She led the police to her. She was the last person to see her alive, it seems. And when the police questioned her, she said, they’d been together, last night, in the old summerhouse. Of course she’s very, very upset. Robert is trying to console her, but there’s a limit to what the poor man can do. Between you and me, I’m wondering whether to advise him to keep a bit of a distance.’ She rummaged in her pockets and produced a pair of gloves, which she proceeded to snap firmly on to her elegant fingers. ‘And Miss Wilkins is nowhere to be found either,’ Sylvia added, her voice now firm.
Agatha could hear the echo, in her mind, of a raucous laugh. A woman in black, fleeing across muddy fields.
‘The village is swarming with police,’ Sylvia was saying. The colour had returned to her cheeks. ‘I told them that nothing would be too much trouble, and all they have to do is ask. I offered your services too,’ she added, getting to her feet.
Reluctantly, Agatha took her coat from the stand in the hall. The humid, cloudy weather had persisted, and once again she felt burdened with a sense of dread.
*
The swarm of police turned out to be two. The sergeant looked familiar, from his place outside the vicarage. But with him stood a large, dapper man, with a bowler hat and a cane. ‘Inspector Mallatratt,’ he boomed, approaching with outstretched hand. ‘You must be Mrs. Christie.’
‘She is,’ Sylvia interjected.
‘I read your latest,’ he was saying. ‘I have a few points to make, although of course, now is not the time. But procedurally, there are just a few things I’d put right if I were you. For a start, the way we work as a team … Ah, Sergeant,’ he said, as a third man approached him. ‘Any sign at Miss Wilkins’ residence?’
‘Not a thing, Sir. Bed not been slept in.’
Agatha thought about the evening before, the dusk settling across the fields, Bertha’s white-faced rage.
Sylvia adjusted her hat on her head. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Poor Bertha. I mean, we all of us want to kill people at times. But to actually do it …’ She gave a brisk sigh.
The Inspector threw her a sharp look. ‘Innocent until proven guilty, Madam,’ he said. ‘That’s the British way.’
‘Of course, Inspector.’
‘As Mrs. Christie here knows all too well. You get that part of it right, I’ll give you that.’ He nodded towards Agatha.
It appeared to be praise. She gave him a brief smile of acknowledgement.
‘We must get on,’ Inspector Mallatratt said. ‘If you hear anything, you’ll tip us the wink, won’t you?’
‘Oh yes,’ Sylvia said with enthusiasm.
‘I may be a Londoner, but I know what these English villages are like. Everyone knows everyone, eh?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Sylvia said, again.
With a formal click of his heels he was gone, following his sergeant up the hill towards the Miss Wilkins’ house.
‘Well.’ Sylvia’s gaze followed him. ‘We’ll just have to wait for news.’ She eyed her friend. ‘You’d have thought he’d have managed to be more polite about your writing. Manners go a long way, that’s what I was always told.’ She tucked a stray lock of hair under her hat. ‘Oh well. Better get back. I was half-way through a batch of pastry.’ She strode away up the high street.
The sky had cleared, with patches of blue promising an end to the rain, a sense of spring in the air again.
Agatha found herself thinking of her story, of Inspector Jerome and his rather clumsy questioning of poor Dorothea Child. She felt uneasy, as if her work was somehow out of place now, in the midst of these events.
A real death. Two, now. And both poisoned.
She took the lane away from the village towards home.
There was a shout from behind her.
‘Mrs. Christie.’ She turned to see Arthur approaching. At least, it looked like Arthur. His face was streaming with tears.
‘You’ve heard?’ His voice was rough with weeping. ‘Phoebe.’ The name was choked in his throat. ‘I can’t believe it. I can’t believe anything like that could have happened to her. The two of them, Miss Holgate and dear Phoebe happily at supper, and then she dies like that … How could it have happened? How?’ His eyes were dark with tears. ‘Last week, she and I …’ He turned to her again. ‘I thought she was my future,’ he said. ‘I know it sounds hopelessly romantic, but I thought …’ His words tailed away.
She placed a maternal hand on his arm. ‘It’s terrible news,’ she said.
He looked at her, through tears. ‘Village life,’ he said, with sudden viciousness. ‘I should never have left the city. This hope of a new start, that house I would have called my home, damned before I even had a chance …’ He dashed at his tears with his hand. ‘I’m sorry …’
‘No need to be sorry,’ she said, gently.
‘Men aren’t supposed to weep,’ he said.
‘Oh, I think the rules have changed,’ she said. ‘I think the War changed all that.’
He looked up at her. ‘A chance of happiness,’ he said. ‘After so much suffering …’ A new harshness crossed his face. ‘I will not be denied,’ he said. ‘My home. My art …’ He touched her arm, briefly. ‘You’re right, Mrs. Christie,’ he said. ‘We cannot give up, when so many have died for us.’ He raised his arm in a half salute, then walked away.
Agatha made her way towards her home. The sun was warm upon her face, and the crocuses made splashes of purple and yellow in the fields, but the prospect of Inspector Jerome getting anywhere, with either his investigation, or in his romance with Bunty Flowers, seemed even further away.
The vicarage appeared to have a different police officer, standing guard at the gate. He tipped his hat to her. She thought about the vicar, tucked away inside. Poor Miss Holgate, trying to do her job, rescued from her life of poverty, and now surrounded by tragedy. Her sense of guilt, too. ‘It’s all my fault,’ she’d said.
And Robert, hovering, concerned, sharing a worry that he too was somehow implicated in Cecil’s death.
And now Phoebe.
An image appeared of her lithe, blonde prettiness, her sweet blue gaze.
Real murder, Agatha thought. Real life. No order, no resolution, just a grieving mother living in an English village.
In her mind was the Holbein. Arthur’s delicate working, as the sunlight glinted on the golden frame; the truth so painstakingly uncovered.
At home there was only absence. Her husband, so distant, so preoccupied. Her writing, the heap of paper on her desk, all those words just to tell an empty make-believe.
She turned from her home and headed away, up the hill, feeling the warmth of the sunlight on her face. She was aware of footsteps behind her. Heavy, male footsteps. She turned.
‘Oh. Mr. Fullerton,’ she said.
With a murmured greeting, Clifford Fullerton fell into step beside her. It occurred to her that he must have followed her, that he must have been lurking by the vicarage and seen he
r pass.
For a while they walked in silence. Agatha, who had had no purpose in her walk, wondered where Clifford thought they were going.
‘The graves,’ he said, as if in answer. ‘The dead.’ His voice was grim. His face looked drawn and shadowed. ‘This Russian woman,’ he began. ‘Raising false hopes.’
‘Mme. Litvinoff?’ Agatha wondered what he meant.
He nodded, forcefully. ‘There are posters everywhere. But the dead can tell us nothing. We are stranded here, the other side, willing them to speak. But they are silent. No amount of Cossack glamour can make things otherwise.’
‘That’s what Mr. Sutton said,’ she said.
‘Arthur?’ He turned to her, sharply.
‘About false hope,’ she added. ‘And séances. I told him I was going –’
‘You?’ It was almost a shout.
She blinked.
‘I’d have expected better of you,’ he said.
They walked on in silence. The lane led past the grounds of Hainault House, through an avenue of trees, and then out to the open fields. Clifford stopped, then turned onto a track to the right. He walked with purpose, and she followed him.
‘She didn’t do it.’ He stopped on the narrow path and faced her. ‘Bertha. She is incapable of it.’
‘They’re looking for her –’ Agatha began.
‘She makes it so difficult for herself,’ he said. ‘But however angry, however abandoned, however vengeful …’ He shook his head. ‘Poisoning, you see. It takes planning. It takes organization. She is incapable of such things …’ He turned away and began to walk again. Agatha followed just behind, as the track was so narrow.
‘She is an impoverished woman,’ he said. ‘She grew up with so little. That’s the problem with this country. Working men and women crushed into cauldrons of bad air and poverty, you find it in the North Country, in London’s East End, in our dockyards and factory towns. Just so that you people can live your clean, well-mannered lives …’
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