Agatha Christie Investigates Omnibus

by Alison Joseph

  ‘I was looking at the parish records. The problem is, he’s taken quite a few away with him, according to Miss Holgate.’

  ‘Oh that poor young woman,’ Arthur said. ‘I knew he’d been bullying her.’ He sat down on the stool by his canvas. ‘But how would this lead to another murder? Surely, with Miss Wilkins now arrested for the two we’ve already had …’

  ‘I’ve been to the Clinic. The one in the East End, that our parish is connected to, through the trust.’

  ‘Mr. Fullerton’s mother …’

  ‘Exactly,’ Agatha said. ‘I know Sylvia believes that it’s all thanks to her that Robert got the curate’s position here, but the clinic records show that Mr. Fullerton pulled all the strings. And at the same time, Cecil Coates had met Bertha Wilkins at the clinic, when she was working there as a nurse. His friend Robert being the curate was just a pretext, I fear, for Cecil to come and pursue Bertha. Then, he met Phoebe, and decided not to have anything more to do with Bertha. But, at the same time, Mr. Fullerton had arranged for Miss Holgate to get the job at the vicarage too. And we all know that Miss Holgate is absolutely certain that Cecil had some information to impart to her, that also goes back to the Charterhouse Clinic. And it’s my view that it’s to do with her parentage. I am confiding all this in you, Mr. Sutton, because you understand the artist’s mind. And because I trust you.’

  Arthur was looking thoughtful. ‘But – Mrs. Christie – what has Mr. Fullerton to gain?’

  ‘I think he wants this house. He feels his mother was betrayed by those he calls the land-owning class. He has carefully put things in place to stake his claim. I’m wondering if his connection with Bertha Wilkins wasn’t just that the land around the summerhouse does actually belong to Hainault Hall. I think the records that are missing from the Parish office are the ones that prove that either way.

  ‘Anyway, I want to put a stop to it all. I’ve agreed with the vicar to have a tea party. Tomorrow afternoon. Miss Holgate will be there, and Robert. But I realized, if you were there, Mr. Fullerton will declare himself, as he is so angry with you for occupying a house he considers to be his.’ She got to her feet, and paced the studio floor. ‘Of course –’ She turned to face him – ‘I would quite understand if you refused and just allowed these things to take their course. But he is so very angry, and I fear for what might happen now that Miss Wilkins has been arrested. Will you help me, Mr. Sutton?’

  He reached out and shook her hand. ‘I’d be delighted, Mrs. Christie.’

  ‘I’ve told everyone three o’clock. At the vicarage. I hope I’m not just being a silly woman.’ She had come to rest by his easel. The painting was half-finished, and seemed to be a landscape, almost abstract, in bright, angular brushstrokes of red and yellow.

  ‘There is nothing silly about it at all.’ He came and stood beside her. ‘Please don’t judge me by this. It’s not yet finished, and I’m not convinced it’s any good. I think I should stick to restoration.’

  ‘And that?’ Agatha moved towards the fireplace.

  ‘A modern piece,’ he said, indicating the painting. ‘It says Newquay. I’ve no idea who did it. But the Taptons clearly were informed in their collecting.’

  ‘And who is that?’ She pointed at the military man.

  ‘It says Colonel Paul Tapton. Some family member,’ he said.

  ‘And that?’

  ‘It’s named Eleanora.’

  She approached the painting of the woman. She had a black bonnet, and at her feet were yellow flowers.

  ‘I don’t know who she is,’ Arthur said, ‘but I like the painting very much.’

  ‘Is there a family resemblance?’ Agatha gazed at her.

  He shrugged. ‘I can’t see one,’ he said.

  She stared for a little longer at the woman. She had a sad, expressive face, standing upright, her dress dark against the brightness of the flowers.

  ‘You’ve been a great help,’ she said to Arthur.

  ‘It’s a pleasure.’

  ‘I was worried, what with your sorrow …’

  ‘About Phoebe?’ He met her eyes. ‘It is always with me.’

  ‘All this worries me.’ Agatha spoke quietly. ‘That people might think it’s just a huge game. When you make things up, like I do, when it’s a matter of telling a story –’ She gazed up at him. ‘You see, in a story, there is always a resolution. It’s the opposite of real life. I’m worrying that I’m just running away from the truth of things.’

  He looked at her warmly. ‘I wouldn’t accuse you of that. Just because you’re a teller of stories, it doesn’t mean you avoid the truth. It’s quite clear, Mrs. Christie, that you are working very hard to do what is right. And I’m only too happy to help.’ He seemed about to say more, but was silent.

  In the hallway they shook hands again. He hesitated, then said, ‘I wouldn’t be too hard on Clifford Fullerton. Whatever his beliefs about this house, I am convinced that his love for Miss Wilkins is honourable and true. I can’t say more, but I would ask you to trust me in this. But I am very happy to join you in your tea party and see what we can do.’

  ‘I appreciate it, Mr. Sutton.’

  Agatha left him standing in the wide doorway, his hand raised in a wave.

  She walked back down the lane. In her mind she heard once again the words of Mme. Litvinoff, about black bonnets and yellow flowers, and a mother’s betrayal.

  She thought how Arthur had known all about Clifford’s secret marriage but had kept his secret. She remembered how Arthur had sprung to Clifford’s defence, to assert that Clifford’s love for Miss Wilkins was real and true, and not a pretence at all.

  Tomorrow, she thought, we shall all gather in the vicarage. She felt a sense of foreboding; a shiver of trepidation.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The next morning, Agatha appeared on Mary’s doorstep, looking distressed.

  ‘It’s a matter of cups,’ she said. ‘I’ve talked the poor vicar into having this tea party this afternoon, and now he says he hasn’t got enough cups, you’d think the vicar would have loads of the darn things …’

  Mary looked at her friend with concern. ‘Agatha,’ she said, ‘come in. You need to sit down.’

  ‘I’m completely out of my depth,’ Agatha was saying, as she followed Mary into her house. ‘I’ve ended up thinking that I know better than Inspector Mallatratt and his team of chaps, which is just ridiculous when you think about it. Archie was so concerned last night he made me make a telephone call to the Inspector, and I had to blurt out all the things I was thinking. I felt such a fool hearing it out loud. Archie was quite right, of course, just tell the police and have done with it, then you can stop worrying and get back to your own story. But the problem is the atropine.’

  ‘Atropine?’ Mary stared at her, concerned. ‘Agatha, do sit down, you’re making me nervous, pacing like that.’

  ‘It came via Cecil, from the London clinic. It went, with Gwendoline Holgate, to Mrs. Garvey’s. A few drops were given to the boy, who got better.’

  ‘It’s because it’s May,’ Mary said.

  Agatha looked at her blankly.

  ‘Whooping cough,’ Mary said. ‘It disappears in May. If you catch it in June, you cough all year.’

  ‘But then what?’ Agatha appeared not to hear, still standing in Mary’s sitting room. ‘Bertha Wilkins was hanging round at the Garvey’s. She was also in the vicarage the night that Cecil was poisoned. And she went up to the summerhouse with tea from the vicarage kitchen the night that Phoebe was poisoned. The inspector went rather quiet when I told him all this on the telephone yesterday but you’d think they’d have worked all this out themselves.

  ‘But the point is, Mr. Fullerton knew the atropine was coming from the London clinic, because he knew Cecil. Mr. Sutton said as much, when we discussed it. And Mr. Fullerton was also at the vicarage when the poison was dispensed. And, as we know, he’s the husband of Bertha Wilkins. Anyway, I told all of it to the Inspector on the telephone, but now I can�
�t get out of this tea party at the vicarage. I’m now feeling rather foolish. Mr. Sutton went on about the artist’s sensibility, which is a nice way of saying it, but the fact it I’ve just got too caught up in these events, much too caught up …’

  Mary led Agatha to a chair and made her sit down.

  ‘Anyway,’ Agatha went on, ‘the poor vicar is worried about crockery, as we’ll be quite a party, so I wondered whether you could bring a couple of spare cups and plates and things. I was going to ask Sylvia, but I know what she’s like, she’d bring out all her best things and then wince whenever anyone so much as lifted a cup to their lips …’

  Mary rested a hand on her friend’s arm. ‘Of course I’ll help. But promise me, Agatha, when this tea party is over, you’ll just call a halt to all these imaginings and go back to your work.’

  Agatha met her eyes. ‘Mary, I promise.’

  *

  At two o clock that afternoon, the vicar went into the parish office.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Miss Holgate. Oh dear, oh dear. Chairs, you see. Moving ‘em about. I don’t suppose you’d be able to give me hand?’

  At two twenty, Arthur Sutton appeared from the barn where he’d been working to find Gwendoline struggling to carry a large armchair across the hall.

  ‘Miss Holgate,’ he said. ‘Dear me, surely the vicar hasn’t got you doing that? Let me help you …’

  At two thirty Agatha arrived, to find the drawing room in disarray, stuffed with all sorts of different chairs, none of them matching. Arthur greeted her.

  ‘The vicar is fretting terribly,’ he said, with a serious tone. ‘I’m not sure this was a good idea. And what makes it worse is that Clifford burst into the barn today where I was working on the Holbein and challenged me. He said, “This is a fake, isn’t it?” And the awful thing is I had just concluded the same thing myself. And I was about to agree with him, when he started accusing me of all sorts of nonsense.’

  He took Agatha’s arm, and his voice was hushed.

  ‘He said I’d brought it with me, that for some reason I left it in the barn and then pretended to find it.’

  He let go of Agatha’s arm, but his gaze was intense.

  ‘Of course, he’s right, it is a fake. I’m almost entirely sure of it now. I’ve been working on it all morning, and I can just tell, the later over-paint, the size of brush stroke … I’m going to have to tell the vicar at some point.’

  ‘Perhaps you should announce it this afternoon,’ she said. ‘I’ve set up this silly tea party for no good reason, and everyone will be waiting for something to happen. You can make your announcement then.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘The vicar will be so disappointed.’

  ‘At least it means you can go back to your own work,’ Agatha said.

  He looked at her with a brief smile. ‘You and me both,’ he said.

  They were interrupted by a loud ringing on the bell, followed by the sound of Eva opening the door.

  ‘I hope I’m not early.’ They heard Clifford’s booming voice, and exchanged anxious glances.

  Agatha murmured to Arthur, ‘Well. Whether we need it or not, the performance must go on.’

  ‘To our places,’ he said. ‘Good luck.’ He disappeared into the kitchen.

  *

  At ten to three, the vicar appeared in what looked like a new jacket, certainly freshly pressed, in a rather loud shade of crimson. Gwendoline Holgate hovered nervously. Robert came out of his study, and immediately went to Gwendoline’s side. She gave him a shy smile.

  At three on the dot, Sylvia Ettridge rang the doorbell. Gwendoline opened the door, greeted her, showed her into the drawing room.

  At twenty past three, Mary arrived – ‘Sorry I’m late. I was trying to find cups. Heaven knows where the other one went to, I’ve just brought this.’ She handed Agatha one of Cicely’s mugs.

  Agatha looked at it, disappointed. ‘I’m not sure we’ll have enough,’ she said.

  Sylvia frowned at the cup in Agatha’s hand. ‘What on earth is that? You should have asked me, dear,’ she said to Agatha. ‘I’d have got out the Wedgwood specially.’

  In the kitchen there was much fussing. Clifford was there, for some reason, being grumpy and clumsy, and frowning at the Cicely cup as he tried to arrange tea cups on a tray, only to have them rearranged by Eva.

  Out in the hallway, Robert found Agatha and led her to the corner by the stairs.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I spoke to her. You were quite right. Gwendoline,’ he added, as if it needed explanation, although his smile said all there needed to be said. ‘And now I must go and help her with the cake.’

  Agatha was briefly alone, but then Arthur was at her side. ‘Clifford has barely said a civil word to me so far. I’m sure that he’s planning to spill the beans about the painting,’ he said. ‘After this morning …’

  Agatha looked up at him. He was looking tense and tired, and she wondered whether she looked as bad. ‘This whole idea was a terrible mistake,’ she said. ‘Let’s just get it over with.’

  She went back to the kitchen, where the vicar was issuing instructions. ‘I’ve got Eva serving sandwiches in the drawing room,’ he said. ‘We need someone to put out the cups.’

  Sylvia and Mary both appeared. ‘A milk jug?’ Sylvia was saying. ‘You really should have asked me.’

  Gradually people drifted into the drawing room. Mary stayed to help Eva in the kitchen. People settled down, there was chatter, a flickering sunlight, a pleasant breeze through the open French windows.

  Sylvia was talking to Robert, ‘What do you mean, it’s Autumn where your mother is, can’t they even get their seasons the right way round?’

  Agatha noticed that Clifford was deep in discussion with Gwendoline.

  A tray of tea appeared, and Mary distributed the cups. Gwendoline got the Cicely mug. Then Clifford moved away, and Robert found himself seated next to Gwendoline. Robert began to talk to Gwendoline, and Agatha watched as a smile began to dawn across her face, and their conversation became animated and full of laughter.

  Agatha caught Mary’s eye and they both smiled.

  ‘More tea,’ Mary said. ‘I’ll take the cups.’

  ‘I’ll help,’ Arthur said.

  ‘Just avoiding the inevitable,’ Clifford said.

  Agatha’s heart sank. Arthur looked shaky.

  ‘Arthur has an announcement,’ Clifford said.

  Arthur glanced at Agatha, then determinedly followed Mary into the kitchen where Eva was pouring tea.

  A minute or two later, Eva reappeared with the tray, Arthur behind her, and cups were distributed. Clifford was glowering at Arthur, Arthur trying to avoid his gaze.

  ‘What has Arthur got to tell us?’ the vicar asked, smiling benignly.

  ‘It affects you, Vicar,’ Clifford said. ‘I’m sure he’ll tell us shortly. Won’t you Mr. Sutton?’

  Arthur looked nervously at Agatha. Mary had passed Gwendoline her Cicely cup again.

  Agatha suddenly said, ‘Oh, it’s such a shame that Miss Holgate has to have to that awful thing.’ She reached for the cup. ‘I’ll find you a nicer one,’ she said, disappearing into the kitchen. She appeared a moment later with the same cup. ‘I’m sorry, this is all there is. Mary only brought the one. And there aren’t any other cups to be found.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Mary’s tone was sharp, unable to conceal her irritation. ‘I did explain I couldn’t find its pair.’

  ‘I really don’t mind,’ Gwendoline said, sweetly, sipping her tea.

  Arthur sat anxiously at Agatha’s side, as Clifford started up again. ‘Well, Mr. Sutton. We’re all here. And we’re all waiting to hear about the Holbein.’

  ‘Ah. The Holbein.’ The vicar was smiling still. ‘Is there news? Have we got a value?’

  Arthur gazed around the circle gathered there.

  ‘Such a coup for the village to have a famous artist,’ Sylvia was saying quietly to Mary. ‘I mean, detective fiction is all very well, bu
t Holbein, that’s real art, isn’t it?’

  Arthur glanced at Robert, who’d reached for another cake, at Gwendoline, who had barely eaten but who was sipping her tea, at Sylvia, whose hand was poised over the sandwiches as she murmured, ‘Shall I risk another fish paste?’

  Arthur took a deep breath, then said, ‘The Holbein might be a fake.’

  There was a general murmur of surprise.

  Arthur went on, ‘I did warn you, Reverend Collins, when I took on the job.’

  ‘Oh, no, no, this won’t do at all.’ Clifford’s voice was loud in the room. ‘What I want to know is, why did you, Arthur Sutton, secrete a painting into that barn and then pretend to find it and pretend that you thought it might be a Holbein? Eh? That’s what I want to know.’

  The vicar was still looking from one to the other, with an expression of benign bewilderment.

  Arthur was looking straight at Clifford. ‘That’s a most ridiculous suggestion.’ His voice was level, his expression one of great calm.

  ‘Not ridiculous at all. It’s the only explanation. As if we’d have a Holbein in our local church. Why, the church itself is only two hundred years old, and most of it has been rebuilt since then.’

  Arthur looked at Clifford. ‘I did not know it was a fake. I’ve only just found out. Just because you’re angry with me about the house, you don’t need to cast aspersions.’

  ‘The house?’ Clifford was wearing an empty smile.

  ‘We all know you think you have a claim to my house,’ Arthur said. ‘And for all I know you want to have Bertha’s house too.’

  ‘Now, that’s preposterous.’ Clifford had got to his feet.

  ‘Chaps, please –’ the vicar intervened. ‘Let’s not spoil this lovely party that Mrs. Christie has organised. She wanted us all to get over these terrible events …’

  Robert squeezed Gwendoline’s hand. Gwendoline replaced her empty cup on the table.

  Agatha spoke quietly. ‘The real problem, Arthur, is that Hainault Hall is not yours.’

  There was a shocked silence in the room.

  ‘The deeds never passed to you,’ Agatha went on.