anything like that."
"I don't know what you mean. Trevelyan was a skinflint
and I told him so to his face. He couldn't come bossing
it over me. I didn't kowtow to him like the rest of the
people here. Always dropping in--dropping in--too much
dropping in. If I don't choose to see anyone for a week,
or a month, or a year, that's my business."
"You haven't seen anyone for a week now, have you?"
said Mr. Rycroft.
"No, and why should I?" The irate invalid banged the
table. Mr. Rycroft was aware, as usual, of having said
the wrong thing. "Why the bloody hell should I? Tell
me that?"
Mr. Rycroft was prudently silent. The Captain's wrath
subsided.
"All the same," he growled, "if the police want to know
about Trevelyan I'm the man they should have come to.
I've knocked about the world, and I've got judgment. I
can size a man up for what he's worth. What's the good
193
Agatha Christie
of going to a lot of dodderers and old women. What they
want is a man's judgment."
He banged the table again.
"Well," said Mr. Rycroft, "I suppose they think they
know themselves what they are after."
"They inquired about me," said Captain Wyatt. "They
would naturally."
"Well--er--I don't quite remember," said Mr. Ry-croft
cautiously.
"Why can't you remember? You're not in your dotage
yet."
"I expect I was--er--rattled," said Mr. Rycroft sooth-ingly.
"Rattled, were you? Afraid of the police? I'm not afraid
of the police. Let 'em come here. That's what I say. I'll
show them. Do you know I shot a cat at a hundred yards
the other night?"
"Did you?" said Mr. Rycroft.
The Captain's habit of letting off a revolver at real or
imaginary cats was a sore trial to his neighbors.
"Well, I'm tired," said Captain Wyatt suddenly. "Have
another drink before you go?"
Rightly interpreting his hint, Mr. Rycroft rose to his
feet. Captain Wyatt continued to urge a drink upon him.
"You'd be twice the man if you drank a bit more. A
man who can't enjoy a drink isn't a man at all."
But Mr. Rycroft continued to decline the offer. He
had already consumed one whiskey and soda of most
unusual strength.
"What tea do you drink?" asked Wyatt. "I don't know
anything about tea. Told Abdul to get some. Thought
194
Murder at Hazelmoor
that girl might like to come in to tea one day. Darned
pretty girl. Must do something for her. She must be
bored to death in a place like this with no one to talk
to."
"There's a young man with her," said Mr. Rycroft.
"The young men of the present day make me sick,"
said Captain Wyatt. "What's the good of them?"
This being a difficult query to answer suitably, Mr.
ltycroft did not attempt it, he took his departure.
The bull terrier bitch accompanied him to the gate
and caused him acute alarm.
In No. 4 The Cottages, Miss Percehouse was speaking
to her nephew, Ronald.
"If you like to moon about after a girl who doesn't want
you, that is your affair, Ronald," she was saying. "Better
stick to the Willett girl. You may have a chance there,
though I think it is extremely unlikely."
"Oh, I say," protested Ronnie.
"The other thing I have to say is, that if there was a
police officer in Sittaford I should have been informed
of it. Who knows, I might have been able to give him
valuable information."
"I didn't know about it myself till after he had gone."
"That is so like you, Ronnie. Absolutely typical."
"Sorry, Aunt Caroline."
"And when you are painting the garden furniture, there
is no need to paint your face as well. It doesn't improve
it and it wastes the paint."
"Sorry, Aunt Caroline."
"And now," said Miss Percehouse closing her eyes,
"don't argue with me any more. I'm tired."
195
Agatha Christie
Ronnie shuffled his feet and looked uncomfortable.
"Well?" said Miss Percehouse sharply.
"Oh! nothing--only--"
"Yes?"
"Well, I was wondering if you'd mind if I blew in to
Exeter tomorrow?"
"Why?"
"Well, I want to meet a fellow there."
"What kind of a fellow?"
"Oh! just a fellow."
"If a young man wishes to tell lies, he should do so
well," said Miss Percehouse.
"Oh! I say--but--"
"Don't apologize."
"It's all right then? I can go?"
"I don't know what you mean by saying, 'I can go?' as
though you were a small child. You are over twenty-one."
"Yes, but what I mean is, I don't want--"
Miss Percehouse closed her eyes again.
"I have asked you once before not to argue. I am tired
and wish to rest. If the 'fellow' you are meeting in Exeter
wears skirts and is called Emily Trefusis, more fool
you--that is all I have to say."
"But look here--"
"I am tired, Ronald. That's enough."
196
Nocturnal Adventures of Charles
c ^ R L E S was not looking forward with any relish to
the prospect of his night's vigil. He privately considered
that it was likely to be a wild goose chase. Emily, he
considered, was possessed of a too vivid imagination.
He was convinced that she had read into the few words
she had overheard a meaning that had its origin in her
own brain. Probably sheer weariness had induced Mrs.
Willett to yearn for night to come.
Charles looked out of his window and shivered. It was
a piercingly cold night, raw and foggy--the last night
one would wish to spend in the open hanging about and
waiting for something, very nebulous in nature, to hap-pen.
Still he dared not yield to his intense desire to remain
comfortably indoors. He recalled the liquid melodious-ness
of Emily's voice as she said, "It's wonderful to have
someone you can really rely on."
She relied on him, Charles, and she should not rely
in vain. What? Fail that beautiful, helpless girl? Never.
Besides, he reflected as he donned all the spare un-derclothes
he possessed before encasing himself in two
pullovers and his overcoat, things were likely to be
deucedly unpleasant if Emily on her return found out
that he had not carried out his promise.
She would probably say the most unpleasant things.
No, he couldn't risk it. But as for anything happening--
197
Agatha Christie
And anyway, when and how was it going to happen?
He couldn't be everywhere at once. Probably whatever
was going to happen would happen inside Sittaford House
and he would never know a thing about it.
"Just like a girl," he grumbled to himself, "waltzing
off to Exeter and leaving me to do the dirty work."
And then he rememb
ered once more the liquid tones
of Emily's voice as she expressed her reliance on him,
and he felt ashamed of his outburst.
He completed his toilet, rather after the model of
Tweedledee, and effected a surreptitious exit from the
cottage.
The night was even colder and more unpleasant than
he had thought. Did Emily realize all he was about to
suffer on her behalf?. He hoped so.
His hand went tenderly to a pocket and caressed a
hidden flask concealed in a near pocket.
"The boy's best friend," he murmured. "It would be
a night like this of course."
With suitable precautions he introduced himself into
the grounds of Sittaford House. The Willetts kept no dog
so there was no fear of alarm from that quarter. A light
in the gardener's cottage showed that it was inhabited.
Sittaford House itself was in darkness save for one lighted
window on the first floor.
"Those two women are alone in the house," thought
Charles. "I shouldn't care for that myself. A bit creepy!"
He supposed Emily had really overheard that sen-tence,
"Will tonight never come?" What did it really
mean ?
"I wonder," he thought to himself, "if they mean to
198
Murder at Hazelmoor
do a flit? Well, whatever happens, little Charles is going
to be here to see it."
He circled the house at a discreet distance. Owing to
the foggy nature of the night he had no fears of being
observed. Everything as far as he could see appeared to
be as usual. A cautious visiting of the out-buildings showed
them to be locked.
"I hope something does happen," said Charles as the
hours passed. He took a prudent sip from his flask. "I've
never known anything like this cold. 'What did you do
in the Great War, Daddy,' can't have been any worse
than this."
He glanced at his watch and was surprised to find that
it was still only twenty minutes to twelve. He had been
convinced that it must be nearly dawn.
An unexpected sound made him prick up his ears
excitedly. It was the sound of a bolt being very gently
drawn back in its socket, and it came from the direction
of the house. Charles made a noiseless spring from
bush to bush. Yes, he had been quite right, the small
side door was slowly opening. A dark figure stood on
the threshold. It was peering anxiously out into the
night.
"Mrs. or Miss Willett," said Charles to himself. "The
fair Violet, I think."
After waiting a minute or two, the figure stepped out
on the path and closed the door noiselessly behind her
and started to walk away from the house in the opposite
direction to the front drive. The path in question led up
behind Sittaford House, passing through a small plan-tation
of trees and so out on to the open moor.
199
Agatha Christie
The path wound quite near the bushes where Charles
was concealed, so near that Charles was able to recognize
the woman as she passed. He had been quite right, it
was Violet Willett. She was wearing a long dark coat and
had a beret on her head.
She went on up and as quietly as possible Charles
followed her. He had no fears of being seen, but he was
alive to the danger of being overheard. He was partic-ularly
anxious not to alarm the girl. Owing to his care in
this respect she outdistanced him. For a moment or two
he was afraid lest he should lose her, but as he in his
turn wound his way anxiously through the plantation of
trees he saw her standing a little way ahead of him. Here
the low wall which surrounded the estate was broken by
a gate. Violet Willett was standing by this gate, leaning
over it peering out into the night.
Charles crept up as near as he dared and waited. The
time passed. The girl had a small pocket torch with her
and once she switched it on for a moment or two, di-recting
it, Charles thought, to see the time by the wrist
watch she was wearing, then she leant over the gate again
in the same attitude of expectant interest. Suddenly,
Charles heard a low whistle twice repeated.
He saw the girl start to sudden attention. She leant
farther over the gate and from her lips came the same
signal--a low whistle twice repeated.
Then with startling suddenness a man's figure loomed
out of the night. A low exclamation came from the girl.
She moved back a pace or two, the gate swung inward
and the man joined her. She spoke to him in a low hurried
voice. Unable to catch what they said, Charles moved
'2,00
Murder at Hazelmoor
forward somewhat imprudently. A twig snapped beneath
his feet. The man swung round instantly.
"What's that?" he said.
He caught sight of Charles's retreating figure.
"Hie, you stop! What are you doing here?"
With a bound he sprang after Charles. Charles turned
and tackled him adroitly. The next moment they were
rolling over and over together locked in a tight embrace.
The tussle was a short one. Charles's assailant was by
far the heavier and stronger of the two. He rose to his
feet jerking his captive with him.
"Switch on that light, Violet," he said, "let's have a
look at this fellow."
The girl who had been standing terrified a few paces
away came forward and switched on the torch obediently.
"It must be the man who is staying in the village," she
said. "A journalist."
"A journalist, eh?" exclaimed the other. "I don't like
the breed. What are you doing, you skunk, nosing round
private grounds at this time of night?"
The torch wavered in Violet's hand. For the first time
Charles was given a full view of his antagonist. For a few
minutes he had entertained the wild idea that the visitor
might have been the escaped convict. One look at the
other dispelled any such fancy. This was a young man
not more than twenty-four or -five years of age. Tall,
good-looking and determined, with none of the hunted
criminal about him.
"Now then," he said sharply, "What's your name?"
"My name is Charles Enderby," said Charles. "You
haven't told me yours," he continued.
201
Agatha Christie
"Confound your cheek!"
A sudden flash of inspiration came to Charles. An inspired
guess had saved him more than once. It was a
long shot but he believed that he was right.
"I think, however," he said quietly, "that I can
guess it."
"Eh?"
The other was clearly taken aback.
"I think," said Charles, "that I have the pleasure of
addressing Mr. Brian Pearson from Australia. Is that so?"
There was a silence--rather a long silence. Charles
had a feeling that the tables were turned.
"How the devil you knew that I can't think," said the
other at last, "but
you're right. My name is Brian Pear-
son."
"In that case," said Charles, "supposing we adjourn
to the house and talk things over!"
202
23. At Hazel oor
M A J o ]R Burnaby was doing his accounts or--to use a
more Dickens-like phrase, he was looking into his affairs.
The Major was an extremely methodical man. In a calf-bound
book he kept a record of shares bought, shares
sold and the accompanying loss or profit--usually a loss,
for in common with most retired army men the Major
was attracted by a high rate of iaterest rather than a
modest percentage coupled with safety.
"These oil wells looked all right," he was muttering.
"Seems as though there ought to have been a fortune in
Christie,Agatha - Murder At Hazelmore.doc Page 21
