Hickory Dickory Dock

by Agatha Christie

  Mrs. Hubbard caught her breath with a slight gasp.

  Ink had been spilled on the table. It had run all over the papers, soaking them through. Mrs. Hubbard touched it with her fingertip. It was still wet.

  She said, knowing the question to be foolish as she asked it:

  “You didn’t spill the ink yourself?”

  “No. It was done whilst I was out.”

  “Mrs. Biggs, do you think—”

  Mrs. Biggs was the cleaning woman who looked after the top-floor bedrooms.

  “It was not Mrs. Biggs. It was not even my own ink. That is here on the shelf by my bed. It has not been touched. It was done by someone who brought ink here and did it deliberately.”

  Mrs. Hubbard was shocked.

  “What a very wicked—and cruel thing to do.”

  “Yes, it is a bad thing.”

  The girl spoke quietly, but Mrs. Hubbard did not make the mistake of underrating her feelings.

  “Well, Elizabeth, I hardly know what to say. I am shocked, badly shocked, and I shall do my utmost to find out who did this wicked malicious thing. You’ve no ideas yourself as to that?”

  The girl replied at once.

  “This is green ink, you saw that.”

  “Yes, I noticed that.”

  “It is not very common, this green ink. I know one person here who uses it. Nigel Chapman.”

  “Nigel? Do you think Nigel would do a thing like that?”

  “I should not have thought so—no. But he writes his letters and his notes with green ink.”

  “I shall have to ask a lot of questions. I’m very sorry, Elizabeth, that such a thing should happen in this house and I can only tell you that I shall do my best to get to the bottom of it.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hubbard. There have been—other things, have there not?”

  “Yes—er—yes.”

  Mrs. Hubbard left the room and started towards the stairs. But she stopped suddenly before proceeding down and instead went along the passage to a door at the end of the corridor. She knocked and the voice of Miss Sally Finch bade her enter.

  The room was a pleasant one and Sally Finch herself, a cheerful redhead, was a pleasant person.

  She was writing on a pad and looked up with a bulging cheek. She held out an open box of sweets and said indistinctly:

  “Candy from home. Have some.”

  “Thank you, Sally. Not just now. I’m rather upset.” She paused. “Have you heard what’s happened to Elizabeth Johnston?”

  “What’s happened to Black Bess?”

  The nickname was an affectionate one and had been accepted as such by the girl herself.

  Mrs. Hubbard described what had happened. Sally showed every sign of sympathetic anger.

  “I’ll say that’s a mean thing to do. I wouldn’t believe anyone would do a thing like that to our Bess. Everybody likes her. She’s quiet and doesn’t get around much, or join in, but I’m sure there’s no one who dislikes her.”

  “That’s what I should have said.”

  “Well, it’s all of a piece, isn’t it, with the other things? That’s why—”

  “That’s why what?” Mrs. Hubbard asked as the girl stopped abruptly.

  Sally said slowly:

  “That’s why I’m getting out of here. Did Mrs. Nick tell you?”

  “Yes. She was very upset about it. Seemed to think you hadn’t given her the real reason.”

  “Well, I didn’t. No point in making her go up in smoke. You know what she’s like. But that’s the reason, right enough. I just don’t like what’s going on here. It was odd losing my shoe, and then Valerie’s scarf being all cut to bits and Len’s rucksack . . . it wasn’t so much things being pinched—after all, that may happen any time—it’s not nice but it’s roughly normal—but this other isn’t.” She paused for a moment, smiling, and then suddenly grinned. “Akibombo’s scared,” she said. “He’s always very superior and civilised—but there’s a good old West African belief in magic very close to the surface.”

  “Tchah!” said Mrs. Hubbard crossly. “I’ve no patience with superstitious nonsense. Just some ordinary human being making a nuisance of themselves. That’s all there is to it.”

  Sally’s mouth curved up in a wide catlike grin.

  “The emphasis,” she said, “is on ordinary. I’ve a sort of feeling that there’s a person in this house who isn’t ordinary.”

  Mrs. Hubbard went on down the stairs. She turned into the students’ common room on the ground floor. There were four people in the room. Valerie Hobhouse, prone on a sofa with her narrow, elegant feet stuck up over the arm of it; Nigel Chapman sitting at a table with a heavy book open in front of him; Patricia Lane leaning against the mantelpiece, and a girl in a mackintosh who had just come in and who was pulling off a woolly cap as Mrs. Hubbard entered. She was a stocky, fair girl with brown eyes set wide apart and a mouth that was usually just a little open so that she seemed perpetually startled.

  Valerie, removing a cigarette from her mouth, said in a lazy, drawling voice:

  “Hallo, Ma, have you administered soothing syrup to the old devil, our revered proprietress?”

  Patricia Lane said:

  “Has she been on the warpath?”

  “And how?” said Valerie and chuckled.

  “Something very unpleasant has happened,” said Mrs. Hubbard. “Nigel, I want you to help me.”

  “Me, ma’am?” Nigel looked at her and shut his book. His thin, malicious face was suddenly illuminated by a mischievous but surprisingly sweet smile. “What have I done?”

  “Nothing, I hope,” said Mrs. Hubbard. “But ink has been deliberately and maliciously spilt all over Elizabeth Johnston’s notes, and it’s green ink. You write with green ink, Nigel.”

  He stared at her, his smile disappearing.

  “Yes, I use green ink.”

  “Horrid stuff,” said Patricia. “I wish you wouldn’t, Nigel. I’ve always told you I think it’s horribly affected of you.”

  “I like being affected,” said Nigel. “Lilac ink would be even better, I think. I must try and get some. But are you serious, Mum? About the sabotage, I mean?”

  “Yes, I am serious. Was it your doing, Nigel?”

  “No, of course not. I like annoying people, as you know, but I’d never do a filthy trick like that—and certainly not to Black Bess who minds her own business in a way that’s an example to some people I could mention. Where is that ink of mine? I filled my pen yesterday evening, I remember. I usually keep it on the shelf over there.” He sprang up and went across the room. “You’re right. The bottle’s nearly empty. It should be practically full.”

  The girl in the mackintosh gave a little gasp.

  “Oh dear,” she said. “Oh dear, I don’t like it—”

  Nigel wheeled at her accusingly.

  “Have you got an alibi, Celia?” he said menacingly.

  The girl gave a gasp.

  “I didn’t do it. I really didn’t do it. Anyway, I’ve been at the hospital all day. I couldn’t—”

  “Now, Nigel,” said Mrs. Hubbard. “Don’t tease Celia.”

  Patricia Lane said angrily:

  “I don’t see why Nigel should be suspected. Just because his ink was taken—”

  Valerie said cattishly:

  “That’s right, darling, defend your young.”

  “But it’s so unfair—”

  “But really I didn’t have anything to do with it,” Celia protested earnestly.

  “Nobody thinks you did, infant,” said Valerie impatiently. “All the same, you know,” her eyes met Mrs. Hubbard’s and exchanged a glance, “all this is getting beyond a joke. Something will have to be done about it.”

  “Something is going to be done,” said Mrs. Hubbard grimly.

  Chapter Four

  “Here you are, M. Poirot.”

  Miss Lemon laid a small brown paper parcel before Poirot. He removed the paper and looked appraisingly at a well-cut silver evening shoe.


  “It was at Baker Street just as you said.”

  “That has saved us trouble,” said Poirot. “Also it confirms my ideas.”

  “Quite,” said Miss Lemon, who was sublimely incurious by nature.

  She was, however, susceptible to the claims of family affection. She said:

  “If it is not troubling you too much, M. Poirot, I received a letter from my sister. There have been some new developments.”

  “You permit that I read it?”

  She handed it to him and, after reading it, he directed Miss Lemon to get her sister on the telephone. Presently Miss Lemon indicated that the connection had been obtained. Poirot took the receiver.

  “Mrs. Hubbard?”

  “Oh yes, M. Poirot. So kind of you to ring me up so promptly. I was really very—”

  Poirot interrupted her.

  “Where are you speaking from?”

  “Why—from 26 Hickory Road, of course. Oh I see what you mean. I am in my own sitting room.”

  “There is an extension?”

  “This is the extension. The main phone is downstairs in the hall.”

  “Who is in the house who might listen in?”

  “All the students are out at this time of day. The cook is out marketing. Geronimo, her husband, understands very little English. There is a cleaning woman, but she is deaf and I’m quite sure wouldn’t bother to listen in.”

  “Very good, then. I can speak freely. Do you occasionally have lectures in the evening, or films? Entertainments of some kind?”

  “We do have lectures occasionally. Miss Baltrout, the explorer, came not long ago, with her coloured transparencies. And we had an appeal for Far Eastern Missions, though I am afraid that quite a lot of the students went out that night.”

  “Ah. Then this evening you will have prevailed on M. Hercule Poirot, the employer of your sister, to come and discourse to your students on the more interesting of his cases.”

  “That will be very nice, I’m sure, but do you think—”

  “It is not a question of thinking. I am sure!”

  That evening, students entering the common room found a notice tacked up on the board which stood just inside the door.

  M. Hercule Poirot, the celebrated private detective, has kindly consented to give a talk this evening on the theory and practice of successful detection, with an account of certain celebrated criminal cases.

  Returning students made varied comments on this.

  “Who’s this private eye?” “Never heard of him.” “Oh, I have. There was a man condemned to death for the murder of a charwoman and this detective got him off at the last moment by finding the real person.” “Sounds crummy to me.” “I think it might be rather fun.” “Colin ought to enjoy it. He’s mad on criminal psychology.” “I would not put it precisely like that, but I’ll not deny that a man who has been closely acquainted with criminals might be interesting to interrogate.”

  Dinner was at seven-thirty and most of the students were already seated when Mrs. Hubbard came down from her sitting-room (where sherry had been served to the distinguished guest) followed by a small elderly man with suspiciously black hair and a moustache of ferocious proportions which he twirled continuously.

  “These are some of our students, M. Poirot. This is M. Hercule Poirot who is kindly going to talk to us after dinner.”

  Salutations were exchanged and Poirot sat down by Mrs. Hubbard and busied himself with keeping his moustaches out of the excellent minestrone which was served by a small active Italian manservant from a big tureen.

  This was followed by a piping hot dish of spaghetti and meat balls and it was then that a girl sitting on Poirot’s right spoke shyly to him.

  “Does Mrs. Hubbard’s sister really work for you?”

  Poirot turned to her.

  “But yes indeed. Miss Lemon has been my secretary for many years. She is the most efficient woman that ever lived. I am sometimes afraid of her.”

  “Oh I see. I wondered—”

  “Now what did you wonder, mademoiselle?”

  He smiled upon her in paternal fashion, making a mental note as he did so.

  “Pretty, worried, not too quick mentally, frightened . . .” He said:

  “May I know your name and what it is you are studying?”

  “Celia Austin. I don’t study. I’m a dispenser at St. Catherine’s Hospital.”

  “Ah, that is interesting work?”

  “Well, I don’t know—perhaps it is.” She sounded rather uncertain.

  “And these others? Can you tell me something about them, perhaps? I understood this was a home for foreign students, but these seem mostly to be English.”

  “Some of the foreign ones are out. Mr. Chandra Lal and Mr. Gopal Ram—they’re Indians—and Miss Reinjeer who’s Dutch—and Mr. Achmed Ali who’s Egyptian and frightfully political!”

  “And those who are here? Tell me about these.”

  “Well, sitting on Mrs. Hubbard’s left is Nigel Chapman. He’s studying Medieval History and Italian at London University. Then there’s Patricia Lane next to him, with the spectacles. She’s taking a diploma in Archaeology. The big red-headed boy is Len Bateson, he’s a medical and the dark girl is Valerie Hobhouse, she’s in a beauty shop. Next to her is Colin McNabb—he’s doing a post-graduate course in Psychiatry.”

  There was a faint change in her voice as she described Colin. Poirot glanced keenly at her and saw that the colour had come up in her face.

  He said to himself:

  “So—she is in love and she cannot easily conceal the fact.”

  He noticed that young McNabb never seemed to look at her across the table, being far too much taken up with his conversation with a laughing red-headed girl beside him.

  “That’s Sally Finch. She’s American—over here on a Fulbright. Then there’s Genevieve Maricaud. She’s doing English, and so is René Halle who sits next to her. The small fair girl is Jean Tomlinson—she’s at St. Catherine’s too. She’s a physiotherapist. The black man is Akibombo—he comes from West Africa and he’s frightfully nice. Then there’s Elizabeth Johnston, she’s from Jamaica and she’s studying law. Next to us on my right are two Turkish students who came about a week ago. They know hardly any English.”

  “Thank you. And do you all get on well together? Or do you have quarrels?”

  The lightness of his tone robbed the words of seriousness.

  Celia said:

  “Oh, we’re all too busy really to have fights—although—”

  “Although what, Miss Austin?”

  “Well—Nigel—next to Mrs. Hubbard. He likes stirring people up and making them angry. And Len Bateson gets angry. He gets wild with rage sometimes. But he’s very sweet really.”

  “And Colin McNabb—does he too get annoyed?”

  “Oh no. Colin just raises his eyebrows and looks amused.”

  “I see. And the young ladies, do you have your quarrels?”

  “Oh no, we all get on very well. Genevieve has feelings sometimes. I think French people are inclined to be touchy—oh, I mean—I’m sorry—”

  Celia was the picture of confusion.

  “Me, I am Belgian,” said Poirot solemnly. He went on quickly, before Celia could recover control of herself: “What did you mean just now, Miss Austin, when you said that you wondered. You wondered—what?”

  She crumbled her bread nervously.

  “Oh that—nothing—nothing really—just, there have been some silly practical jokes lately—I thought Mrs. Hubbard—But really it was silly of me. I didn’t mean anything.”

  Poirot did not press her. He turned away to Mrs. Hubbard and was presently engaged in a three-cornered conversation with her and with Nigel Chapman, who introduced the controversial challenge that crime was a form of creative art—and that the misfits of society were really the police who only entered that profession because of their secret sadism. Poirot was amused to note that the anxious-looking young woman in spectacles who sat beside him tri
ed desperately to explain away his remarks as fast as he made them. Nigel, however, took absolutely no notice of her.

  Mrs. Hubbard looked benignly amused.

  “All you young people nowadays think of nothing but politics and psychology,” she said. “When I was a girl we were much more lighthearted. We danced. If you rolled back the carpet in the common room there’s quite a good floor, and you could dance to the wireless, but you never do.”

  Celia laughed and said with a tinge of malice:

  “But you used to dance, Nigel. I’ve danced with you myself once, though I don’t expect you remember.”

  “You’ve danced with me,” said Nigel incredulously. “Where?”

  “At Cambridge—in May Week.”

  “Oh, May Week!” Nigel waved away the follies of youth.

  “One goes through that adolescent phase. Mercifully it soon passes.”

  Nigel was clearly not much more than twenty-five now. Poirot concealed a smile in his moustache.

  Patricia Lane said earnestly:

  “You see, Mrs. Hubbard, there is so much study to be done. With lectures to attend and one’s notes to write up, there’s really not time for anything but what is really worthwhile.”

  “Well, my dear, one’s only young once,” said Mrs. Hubbard.

  A chocolate pudding succeeded the spaghetti and afterwards they all went into the common room, and helped themselves to coffee from an urn that stood on a table. Poirot was then invited to begin his discourse. The two Turks politely excused themselves. The rest seated themselves and looked expectant.

  Poirot rose to his feet and spoke with his usual aplomb. The sound of his own voice was always pleasant to him, and he spoke for three-quarters of an hour in a light and amusing fashion, recalling those of his experiences that lent themselves to an agreeable exaggeration. If he managed to suggest, in a subtle fashion, that he was, perhaps, something of a mountebank, it was not too obviously contrived.

  “And so, you see,” he finished, “I say to this city gentleman that I am reminded of a soap manufacturer I knew in Liége who poisoned his wife in order to marry a beautiful blonde secretary. I say it very lightly but at once I get a reaction. He presses upon me the stolen money I had just recovered for him. He goes pale and there is fear in his eyes. ‘I will give this money,’ I say, ‘to a deserving charity.’ ‘Do anything you like with it,’ he says. And I say to him then, and I say it very significantly, ‘It will be advisable, monsieur, to be very careful.’ He nods, speechless, and as I go out, I see that he wipes his forehead. He has had the big fright, and I—I have saved his life. For though he is infatuated with his blonde secretary he will not now try and poison his stupid and disagreeable wife. Prevention, always, is better than cure. We want to prevent murders—not wait until they have been committed.”