Ordeal by Innocence

by Agatha Christie

  "Then if there isn't any real evidence," said Mary, "how are you going to find out anything?"

  "Because," said Philip, "there are lots of ways of finding out things, of knowing them quite certainly once and for all. And I think, you know, that that's becoming rather necessary. Things aren't going very well in this house and very soon they'll be getting worse."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Haven't you noticed anything, Polly? What about your father and Gwenda Vaughan?"

  "What about them? Why my father should want to marry again at his age -"

  "I can understand that," said Philip. "After all, he had rather a raw deal in marriage. He's got a chance now of real happiness. Autumn happiness, if you like, but he's got it. Or, shall we say, he had it. Things aren't going too well between them now."

  "I suppose, all this business -" said Mary vaguely.

  "Exactly," said Philip. "All this business. It's shoving them further apart every day. And there could be two reasons for that. Suspicion or guilt."

  "Suspicion of whom?"

  "Well, let's say of each other. Or suspicion on one side and consciousness of guilt on the other and vice versa and as you were and as you like it."

  "Don't, Philip, you're confusing me." Suddenly a faint trace of animation came into Mary's manner.

  "So you think it was Gwenda?" she said. "Perhaps you're right. Oh, what a blessing it would be if it was Gwenda."

  "Poor Gwenda. Because she's one removed from the family, you mean?" "Yes," said Mary. "I mean then it wouldn't be one of us!" "That's all you feel about it, is it?" said Philip. "How it affects us." "Of course," said Mary.

  "Of course, of course," said Philip irritably. "The trouble with you is, Polly, you haven't got any imagination. You can't put yourself in anyone else's place."

  "Why should one?" asked Mary.

  "Yes, why should one?" said Philip. "I suppose if I'm honest I'd say to pass the time away. But I can put myself in your father's place, or in Gwenda's, and if they're innocent, what hell it must be. What hell for Gwenda to be held suddenly at arm's length. To know in her heart that she's not going to be able to marry the man she loves after all. And then put yourself in your father's place. He knows, he can't help knowing, that the woman he is in love with had an opportunity to do the murder and had a motive, too. He hopes she didn't do it, he thinks she didn't do it, but he isn't sure. And what's more he never will be sure."

  "At his age -" began Mary.

  "Oh, at his age, at his age," said Philip impatiently. "Don't you realise it's worse for a man of that age? It's the last love of his life. He's not likely to have another. It goes deep. And taking the other point of view," he went on, "suppose Leo came out of the mists and shadows of the self-contained world that he's managed to live in so long. Suppose it was he who struck down his wife? One can almost feel sorry for the poor devil, can't one? Not," he added meditatively, "that I really can imagine his doing anything of the sort for a moment. But I've no doubt the police can imagine it all right. Now, Polly, let's hear your views. Who do you think did it?"

  "How can I possibly know?" said Mary.

  "Well, perhaps you can't know," said Philip, "but you might have a very good idea - if you thought."

  "I tell you I refuse to think about the thing at all."

  "I wonder why... Is that just distaste? Or is it - perhaps - because you do know? Perhaps in your own cool, calm mind you're quite sure... so sure that you don't want to think about it, that you don't want to tell me 'Is it Hester you've got in mind?'"

  "Why on earth should Hester want to kill Mother?"

  "No real reason, is there?" said Philip meditatively. "But you know, you do read of those things. A son or a daughter fairly well looked after, indulged, and then one day some silly little thing happens. Fond parent refuses to stand up, up for the cinema or for buying a new pair of shoes or says when you're going out with the boy friend you've got to be in at ten. It mayn't be anything very important but it seems to set a match to a train that's already laid, and suddenly the adolescent in question has a brainstorm and up with a hammer or an axe, or possibly a poker, and that's that. Always hard to explain, but it happens. It's the culmination of a long train of repressed rebellion. That's a pattern which would fit Hester. You see, with Hester the trouble is that one doesn't know what goes on in that rather lovely head of hers. She's weak, of course, and she resents being weak. And your mother was the sort of person who would make her feel conscious of her weakness. Yes," said Philip, leaning forward with some animation, "I think I could make out quite a good case for Hester."

  "Oh, will you stop talking about it," cried Mary.

  "Oh, I'll stop talking," said Philip. "Talking won't get me anywhere. Or will it? After all, one has to decide in one's own mind what the pattern of the murder might be, and apply that pattern to each of the different people concerned. And then when you've got it taped out the way it must have been, then you start laying your little pitfalls and see if they tumble into them."

  "There were only four people in the house," said Mary. "You speak as though there were half a dozen or more. I agree with you that Father couldn't possibly have done it, and it's absurd to think that Hester could have any real reason for doing anything of that kind. That leaves Kirsty and Gwenda."

  "Which of then do you prefer?" asked Philip, with faint mockery in his tone.

  "I can't really imagine Kirsty doing such a thing," said Mary. "She's always been so patient and good-tempered. Really quite devoted to Mother. I suppose she could go queer suddenly. One does hear of such things, but she's never seemed at all queer."

  "No," said Philip thoughtfully, "I'd say Kirsty is a very normal woman, the sort of woman who'd have liked a normal woman's life. In a way she's something of the same type as Gwenda, only Gwenda is good-looking and attractive and poor old Kirsty is plain as a currant bun. I don't suppose any man's ever looked at her twice. But she'd have liked them to. She'd have liked to have fallen in love and married. It must be pretty fair hell to be born a woman and to be born plain and unattractive, especially if that isn't compensated for by having any special talent or brain. The truth is she'd been here far too long. She ought to have left after the war, gone on with her profession as masseuse. She might have hooked some well off elderly patient."

  "You're like all men," said Mary. "You think women think of nothing but getting married."

  Philip grinned.

  "I still think it's all women's first choice," he said. "Hasn't Tina any boy friends, by the way?"

  "Not that I know of," said Mary. "But she doesn't talk much about herself."

  "No, she's a quiet little mouse, isn't she? Not exactly pretty, but very graceful. I wonder what she knows about this business?"

  "I don't suppose she knows anything," said Mary.

  "Don't you?" said Philip. "I do."

  "Oh, you just imagine things," said Mary.

  "I'm not imagining this. Do you know what the girl said? She said she hoped she didn't know anything. Rather a curious way of putting things. I bet she does know something."

  "What sort of thing?"

  "Perhaps there's something that ties in somewhere, but she herself doesn't quite realise where it does tie in. I hope to get it out of her."

  "Philip!"

  "It's no good, Polly. I've got a mission in life. I've persuaded myself that it's very much in the public interest that I should get down to it. Now where shall I start? I rather think I'll work on Kirsty first. In many ways she's a simple soul."

  "I wish - oh, how I wish," said Mary, "that you'd give all this crazy idea up and come home. We were so happy. Everything was going along so well -" Her voice broke as she turned away.

  "Polly!" Philip was concerned. "Do you really mind so much? I didn't realise you were quite so upset."

  Mary wheeled round, a hopeful look in her eye. "Then you will come home and forget about it all?"

  "I couldn't forget about it all," said Philip. "I'd only go on worrying and
puzzling and thinking. Let's stay here till the end of the week anyway, Mary, and then, well, we'll see."

  Chapter 16

  "Do you mind if I stay on a bit, Dad?" asked Micky.

  "No, of course not. I'm delighted. Is it all right with your firm?"

  "Yes," said Micky. "I rang 'em up. I needn't be back until after the week-end. They've been very decent about it. Tina's staying over the week-end too," he said.

  He went to the window, looked out, walked across the room with hands in his pockets, gazing up at the book-shelves. He spoke then in a jerky, awkward voice.

  "You know, Dad, I do appreciate really all you've done for me. Just lately I've seen - well, I've seen how ungrateful I've always been."

  "There's never been any question of gratitude," said Leo Argyle. "You are my son, Micky. I have always regarded you as such."

  "An odd way of treating a son," said Micky. "You never bossed me about." Leo Argyle smiled, his remote, far-away smile.

  "Do you really think that's the only function of a father?" he said. "To boss his children about?"

  "No," said Micky, "no. I suppose it isn't." He went on, speaking in a rush. "I've been a damned fool," he said. "Yes. A damned fool. It's comic in a way. Do you know what I'd like to do, what I'm thinking of doing? Taking a job with an oil company out in the Persian Gulf. That was what Mother wanted to put me into to begin with - an oil company. But I wasn't having any then! Flung off on my own."

  "You were at the age," said Leo, "when you wanted to choose for yourself, and you hated the idea of anything being chosen for you. You've always been rather like that, Micky. If we wanted to buy you a red sweater, you insisted you wanted a blue one, but all the time it was probably a red one you wanted."

  "True enough," said Micky, with a short laugh. "I've been an unsatisfactory sort of creature always."

  "Just young," said Leo. "Just kicking up your heels. Apprehensive of the bridle, of the saddle, of control. We all feel like that at one time in our lives, but we have to come to it in the end?"

  "Yes, I suppose so," said Micky.

  "I'm very glad," said Leo, "that you have got this idea for the future. I don't think, you know, that just working as a car salesman and demonstrator is quite good enough for you. It's all right, but it doesn't lead anywhere."

  "I like cars," said Micky. "I like getting the best out of them. I can do a line of talk when I have to. Patter, patter, all the smarmy bits, but I don't enjoy the life, blast it. This is a job to do with motor transport, anyway. Controlling the servicing of cars. Quite an important job."

  "You know," said Leo, "that at any time you might want to finance yourself, to buy yourself into any business you thought worth while, the money is there, available. You know about the Discretionary Trust. I am quite prepared to authorise any necessary sum provided always that the business details are passed and acceptable. We would get expert opinion on that. But the money is there, ready for you if you want it."

  "Thanks, Dad, but I don't want to sponge on you."

  "There's no question of sponging, Micky, it's your money. Definitely made over to you in common with the others. All I have is the power of appointment, the when and the how. But it's not my money and I'm not giving it to you. It's yours."

  "It's Mother's money really," said Micky.

  "The Trust was made several years ago," said Leo.

  "I don't want any of it!" said Micky. "I don't want to touch it! I couldn't! As things are, I couldn't."

  He flushed suddenly as he met his father's eye. He said uncertainly: "I didn't -1 didn't quite mean to say that."

  "Why can't you touch it?" said Leo. "We adopted you. That is, we took full responsibility for you, financial and otherwise. It was a business arrangement that you should be brought up as our son and properly provided for in life."

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  "I want to stand on my own feet," Micky repeated.

  "Yes. I see you do... Very well, then, Micky, but if you change your mind, remember the money is there, waiting."

  "Thanks, Dad. It's good of you to understand. Or at least, not to understand, to let me have my way. I wish I could explain better. You see, I don't want to profit by -1 can't profit by - oh, dammit all, it's all too difficult to talk about."

  There was a knock on the door which was almost more a bump.

  "That's Philip, I expect," said Leo Argyle. "Will you open the door for him, Micky."

  Micky went across to open the door, and Philip, working his invalid chair, propelled himself into the room.

  He greeted them both with a cheerful grin.

  "Are you very busy, sir?" he asked Leo. "If so, say so. I'll keep quiet and not interruptyou and just browse along the bookshelves."

  "No," said Leo, "I have nothing to do this morning." "Gwenda not here?" asked Philip.

  "She rang up to say she had a headache and couldn't come today," said Leo. His voice was expressionless.

  "I see," said Philip.

  Micky said: "Well, I shall go and dig out Tina. Make her go for a walk. That girl hates fresh air."

  He left the room, walking with a light, springy step.

  "Am I wrong," asked Philip, "or is there a change in Micky lately? Not scowling at the world as much as usual, is he?"

  "He's growing up," said Leo. "It's taken rather a long time for him to do so."

  "Well, he's chosen a curious time to cheer up," said Philip. "Yesterday's session

  with the police wasn't exactly encouraging, did you think so?"

  Leo said quietly: "It's painful, of course, to have the whole case re-opened."

  "A chap like Micky now," said Philip, working his way along the book-shelves, pulling out a volume or two in a desultory manner, "would you say he had much of a conscience?"

  "That's an odd question, Philip."

  "No, not really. I was just wondering about him. It's like being tone deaf. Some people can't really feel any pangs of guilt or remorse, or even regret for their actions. Jacko didn't."

  "No," said Leo, "Jacko certainly didn't."

  "And I wondered about Micky," said Philip. He paused, and then went on in a detached voice. "Do you mind if I ask you a question, sir? How much really do you know about the background of all this adopted family of yours?"

  "Why do you want to know, Philip?"

  "Just curiosity, I suppose. One always wonders, you know, how much there is in heredity."

  Leo did not answer. Philip observed him with bright-eyed interest. "Perhaps," he said, "I'm bothering you asking these questions."

  "Well," said Leo, rising, "after all, why shouldn't you ask them? You're one of the family. They are at the moment, one can't disguise it, very pertinent questions to ask. But our family, as you put it, were not adopted in the usual regular sense of the term. Mary, your wife, was formally and legally adopted, but the others came to us in a much more informal manner. Jacko was an orphan and was handed over to us by an old grandmother. She was killed in the blitz and he stayed with us. It was as simple as that. Micky was illegitimate. His mother was only interested in men. She wanted 100 down and got it. We've never known what happened to Tina's mother. She never wrote to the child, she never claimed her after the war, and it was quite impossible to trace her."

  "And Hester?"

  "Hester was illegitimate too. Her mother was a young Irish hospital nurse. She married an American G.I. shortly after Hester came to us. She begged us to keep the child. She did not propose to tell her husband anything about its birth. She went to the States with her husband at the end of the war and we've never heard any more from her."

  "All tragic histories in a way," said Philip. "All poor unwanted little devils."

  "Yes," said Leo. "That's what made Rachel feel so passionately about them all. She was determined to make them feel wanted, to give them a real home, be a real mother to them."

  "It was a fine thing to do," said Philip.

  "Only - only it can never work out exactly as she hoped it might," said Leo. "It was an ar
ticle of faith with her that the blood tie didn't matter. But the blood tie does matter, you know. There is usually something in one's own children, some kink of temperament, some way of feeling that you recognise and can understand without having to put into words. You haven't got that tie with children you adopt. One has no instinctive knowledge of what goes on in their minds. You judge them, of course, by yourself, by your own thoughts and feelings, but it's wise to recognise that those thoughts and feelings may be very widely divergent from theirs."