Towards Zero

by Agatha Christie

  He came with a rush out of the shadows and caught her just as she was about to go over the edge!

  He said fiercely: “No you don’t….”

  It was just like holding a bird. She struggled—struggled silently, and then, again like a bird, was suddenly dead still.

  He said urgently:

  “Don’t throw yourself over! Nothing’s worth it. Nothing. Even if you are desperately unhappy—”

  She made a sound. It was, perhaps, a far-off ghost of a laugh.

  He said sharply:

  “You’re not unhappy? What is it then?”

  She answered him at once with the low softly breathed word:

  “Afraid.”

  “Afraid?” He was so astonished that he let her go, standing back a pace to see her better.

  He realized then the truth of her words. It was fear that had lent that urgency to her footsteps. It was fear that made her small white intelligent face blank and stupid. Fear that dilated those wide-apart eyes.

  He said incredulously: “What are you afraid of?”

  She replied so low that he hardly heard it.

  “I’m afraid of being hanged….”

  Yes, she had said just that. He stared and stared. He looked from her to the cliff’s edge.

  “So that’s why?”

  “Yes. A quick death instead of—” She closed her eyes and shivered. She went on shivering.

  MacWhirter was piecing things together logically in his mind.

  He said at last:

  “Lady Tressilian? The old lady who was murdered?” Then, accusingly: “You’ll be Mrs. Strange—the first Mrs. Strange.”

  Still shivering she nodded her head.

  MacWhirter went on in his slow careful voice, trying to remember all that he had heard. Rumour had been incorporated with fact.

  “They detained your husband—that’s right, isn’t it? A lot of evidence against him—and then they found that that evidence had been faked by someone….”

  He stopped and looked at her. She wasn’t shivering any longer. She was standing looking at him like a docile child. He found her attitude unendurably affecting.

  His voice went on:

  “I see…Yes, I see how it was…He left you for another woman, didn’t he? And you loved him…That’s why—” He broke off. He said, “I understand. My wife left me for another man….”

  She flung out her arms. She began stammering wildly, hopelessly:

  “It’s n-n-not—it’s n-n-not l-like that. N-not at all—”

  He cut her short. His voice was stern and commanding.

  “Go home. You needn’t be afraid any longer. D’you hear? I’ll see that you’re not hanged!”

  XV

  Mary Aldin was lying on the drawing room sofa. Her head ached and her whole body felt worn out.

  The inquest had taken place the day before and, after formal evidence of identification, had been adjourned for a week.

  Lady Tressilian’s funeral was to take place on the morrow. Audrey and Kay had gone into Saltington in the car to get some black clothes. Ted Latimer had gone with them. Nevile and Thomas Royde had gone for a walk, so except for the servants, Mary was alone in the house.

  Superintendent Battle and Inspector Leach had been absent today, and that, too, was a relief. It seemed to Mary that with their absence a shadow had been lifted. They had been polite, quite pleasant, in fact, but the ceaseless questions, that quiet deliberate probing and sifting of every fact was the sort of thing that wore hardly on the nerves. By now that wooden-faced Superintendent must have learned of every incident, every word, every gesture, even, of the past ten days.

  Now, with their going, there was peace. Mary let herself relax. She would forget everything—everything. Just lie back and rest.

  “Excuse me, Madam—”

  It was Hurstall in the doorway, looking apologetic.

  “Yes, Hurstall?”

  “A gentleman wishes to see you. I have put him in the study.”

  Mary looked at him in astonishment and some annoyance.

  “Who is it?”

  “He gave his name as Mr. MacWhirter, Miss.”

  “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “No, Miss.”

  “He must be a reporter. You shouldn’t have let him in, Hurstall.”

  Hurstall coughed.

  “I don’t think he is a reporter, Miss. I think he is a friend of Miss Audrey’s.”

  “Oh, that’s different.”

  Smoothing her hair, Mary went wearily across the hall and into the small study. She was, somehow, a little surprised as the tall man standing by the window turned. He did not look in the least like a friend of Audrey’s.

  However, she said pleasantly:

  “I’m sorry Mrs. Strange is out. You wanted to see her?”

  He looked at her in a thoughtful, considering way.

  “You’ll be Miss Aldin?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “I dare say you can help me just as well. I want to find some rope.”

  “Rope?” said Mary in lively amazement.

  “Yes, rope. Where would you be likely to keep a piece of rope?”

  Afterwards Mary considered that she had been half-hypnotized. If this strange man had volunteered any explanation she might have resisted. But Angus MacWhirter, unable to think of a plausible explanation, decided very wisely to do without one. He just stated quite simply what he wanted. She found herself, semi-dazed, leading MacWhirter in search of rope.

  “What kind of rope?” she had asked.

  And he had replied: “Any rope will do.”

  She said doubtfully: “Perhaps in the potting shed—”

  “Shall we go there?”

  She led the way. There was twine and an odd bit of cord, but MacWhirter shook his head.

  He wanted rope—a good-sized coil of rope.

  “There’s the boxroom,” said Mary hesitatingly.

  “Ay, that might be the place.”

  They went indoors and upstairs. Mary threw open the boxroom door. MacWhirter stood in the doorway looking in. He gave a curious sigh of contentment.

  “There it is,” he said.

  There was a big coil of rope lying on a chest just inside the door in company with old fishing tackle and some moth-eaten cushions. He laid a hand on her arm and impelled Mary gently forward until they stood looking down on the rope. He touched it and said:

  “I’d like you to charge your memory with this, Miss Aldin. You’ll notice that everything round about is covered with dust. There’s no dust on this rope. Just feel it.”

  She said:

  “It feels slightly damp,” in a surprised tone.

  “Just so.”

  He turned to go out again.

  “But the rope? I thought you wanted it?” said Mary in surprise.

  MacWhirter smiled.

  “I just wanted to know it was there. That’s all. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind locking this door, Miss Aldin—and taking the key out? Yes. I’d be obliged if you’d hand the key to Superintendent Battle or Inspector Leach. It would be best in their keeping.”

  As they went downstairs, Mary made an effort to rally herself.

  She protested as they reached the main hall:

  “But really, I don’t understand.”

  MacWhirter said firmly:

  “There’s no need for you to understand.” He took her hand and shook it heartily. “I’m very much obliged to you for your cooperation.”

  Whereupon he went straight out of the front door. Mary wondered if she had been dreaming!

  Nevile and Thomas came in presently and the car arrived back shortly afterwards and Mary Aldin found herself envying Kay and Ted for being able to look quite cheerful. They were laughing and joking together. After all, why not? she thought. Camilla Tressilian had been nothing to Kay. All this tragic business was very hard on a bright young creature.

  They had just finished lunch when the police came. There was something scared in Hurs
tall’s voice as he announced that Superintendent Battle and Inspector Leach were in the drawing room.

  Superintendent Battle’s face was quite genial as he greeted them.

  “Hope I haven’t disturbed you all,” he said apologetically. “But there are one or two things I’d like to know about. This glove, for instance, who does it belong to?”

  He held it out, a small yellow chamois leather glove.

  He addressed Audrey.

  “Is it yours, Mrs. Strange?”

  She shook her head.

  “No—no, it isn’t mine.”

  “Miss Aldin?”

  “I don’t think so. I have none of that colour.”

  “May I see?” Kay held out her hand. “No.”

  “Perhaps you’d just slip it on.”

  Kay tried, but the glove was too small.

  “Miss Aldin?”

  Mary tried in her turn.

  “It’s too small for you also,” said Battle. He turned back to Audrey. “I think you’ll find it fits you all right. Your hand is smaller than either of the other ladies’.”

  Audrey took it from him and slipped it on over her right hand.

  Nevile Strange said sharply:

  “She’s already told you, Battle, that it isn’t her glove.”

  “Ah well,” said Battle, “perhaps she made a mistake. Or forgot.”

  Audrey said: “It may be mine—gloves are so alike, aren’t they?”

  Battle said:

  “At any rate it was found outside your window, Mrs. Strange, pushed down into the ivy—with its fellow.”

  There was a pause. Audrey opened her mouth to speak, then closed it up again. Her eyes fell before the Superintendent’s steady gaze.

  Nevile sprang forward. “Look here, Superintendent—”

  “Perhaps we might have a word with you, Mr. Strange, privately?” Battle said gravely.

  “Certainly, Superintendent. Come into the library.”

  He led the way and the two police officers followed him.

  As soon as the door had closed Nevile said sharply:

  “What’s this ridiculous story about gloves outside my wife’s window?”

  Battle said quietly: “Mr. Strange, we’ve found some very curious things in this house.”

  Nevile frowned.

  “Curious? What do you mean by curious?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  In obedience to a nod, Leach left the room and came back holding a very strange implement.

  Battle said:

  “This consists, as you see, sir, of a steel ball taken from a Victorian fender—a heavy steel ball. Then the head has been sawed off a tennis racquet and the ball has been screwed into the handle of the racquet.” He paused. “I think there can be no doubt that this is what was used to kill Lady Tressilian.”

  “Horrible!” said Nevile with a shudder. “But where did you find this—this nightmare?”

  “The ball had been cleaned and put back on the fender. The murderer had, however, neglected to clean the screw. We found a trace of blood on that. In the same way the handle and the head of the racquet were joined together again by means of adhesive surgical plaster. It was then thrown carelessly back into the cupboard under the stairs, where it would probably have remained quite unnoticed amongst so many others if we hadn’t happened to be looking for something of that kind.”

  “Smart of you, Superintendent.”

  “Just a matter of routine.”

  “No fingerprints, I suppose?”

  “That racquet which belongs by its weight, I should say, to Mrs. Kay Strange, had been handled by her and also be you and both your prints are on it. But it also shows unmistakable signs that someone wearing gloves handled it after you did. There was just one fingerprint—left this time in inadvertence, I think. That was on the surgical strapping that had been applied to bind the racquet together again. I’m not going for the moment to say whose print that was. I’ve got some other points to mention first.”

  Battle paused, then he said:

  “I want you to prepare yourself for a shock, Mr. Strange. And first I want to ask you something. Are you quite sure that it was your own idea to have this meeting here and that it was not actually suggested to you by Mrs. Audrey Strange?”

  “Audrey did nothing of the sort, Audrey—”

  The door opened and Thomas Royde came in.

  “Sorry to butt in,” he said, “but I thought I’d like to be in on this.”

  Nevile turned a harassed face towards him.

  “Do you mind, old fellow? This is all rather private.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t care about that. You see, I heard a name outside.” He paused. “Audrey’s name.”

  “And what the Hell has Audrey’s name got to do with you?” demanded Nevile, his temper rising.

  “Well, what has it to do with you if it comes to that? I haven’t said anything definite to Audrey, but I came here meaning to ask her to marry me, and I think she knows it. What’s more, I mean to marry her.”

  Superintendent Battle coughed. Nevile turned to him with a start.

  “Sorry, Superintendent. This interruption—”

  Battle said:

  “It doesn’t matter to me, Mr. Strange. I’ve got one more question to ask you. That dark blue coat you wore at dinner the night of the murder, it’s got fair hairs inside the collar and on the shoulders? Do you know how they got there?”

  “I suppose they’re my hairs.”

  “Oh no, they’re not yours, sir. They’re a lady’s hairs, and there’s a red hair on the sleeve.”

  “I suppose that’s my wife’s—Kay’s. The others, you are suggesting, are Audrey’s. Very likely they are. I caught my cuff button in her hair one night outside on the terrace, I remember.”

  “In that case,” murmured Inspector Leach, “the fair hair would be on the cuff.”

  “What the devil are you suggesting?” cried Nevile.

  “There’s a trace of powder, too, inside the coat collar,” said Battle. “Primavera Naturelle No. 1—a very pleasant-scented powder and expensive—but it’s no good telling me that you use it, Mr. Strange, because I shan’t believe you. And Mrs. Strange uses Orchid Sun Kiss. Mrs. Audrey Strange does use Primavera Naturelle No. 1.”

  “What are you suggesting?” repeated Nevile.

  Battle leaned forward.

  “I’m suggesting that—on some occasion Mrs. Audrey Strange wore that coat. It’s the only reasonable way the hair and the powder could get where it did. Then you’ve seen that glove I produced just now? It’s her glove all right. That was the right hand, here’s the left.” He drew it out of his pocket and put it down on the table. It was crumpled and stained with rusty brown patches.

  Nevile said with a note of fear in his voice: “What’s that on it?”

  “Blood, Mr. Strange,” said Battle firmly. “And you’ll note this, it’s the left hand. Now Mrs. Audrey Strange is left-handed. I noted that first thing when I saw her sitting with her coffee cup in her right hand and her cigarette in her left at the breakfast table. And the pen tray on her writing table had been shifted to the left-hand side. It all fits in. The knob from her grate, the gloves outside her window, the hair and powder on the coat. Lady Tressilian was struck on the right temple—but the position of the bed made it impossible for anyone to have stood on the other side of it. It follows that to strike Lady Tressilian a blow with the right hand would be a very awkward thing to do—but it’s the natural way to strike for a left-handed person….”

  Nevile laughed scornfully.

  “Are you suggesting that Audrey—Audrey would make all these elaborate preparations and strike down an old lady whom she had known for years in order to get her hands on that old lady’s money?”

  Battle shook his head.

  “I’m suggesting nothing of the sort. I’m sorry, Mr. Strange, you’ve got to understand just how things are. This crime, first, last, and all the time was directed against you. Ever since you left h
er, Audrey Strange has been brooding over the possibilities of revenge. In the end she has become mentally unbalanced. Perhaps she was never mentally very strong. She thought, perhaps, of killing you but that wasn’t enough. She thought at last of getting you hanged for murder. She chose an evening when she knew you had quarrelled with Lady Tressilian. She took the coat from your bedroom and wore it when she struck the old lady down so that it should be bloodstained. She put your niblick on the floor, knowing we would find your fingerprints on it, and smeared blood and hair on the head of the club. It was she who instilled into your mind the idea of coming here when she was here. And the thing that saved you was the one thing she couldn’t count on—the fact that Lady Tressilian rang her bell for Barrett and that Barrett saw you leave the house.”

  Nevile had buried his face in his hands. He said now:

  “It’s not true. It’s not true! Audrey’s never borne a grudge against me. You’ve got the whole thing wrong. She’s the straightest, truest creature—without thought of evil in her heart.”

  Battle sighed.

  “It’s not my business to argue with you, Mr. Strange. I only wanted to prepare you. I shall caution Mrs. Strange and ask her to accompany me. I’ve got the warrant. You’d better see about getting a solicitor for her.”

  “It’s preposterous. Absolutely preposterous.”

  “Love turns to hate more easily than you think, Mr. Strange.”

  “I tell you it’s all wrong—preposterous.”

  Thomas Royde broke in. His voice was quiet and pleasant.

  “Do stop repeating that it’s preposterous, Nevile. Pull yourself together. Don’t you see that the only thing that can help Audrey now is for you to give up all your ideas of chivalry and come out with the truth?”

  “The truth? You mean—?”

  “I mean the truth about Audrey and Adrian.” Royde turned to the police officers. “You see, Superintendent, you’ve got the facts wrong. Nevile didn’t leave Audrey. She left him. She ran away with my brother Adrian. Then Adrian was killed in a car accident. Nevile behaved with the utmost chivalry to Audrey. He arranged that she should divorce him and that he would take the blame.”

  “Didn’t want her name dragged through the mud,” muttered Nevile sulkily. “Didn’t know anyone knew.”