Agatha Christie - Spider's Web

"Sorry, but I was starving," he said, sounding not at all sorry.

"I don't see why you should be," she reprimanded him. "You've had dinner. I haven't."

Jeremy perched on the back of the sofa. "No, I haven't had any dinner either," he told her. "I was practising approach shots. I only came into the dining-room just after your telephone call came."

"Oh, I see," Clarissa replied nonchalantly. She bent over the back of the sofa to pat the cushion. Suddenly her eyes widened. In a deeply moved voice she repeated, "I see. You – it was you."

"What do you mean," asked Jeremy.

"You!" Clarissa repeated, almost to herself.

"What do you mean by 'You'?"

Clarissa looked him in the eye. "What were you doing with that cushion when I came into the room?" she asked.

He laughed. "I told you. I was covering up Pippa's feet. They were cold."

"Were you? Is that really what you were going to do? Or were you going to put that cushion over her mouth?"

"Clarissa!" he exclaimed indignantly. "What a ridiculous thing to say!"

"I was certain that none of us could have killed Oliver Costello. I said so to everyone," Clarissa recalled. "But one of us could have killed him. You. You were out on the golf course alone. You could have come back to the house, got in through the library window, which you'd left open, and you had your golf club still in your hand. Of course. That's what Pippa saw. That's what she meant when she said, 'A golf stick like Jeremy had.' She saw you."

"That's absolute nonsense, Clarissa," Jeremy objected, with a poor attempt at a laugh.

"No, it isn't," she insisted. "Then, after you'd killed Oliver, you went back to the club and rang the police so that they would come here, find the body, and think it was Henry or I who had killed him."

Jeremy leaped to his feet. "What bloody rubbish!" he declared.

"It's not rubbish. It's true. I know it's true," Clarissa exclaimed. "But why? That's what I don't understand. Why?"

They stood facing each other in tense silence for a few moments. Then Jeremy gave a deep sigh. He took from his pocket the envelope that had contained the autographs. He held it out to Clarissa, but did not let her take it. "This is what it's all about," he told her.

Clarissa glanced at it. "That's the envelope the autographs were kept in, " she said.

"There's a stamp on it," Jeremy explained quietly. "It's what's known as an error stamp. Printed in the wrong colour. One from Sweden sold last year for fourteen thousand three hundred pounds."

"So that's it," Clarissa gasped, stepping backwards.

"This stamp came into Sellon's possession," Jeremy continued. "He wrote to my boss Sir Kenneth about it. But it was I who opened the letter. I came down and saw Sellon..."

He paused, and Clarissa completed his sentence for him: "... and killed him."

Jeremy nodded without saying anything.

"But you couldn't find the stamp," Clarissa guessed aloud, backing away from him.

"You're right again," Jeremy admitted. "It wasn't in the shop, so I felt sure it must be here, in his house."

He began to move towards Clarissa, as she continued to back away. "Tonight I thought Costello had beaten me to it."

"And so you killed him, too," said Clarissa.

Jeremy nodded again.

"And just now, you would have killed Pippa?" she gasped.

"Why not?" he replied blandly.

"I can't believe it," Clarissa told him.

"My dear Clarissa, fourteen thousand pounds is a great deal of money," he observed with a smile that contrived to be both apologetic and sinister.

"But why are you telling me this?" she asked, sounding both perplexed and anxious. "Do you imagine for one moment that I shan't go to the police?"

"You've told them so many lies, they'll never believe you," he replied off-handedly.

"Oh yes, they will."

"Besides," Jeremy continued, advancing upon her, "you're not going to get the chance. Do you think that when I've killed two people I shall worry about killing a third?"

He gripped Clarissa by the throat, and she screamed.

CLARISSA'S SCREAM was answered immediately. Sir Rowland came in swiftly from the hall, switching on the wall-brackets as he did so, while Constable Jones rushed into the room through the French windows, and the Inspector hurried in from the library.

The Inspector grabbed Jeremy. "All right, Warrender. We've heard it all, thank you," he announced. "And that's just the evidence we need," he added. "Give me that envelope."

Clarissa backed behind the sofa, holding her throat, and Jeremy handed the envelope to the Inspector, observing coolly, "So it was a trap, was it? Very clever."

"Jeremy Warrender," said the Inspector, "I arrest you for the murder of Oliver Costello, and I must warn you that anything you say may be taken down and given in evidence."

"You can save your breath, Inspector." was Jeremy's smoothly uttered reply. "I'm not saying anything. It was a good gamble, but it just didn't work."

"Take him away," the Inspector instructed Constable Jones, who took Jeremy by the arm.

"What's the matter, Mr. Jones? Forgotten your handcuffs?" Jeremy asked coldly as his right arm was twisted behind his back and he was marched off through the French windows.

Shaking his head sadly, Sir Rowland watched him go, and then turned to Clarissa. "Are you all right, my dear?" he asked her anxiously.

"Yes, yes, I'm all right," Clarissa replied somewhat breathlessly.

"I never meant to expose you to this," Sir Rowland said apologetically.

She looked at him shrewdly. "You knew it was Jeremy, didn't you?" she asked.

The Inspector added his voice. "But what made you think of the stamp, sir?"

Sir Rowland approached Inspector Lord and took the envelope from him. "Well, Inspector," he began, "it rang a bell when Pippa gave me the envelope this evening. Then, when I found from Who's Who that young Warrender's employer, Sir Kenneth Thomson, was a stamp collector, my suspicion developed, and just now, when he had the impertinence to pocket the envelope under my nose, I felt it was a certainty."

He returned the envelope to the Inspector. "Take great care of this, Inspector. You'll probably find it's extremely valuable, besides being evidence."

"It's evidence, all right," replied the Inspector. "A particularly vicious young criminal is going to get his deserts." Walking across to the hall door, he continued, "However, we've still got to find the body."

"Oh, that's easy, Inspector," Clarissa assured him. "Look in the bed in the spare room."

The Inspector turned and regarded her disapprovingly. "Now, really, Mrs. Hailsham-Brown – " he began.

He was interrupted by Clarissa. "Why does nobody ever believe me?" she cried plaintively. "It is in the spare-room bed. You go and look, Inspector. Across the bed, under the bolster. Miss Peake put it there, trying to be kind."

"Trying to be... ?" The Inspector broke off, clearly at a loss for words. He went to the door, turned, and said reproachfully, "You know, Mrs. Hailsham-Brown, you haven't made things easier for us tonight, telling us all these tall stories. I suppose you thought your husband had done it, and were lying to cover up for him. But you shouldn't do it, madam. You really shouldn't do it." With a final shake of his head, he left the room.

"Well!" Clarissa exclaimed indignantly. She turned towards the sofa. "Oh, Pippa..." she remembered.

"Better get her up to bed," Sir Rowland advised. "She'll be safe now." Gently shaking the child, Clarissa said softly, "Come on, Pippa. Ups-a-daisy. Time you were in bed."

Pippa got up, waveringly. "I'm hungry," she murmured.

"Yes, yes, I'm sure you are," Clarissa assured her as she led her to the hall door. "Come on, we'll see what we can find."