Agatha Christie - The Moving Finger

I said, "What are you planning to do with her?"

"With Megan?" He seemed rather startled. "Well, she'll go on living at home. I mean, naturally, it is her home."

My grandmother, of whom I had been very fond, used to sing old-fashioned songs to her guitar. One of them, I remember, ended thus:

"Oh, maid most dear, I am not here,

I have no place, no part,

No dwelling more, by sea nor shore,

But only in your heart."

I went home humming it.

Emily Barton came just after tea had been cleared away. I wanted to talk about the garden.

We talked garden for about half an hour. Then we turned back toward the hothouse.

It was then that, lowering her voice, she murmured, "I do hope that that child – that, she hasn't been too much upset by all his dreadful business?"

"Her mother's death, you mean?

"That, of course. But I really meant, the – the unpleasantness behind it."

I was curious. I wanted Miss Barton's reaction.

"What do you think about that? Was it true?"

"Oh, no, no, surely not. I'm quite sure that – Mrs. Symmington never – that he wasn't -" little Emily Barton was pink and confused – "I mean it's quite untrue – although of course it may have been a judgement."

"Judgement?" I said, staring.

Emily Barton was very pink, very Dresden-china-shepherdess-like.

"I cannot help feeling that all these dreadful letters, all the sorrow and pain they have caused, may have been sent for a purpose."

"They were sent for a purpose, certainly," I said grimly.

"No, no, Mr. Burton, you misunderstand me. I'm not talking of the misguided creature who wrote them – someone quite abandoned that must be. I mean that they have been permitted – by Providence! To awaken us to a sense of our shortcomings."

"Surely," I said, "the Almighty could choose a less unsavoury weapon."

Miss Emily murmured that God moved in a mysterious way.

"No," I said. "There's too much tendency to attribute to God the evils that man does of his own free will. I might concede you the Devil. God doesn't really need to punish us, Miss Barton. We're so very busy punishing ourselves."

"What I can't make out is why should anyone want to do such a thing?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"A warped mentality."

"It seems very sad."

"It doesn't seem to me sad. It seems to me just damnable. And I don't apologise for the word. I mean just that."

The pink had gone out of Miss Barton's cheeks. They were very white.

"But why, Mr. Burton, why? What pleasure can anyone get out of it?"

"Nothing you and I can understand, thank goodness."

Emily Barton lowered her voice:

"Nothing of this kind has ever happened before – never in my memory. It has been such a happy little community. What would my dear mother have said? Well, one must be thankful that she has been spared."

I thought from all I had heard that old Mrs. Barton had been sufficiently tough to have taken anything, and would probably have enjoyed this sensation.

Emily went on "It distresses me deeply."

"Haven't you re-re-received anything?"

She went red again.

"Oh, no, no. That would have been awful."

I hastened to apologise, but she withdrew seeming a bit annoyed.

I went into the house. Joanna was standing in front of the fireplace in the living room that she had just lit, for the evenings were still cool. In her hands there was an open letter.

When I came in she turned her head quickly.

"Jerry! I found this in the mailbox. It begins thus: 'You shameless whore…'"

"What else?"

Joanna made a face:

"The usual filth."

She threw the letter into the fire. With a quick dash that hurt my back I was able to retrieve it before it hit the flames.

"Don't do this." I said. "We might need it."

"Need it?"

"For the police."

Superintendent Nash came to see me the next morning. I liked him at first sight. He was a top quality criminal investigator. Tall, with a military way, he looked tranquil and objective, besides being very simple.

"Good morning, Mr. Burton," he said. "I expect you know why I am calling."

"Yes indeed. The letter."

He nodded his head.

"You got one, right?"

"Yes, immediately after we arrived here."

"What did it say exactly?"

I thought a minute, then conscientiously repeated the wording of the letter as closely as possible.

The superintendent listened with an immovable face, showing no signs of any kind of emotion.

When I had finished, he said, "I see. You didn't keep the letter, Mr. Burton?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't. You see, I thought it was just an isolated instance of spite against newcomers to the place."

The superintendent inclined his head comprehendingly.

"A pity," he said briefly.

"However," I said, "my sister got one yesterday. I just stopped her butting it in the fire."

"Thank you, Mr. Burton, that was thoughtful of you."

I went across to the desk and unlocked the drawer in which I had put it. It was just, I thought, very suitable for Partridge's eyes. I gave it to Nash.

He read it through. Then he looked up and asked:

"Is this the same appearance as the last one?"

"I think so – as far as I can remember."

"The same difference between the envelope and the text?"

"Yes," I said.

"The envelope was typed. The letter itself had printed words pasted onto a sheet of paper."

Nash folded and put it in his pocket. Then he said:

"I wonder, Mr. Burton, if you would mind coming down to the station with me? We could have a conference there and it would save a good deal of tire and overlapping."

"Certainly," I said. "You would like me to come now?"

"If you don't mind."

There was a police car at the door. We drove down in it.

I said, "Do you think you'll be able to get to the bottom of this?"

Nash nodded with easy confidence. "Oh, yes, we'll get to the bottom of it all right. It's a question of time and routine. They're slow, these cases, but they're pretty sure. It's a matter of narrowing things down."

"Elimination?" I said.

"Yes. And general routine."

"Watching post boxes, examining typewriters, fingerprints, all that?"

He smiled. "As you say."

At the police station I found Symmington and Griffith were already there. I was introduced to a tall, lantern-jawed man in plain clothes, Inspector Graves.

"Inspector Graves," explained Nash, "has come down from London to help us. He's an expert on anonymous letter cases."

Inspector Graves smiled mournfully. I reflected that a life spent in the pursuit of anonymous letter writers must be singularly depressing. Inspector Graves, however, showed a kind of melancholy enthusiasm.

"They're all the same, these cases," he said in a deep lugubrious voice like a depressed bloodhound. "You'd be surprised. The wording of the letters and the things they say."

"We had a case just on two years ago," said Nash. "Inspector Graves helped us then."

Some of the letters, I saw, were spread out on the table in front of Graves. He had evidently been examining them.

"Difficulty is," said Nash, "to get hold of the letters. Either people put them in the fire, or they won't admit to having received anything of the kind. Stupid, you see, and afraid of being mixed up with the police. They're a backward lot here."

"Still we've got a fair amount to get on with," said Graves.

Nash took the letter I had given him from the pocket and tossed it over to Graves.

The latter glanced through it, laid it with the others and observed approvingly, "Very nice, very nice indeed…"

It was not the way I should have chosen to describe the epistle in question, but experts, I suppose, have their own point of view. I was glad that that piece of paper with obscene abuse gave somebody pleasure.