Agatha Christie - Ordeal by Innocence

"I don't want to go home," said Philip. He spoke rather like a petulant small boy.

That is what children say," said Kirsten. "They say I don't want to do this and I don't want to do that, but those who know more of life, who see better what is happening, have to coax them to do what they do not want to do."

"So this is your idea of coaxing, is it?" said Philip. "Giving me orders."

"No, I do not give you orders. I only advise you." She sighed. "I would advise all of them the same way. Micky should go back to his work as Tina has gone back to her library. I am glad Hester has gone. She should be somewhere where she is not continually reminded of all this."

"Yes," said Philip. "I agree with you there. You're right about Hester. But what about you yourself, Kirsten? Oughtn't you to go away too?"

"Yes," said Kirsten with a sigh. "I ought to go away."

"Why don't you?"

"You would not understand. It is too late for me to go away."

Philip looked at her thoughtfully. Then he said: "There are so many variations, aren't there — variations on a single theme. Leo thinks Gwenda did it, Gwenda thinks Leo did it. Tina knows something that makes her suspect who did it. Micky knows who did it but doesn't care. Mary thinks Hester did it." He paused and then went on, "But the truth is, Kirsty, that those are only variations on a theme as I said. We know who did it quite well, don't we, Kirsty. You and I?"

She shot a quick, horrified glance at him.

"I thought as much," said Philip exultantly.

"What do you mean?" said Kirsten. "What are you trying to say?"

"I don't really know who did it," said Philip. "But you do. You don't only think you know who did it, you actually do know. I'm right, aren't I?"

Kirsten marched to the door. She opened it, then turned back and spoke.

"It is not a polite thing to say, but I will say it. You are a fool, Philip. What you are trying to do is dangerous. You understand one kind of danger. You have been a pilot. You have faced death up there in the sky. Can you not see that if you get anywhere near the truth, you are in just as great danger as you ever were in the war?"

"And what about you, Kirsty? If you know the truth, aren't you in danger too?"

"I can take care of myself," said Kirsten grimly. "I can be on my guard. But you, Philip, are in an invalid chair and helpless. Think of that! Besides," she added, "I do not air my views. I am content to let things be — because I honestly think that that is best for everyone. If everyone would go away and attend to their own business, then there would be no further trouble. If I am asked, I have my official view. I say still that it was Jacko."

"Jacko?" Philip stared.

"Why not? Jacko was clever. Jacko could plan a thing and be sure he would not suffer from the consequences. Often he did that as a child. After all, to fake an alibi. Is that not done every day?"

"He couldn't have faked this one. Dr. Calgary –"

"Dr. Calgary — Dr. Calgary," said Kirsten with impatience, "because he is well known, because he has a famous name, you say, 'Dr. Calgary' as though he were God! But let me tell you this. When you have had concussion as he had concussion, things may be quite different from the way you remember them. It may have been a different day — a different time — a different place!"

Philip looked at her, his head slightly on one side.

"So that's your story," he said. "And you're sticking to it. A very creditable attempt. But you don't believe it yourself, do you, Kirsty?"

"I've warned you," said Kirsten, "I can't do more."

She turned away, then popped her head in again to say in her usual matter-of-fact voice: "Tell Mary I have put the clean washing away in the second drawer there."

Philip smiled a little at the anti-climax, then the smile died away…

His sense of inner excitement grew. He had a feeling he was getting very near indeed. His experiment with Kirsten had been highly satisfactory, but he doubted that he would get any more out of her. Her solicitude for him irritated him. Just because he was a cripple did not mean that he was as vulnerable as she made out. He, too, could be on his guard — and for heaven's sake, wasn't he watched over incessantly? Mary hardly ever left his side.

He drew a sheet of paper towards him and began to write. Brief notes, names, question marks A vulnerable spot to probe…

Suddenly he nodded his head and wrote: "Tina…"

He thought about it…

Then he drew another sheet of paper towards him.

When Mary came in, he hardly looked up.

"What are you doing, Philip?"

"Writing a letter."

"To Hester?"

"Hester? No. I don't even know where she's staying. Kirsty just had a postcard from her with London written at the top, that was all."

He grinned at her.

"I believe you're jealous, Polly. Are you?"

Her eyes, blue and cold, looked into his.

"Perhaps."

He felt a little uncomfortable.

"Who are you writing to?" She came a step nearer.

"The Public Prosecutor," said Philip cheerfully, though within him a cold anger stirred. Couldn't a fellow write a letter, even, without being questioned about it?

Then he saw her face and he relented.

"Only a joke, Polly. I'm writing to Tina."

"To Tina? Why?"

"Tina's my next line of attack. Where are you going, Polly?"

"To the bathroom," said Mary as she went out of the room.

Philip laughed. To the bathroom, as on the night of the murder… He laughed again as he remembered their conversation about it.

II

"Come on, sonny," said Superintendent Huish encouragingly. "Let's hear all about it."

Master Cyril Green took a deep breath. Before he could speak, his mother interposed.

"As you might say, Mr. Huish, I didn't take much notice at the time. You know what these children are. Always talking and thinking about space ships and things. And he comes home to me and he says, 'Mum, I've seen a sputnik, it's come down.' Well, I mean, before that it was flying saucers. It's always something. It's these Russians that go putting things into their heads."

Superintendent Huish sighed and thought how much easier it would be if mothers would not insist on accompanying their sons and talking for them.

"Come on, Cyril," he said, "you went home and told your Mum — that's right, isn't it? — that you'd seen this Russian sputnik — whatever it was."

"Didn't know no better then," said Cyril. "I was only a kid then. That's two years ago. Course, I know better now."

"Them bubble cars," his mother put in, "was quite new at the time. There hadn't been one about locally, so naturally when he saw it — and bright red too – he didn't realise as it was just an ordinary car. And when we heard the next morning as Mrs. Argyle had been done in, Cyril he says to me, 'Mum,' he says, 'it's them Russians,' he says, 'they come down in that sputnik of theirs and they must have got in and killed her.' 'Don't talk such nonsense,' I said. And then of course later in the day we hear her own son has been arrested for having done it"

Superintendent Huish addressed himself patiently once more to Cyril. "It was in the evening, I understand? What time, do you remember?"

"I'd had me tea," said Cyril, breathing hard in the effort of remembrance, "and Mum was out at the Institute, so I went out again a bit with the boys and we larked around a bit up that way down the new road."

"And what was you doing there, I'd like to know," his mother put in.

P.С Good, who'd brought in this promising piece of evidence, interposed. He knew well enough what Cyril and the boys had been doing down the new road. The disappearance of chrysanthemums had been angrily reported from several householders there, and he knew well enough that the bad characters of the village surreptitiously encouraged the younger generation to supply them with flowers which they themselves took to market. This was not the moment, P.C. Good knew, to go into past cases of delinquency. He said heavily: "Boys is boys, Mrs. Green, they gets larking around."