Agatha Christie - Hickory Dickory Dock

Valerie was cool, elegant and wary. She displayed much less nervousness than either of the men had done. She had been fond of Celia, she said.

Celia was not particularly bright and it was rather pathetic the way she had set her heart on Colin McNabb.

"Do you think she was a kleptomaniac, Miss Hobhouse?"

"Well, I suppose so. I don't really know much about the subject."

"Do you think anyone had put her up to doing what she did?" Valerie shrugged her shoulders.

"You mean in order to attract that pompous ass Colin?"

"You're very quick on the point, Miss Hobhouse. Yes, that's what I mean. You didn't suggest it to her yourself, I suppose?" Valerie looked amused.

"Well, hardly, my dear man, considerin-, that a particular favourite scarf of mine was cut to ribbons. I'm not so altruistic as that."

"Do you think anybody else suggested it to her?"

"I should hardly think so. I should say it was just natural on her part."

"What do you mean by natural?"

"Well, I first had a suspicion that it was Celia when all the fuss happened about Sally's shoe. Celia was jealous of Sally. Sally Finch, I'm talking about. She's far and away the most attractive girl here and Colin paid her a fair amount of attention. So on the night of this party Sally's shoe disappears and she has to go in an old black dress and black shoes. There was Celia lookin, as smug as a cat that's swallowed cream about it. Mind you, I didn't suspect her of all these petty thievings of bracelets and compacts."

"Who did you think was responsible for those?" Valerie shrugged her shoulders.

"Oh, I don't know. One of the cleaning women, I thought."

"And the slashed rucksack?"

"Was there a slashed rucksack? I'd forgotten. That seems very pointless."

"You've been here a good long time, haven't you, Miss Hobhouse?"

"Well, yes. I should say I'm probably the oldest inhabitant. That is to say, I've been here about two years and a half, now."

"So you probably know more about this hostel than anybody else?"

"I should say so, yes."

"Have you any ideas of your own about Celia Austin's death? Any idea of the motive that underlay it?" Valerie shook her bead. Her face was serious now.

"No," she said. "It was a horrible thing to happen. I can't see anybody who could possibly have wanted Celia to die. She was a nice, harmless child, and she'd just got engaged to be married, and..."

"Yes. And?" the Inspector prompted.

"I wondered if that was why," said Valerie slowly. "Because she'd jot engaged. Because she was going to be happy. But that means, doesn't it, somebody well-mad." She said the word with a little shiver, and Inspector Sharpe looked at her thoughtfully.

"Yes," he said. "We can't quite rule out madness." He went on, "Have you any theory about the damage done to Elizabeth Johnston's notes and papers?"

"No. That was a spiteful thing, too. I don't believe for a moment that Celia would do a thing like that."

"Any idea who it could have been?"

"Well… Not a reasonable idea."

"But an unreasonable one?"

"You don't want to hear something that's just a hunch, do you, Inspector?"

"I'd like to hear a hunch very much. I'll accept it as such, and it'll only be between ourselves."

"Well, I may probably be quite wrong, but I've got a sort of idea that it was Patricia Lane's work."

"Indeed! Now you do surprise me, Miss Hobhouse. I shouldn't have thought of Patricia Lane. She seems to be very well balanced, amiable young lady."

"I don't say she did do it. I just had a sort of idea she might have done."

"For what reason in particular?"

"Well, Patricia disliked Black Bess. Black Bess was always ticking off Patricia's beloved Nigel, putting him right, you know, when he made silly statements in the way he does sometimes."

"You think it was more likely to have been Patricia Lane than Nigel himself?"

"Oh, yes. I don't think Nigel would bother, and he'd certainly not go using his own pet brand of ink. He's got plenty of brains. But it's just the sort of stupid thing that Patricia would do without thinking that it might involve her precious Nigel as a suspect."

"Or again, it might be somebody who had a down on Nigel Chapman and wanted to suggest that it was his doing?"

"Yes, that's another possibility."

"Who dislikes Nigel Chapman?"

"Oh, well, Jean Tomlinson for one. And he and Len Bateson are always scrapping a good deal."

"Have you any ideas, Miss Hobhouse, how morphia could have been administered to Celia Austin?"

"I've been thinking and thinking. Of course, I suppose the coffee is the most obvious way.

We were all milling around in the Common Room. Celia's coffee was on a small table near her and she always waited until her coffee was nearly cold before she drank it. I suppose anybody who had sufficient nerve could have dropped a tablet or something into her cup without being seen, but it would be rather a risk to take. I mean, it's the sort of thing that might be noticed quite easily."

"The morphia," said Inspector Sharpe, "was not in tablet form."

"What was it? Powder?"

"Yes." Valerie frowned.

"That would be rather more difficult, wouldn't it?"

"Anything else-besides coffee you can think of?"

"She sometimes had a glass of hot milk before she went to bed. I don't tldnk she did that night, though."

"Can you describe to me exactly what happened that evening in the Common Room?"

"Well, as I say, we all sat about, talked, somebody turned the wireless on. Most of the boys, I think, went out. Celia went up to bed fairly early and so did Jean Tomlinson. Sally and I sat on there fairly late. I was writing letters and Sally was mugging over some notes. I rather think I was the last to go up to bed."

"It was just a casual evening, in fact?"

"Absolutely, Inspector."

"Thank you, Miss Hobbouse. Will you send Miss Lane to me now?" Patricia Lane looked worried, but not apprehensive. Questions and answers elicited nothing very new. Asked about the damage to Elizabeth Johnston's papers Patricia said that she had no doubt that Celia had been responsible.

"But she denied it, Miss Lane, very vehemently."

"Well, of course," said Patricia. "She would. I think she was ashamed of having done it. But it fits in, doesn't it, with all the other thins?"

"Do you know what I find about this case, Miss Lane? That nothing fits in very well."

"I suppose," said Patricia, flushing, "that you think it was Nigel who messed up Bess's papers. Because of the ink. That's such absolute nonsense. I mean, Nigel wouldn't have used his own ink if he'd done a thing like that. He wouldn't be such a fool. But anyway, he wouldn't do it."

"He didn't always get on very well with Miss Johnston, did he?"

"Oh, she had an annoying manner sometimes, but he didn't really mind." Patricia Lane leaned forward earnestly. "I would like to try. and make you understand one or two things, Inspector. About Nigel Chapman, I mean. You see, Nigel is really very much his own worst enemy. I'm the first to admit that he's got a very difficult manner. It prejudices people against him. He's rude and sarcastic and makes fun of people, and so he puts people's backs up and they think the worst of him. But really he's quite different from what he seems. He's one of those shy, rather unhappy people who really want to be liked but who, from a kind of spirit of contradiction, find themselves saying and doing the opposite to what they mean to say and do."

"Ah," said Inspector Sharpe. "Rather unfortunate for them, that."

"Yes, but they really can't help it, you know. It comes from having had an unfortunate childhood.

Nigel had a very unhapy home life. His father was very harsh and severe and never understood him. And his father treated his mother very badly. After she died they bad the most terrific quarrel and Nigel flung out of the house and his father said that he'd never give him a penny and he must get on as well as be could without any help from him. Nigel said he didn't want any help from his father; and wouldn't take it if it was offered.