Agatha Christie - Double Sin and Other Stories

“Now,” she said in an indescribable voice, “I am ready.”

The minutes passed. From behind the curtain the sound of Simone’s breathing became heavier and more stertorous. Then it died away altogether, to be succeeded by a series of moans. Then again there was silence for a little while, broken by the sudden clattering of the tambourine. The horn was caught up from the table and dashed to the ground. Ironic laughter was heard. The curtains of the alcove seemed to have been pulled back a little, the medium’s figure was just visible through the opening, her head fallen forward on her breast. Suddenly Madame Exe drew in her breath sharply. A ribbonlike stream of mist was issuing from the medium’s mouth. It condensed and began gradually to assume a shape, the shape of a little child.

“Amelie! My little Amelie!”

The hoarse whisper came from Madame Exe. The hazy figure condensed still further. Raoul stared almost incredulously. Never had there been a more successful materialization. Now, surely it was a real child, a real flesh and blood child standing there.

“Maman!”

The soft childish voice spoke.

“My child!” cried Madame Exe. “My child!”

She half rose from her seat.

“Be careful, Madame,” cried Raoul warningly.

The materialization came hesitatingly through the curtains. It was a child. She stood there, her arms held out.

“Maman!”

“Ah!” cried Madame Exe.

Again she half rose from her seat.

“Madame,” cried Raoul, alarmed, “the medium—”

“I must touch her,” cried Madame Exe hoarsely.

She moved a step forward.

“For God’s sake, Madame, control yourself,” cried Raoul.

He was really alarmed now.

“Sit down at once.”

“My little one, I must touch her.”

“Madame, I command you, sit down!”

He was writhing desperately in his bonds, but Madame Exe had done her work well; he was helpless. A terrible sense of impending disaster swept over him.

“In the name of God, Madame, sit down!” he shouted. “Remember the medium.”

Madame Exe turned on him with a harsh laugh.

“What do I care for your medium?” she cried. “I want my child.”

“You are mad!”

“My child, I tell you. Mine! My own! My own flesh and blood! My little one come back to me from the dead, alive and breathing.”

Raoul opened his lips, but no words would come. She was terrible, this woman! Remorseless, savage, absorbed by her own passion. The baby lips parted, and for the third time the word echoed:

“Maman!”

“Come then, my little one,” cried Madame Exe.

With a sharp gesture she caught up the child in her arms. From behind the curtains came a long-drawn scream of utter anguish.

“Simone!” cried Raoul. “Simone!”

He was aware vaguely of Madame Exe rushing past him, of the unlocking of the door, of the retreating footsteps down the stairs.

From behind the curtains there still sounded the terrible high long-drawn scream—such a scream as Raoul had never heard. It died away with a horrible kind of gurgle. Then there came the thud of a body falling. . . .

Raoul was working like a maniac to free himself from his bonds. In his frenzy he accomplished the impossible, snapping the cord by sheer strength. As he struggled to his feet, Elise rushed in crying “Madame!”

“Simone!” cried Raoul.

Together they rushed forward and pulled the curtain.

Raoul staggered back.

“My God!” he murmured. “Red—all red. . . .”

Elise’s voice came beside him harsh and shaking.

“So Madame is dead. It is ended. But tell me, Monsieur, what has happened. Why is Madame all shrunken away —why is she half her usual size? What has been happening here?”

“I do not know,” said Raoul.

His voice rose to a scream.

“I do not know. I do not know. But I think—I am going mad . . . Simone! Simone!”

Eight

The vicar’s wife came round the corner of the vicarage with her arms full of chrysanthemums. A good deal of rich garden soil was attached to her strong brogue shoes and a few fragments of earth were adhering to her nose, but of that fact she was perfectly unconscious.

She had a slight struggle in opening the vicarage gate which hung, rustily, half off its hinges. A puff of wind caught at her battered felt hat, causing it to sit even more rakishly than it had done before. “Bother!” said Bunch.

Christened by her optimistic parents Diana, Mrs. Harmon had become Bunch at an early age for somewhat obvious reasons and the name had stuck to her ever since. Clutching the chrysanthemums, she made her way through the gate to the churchyard, and so to the church door.

The November air was mild and damp. Clouds scudded across the sky with patches of blue here and there. Inside, the church was dark and cold; it was unheated except at service times.

“Brrrrrh!” said Bunch expressively. “I’d better get on with this quickly. I don’t want to die of cold.”

With the quickness born of practice she collected the necessary paraphernalia: vases, water, flower holders. “I wish we had lilies,” thought Bunch to herself. “I get so tired of these scraggy chrysanthemums.” Her nimble fingers arranged the blooms in their holders.

There was nothing particularly original or artistic about the decorations, for Bunch Harmon herself was neither original nor artistic, but it was a homely and pleasant arrangement. Carrying the vases carefully, Bunch stepped up the aisle and made her way towards the altar. As she did so the sun came out.

It shone through the east window of somewhat crude coloured glass, mostly blue and red—the gift of a wealthy Victorian churchgoer. The effect was almost startling in its sudden opulence. “Like jewels,” thought Bunch. Suddenly she stopped, staring ahead of her. On the chancel steps was a huddled dark form.

Putting down the flowers carefully, Bunch went up to it and bent over it. It was a man lying there, huddled over on himself. Bunch knelt down by him and slowly, carefully, she turned him over. Her fingers went to his pulse—a pulse so feeble and fluttering that it told its own story, as did the almost greenish pallor of his face. There was no doubt, Bunch thought, that the man was dying.

He was a man of about forty-five, dressed in a dark, shabby suit. She laid down the limp hand she had picked up and looked at his other hand. This seemed clenched like a fist on his breast. Looking more closely she saw that the fingers were closed over what seemed to be a large wad or handkerchief which he was holding tightly to his chest. All round the clenched hand there were splashes of a dry brown fluid which, Bunch guessed, was dry blood. Bunch sat back on her heels, frowning.

Up till now the man’s eyes had been closed but at this point they suddenly opened and fixed themselves on Bunch’s face. They were neither dazed nor wandering. They seemed fully alive and intelligent. His lips moved, and Bunch bent forward to catch the words, or rather the word. It was only one word that he said:

“Sanctuary.”

There was, she thought, just a very faint smile as he breathed out this word. There was no mistaking it, for after a moment he said it again, “Sanctuary. . . .”

Then, with a faint, long-drawn-out sigh, his eyes closed again. Once more Bunch’s fingers went to his pulse. It was still there, but fainter now and more intermittent. She got up with decision.

“Don’t move,” she said, “or try to move. I’m going for help.”

The man’s eyes opened again but he seemed now to be fixing his attention on the coloured light that came through the east window. He murmured something that Bunch could not quite catch. She thought, startled, that it might have been her husband’s name.