Agatha Christie - While the light lasts

"Oh, we're only waiting for Clare Halliwell. You must know her - lives in the village - supposed to be one of the local belles, but frightfully unattractive really. She tried her best to catch Gerald, but he wasn't having any."

"Oh, yes, darling -" this in answer to a murmured protest from her husband. "She did - you mayn't be aware of the fact - but she did her very utmost. Poor old Clare! A good sort, but such a dump!"

Clare's face went dead white, her hands, hanging against her sides, clenched themselves in anger such as she had never known before. At that moment she could have murdered Vivien Lee. It was only by a supreme physical effort that she regained control of herself. That, and the half-formed thought that she held it in her power to punish Vivien for those cruel words.

The butler had returned with the books. He opened the door, announced her, and in another moment she was greeting a roomful of people in her usual pleasant manner.

Vivien, exquisitely dressed in some dark wine color that showed off her white fragility, was particularly affectionate and gushing. They didn't see half enough of Clare. She, Vivien, was going to learn golf, and Clare must come out with her on the links.

Gerald was very attentive and kind. Though he had no suspicion that she had overheard his wife's words, he had some vague idea of making up for them. He was very fond of Clare, and he wished Vivien wouldn't say the things she did. He and Clare had been friends, nothing more - and if there was an uneasy suspicion at the back of his mind that he was shirking the truth in that last statement, he put it away from him.

After dinner the talk fell on dogs, and Clare recounted Rover's accident. She purposely waited for a lull in the conversation to say:

"- so, on Saturday, I took him to Skippington."

She heard the sudden rattle of Vivien Lee's coffee cup on the saucer, but she did not look at her - yet.

"To see that man, Reeves?"

"Yes. He'll be all right, I think. I had lunch at the County Arms afterwards. Rather a decent little pub.

" She turned now to Vivien. "Have you ever stayed there?"

If she had had any doubts, they were swept aside.

Vivien's answer came quick - in stammering haste.

"I? Oh! N-no, no."

Fear was in her eyes. They were wide and dark with it as they met Clare's. Clare's eyes told nothing. They were calm, scrutinizing. No one could have dreamed of the keen pleasure that they veiled. At that moment Clare almost forgave Vivien for the words she had overheard earlier in the evening. She tasted in that moment a fullness of power that almost made her head reel. She held Vivien Lee in the hollow of her hand.

The following day, she received a note from the other woman. Would Clare come up and have tea with her quietly that afternoon? Clare refused.

Then Vivien called on her. Twice she came at hours when Clare was almost certain to be at home. On the first occasion, Clare really was out; on the second, she slipped out by the back way when she saw Vivien coming up the path.

"She's not sure yet whether I know or not," she said to herself. "She wants to find out without committing herself. But she shan't - not until I'm ready."

Clare hardly knew herself what she was waiting for. She had decided to keep silence - that was the only straight and honorable course. She felt an additional glow of virtue when she remembered the extreme provocation she had received. After overhearing the way Vivien talked of her behind her back, a weaker character, she felt, might have abandoned her good resolutions.

She went twice to church on Sunday. First to early communion, from which she came out strengthened and uplifted. No personal feelings should weigh with her - nothing mean or petty. She went again to morning service. Mr. Wilmot preached on the famous prayer of the Pharisee. He sketched the life of that man, a good man, pillar of the church. And he pictured the slow, creeping blight of spiritual pride that distorted and soiled all that he was.

Clare did not listen very attentively. Vivien was in the big square pew of the Lee family, and Clare knew by instinct that the other intended to get hold of her afterwards.

So it fell out. Vivien attached herself to Clare, walked home with her, and asked if she might come in. Clare, of course, assented. They sat in Clare's little sitting room, bright with flowers and old-fashioned chintzes. Vivien's talk was desultory and jerky.

"I was at Bournemouth, you know, last weekend," she remarked presently.

"Gerald told me so," said Clare.

They looked at each other. Vivien appeared almost plain today. Her face had a sharp, foxy look that robbed it of much of its charm.

"When you were at Skippington -" began Vivien.

"When I was at Skippington?" echoed Clare politely.

"You were speaking about some little hotel there."

"The County Arms. Yes. You didn't know it, you said?"

"I - I have been there once."

"Oh!"

She had only to keep still and wait. Vivien was quite unfitted to bear a strain of any kind. Already she was breaking down under it. Suddenly she leaned forward and spoke vehemently.

"You don't like me. You never have. You've always hated me. You're enjoying yourself now, playing with me like a cat with a mouse. You're cruel - cruel. That's why I'm afraid of you, because deep down you're cruel."

"Really, Vivien!" said Clare sharply.

"You know, don't you? Yes, I can see that you know. You knew that night - when you spoke about Skippington. You've found out somehow. Well, I want to know what you are going to do about it. What are you going to do?"

Clare did not reply for a minute, and Vivien sprang to her feet.

"What are you going to do? I must know. You're not going to deny that you know all about it?"

"I do not propose to deny anything," said Clare coldly.

"You saw me there that day?"

"No. I saw your handwriting in the book - Mr. and Mrs. Cyril Brown."

Vivien flushed darkly.

"Since then," continued Clare quietly, "I have made inquiries. I find that you were not at Bournemouth that weekend. Your mother never sent for you. Exactly the same thing happened about six weeks previously."

Vivien sank down again on the sofa. She burst into furious crying, the crying of a frightened child.

"What are you going to do?" she gasped. "Are you going to tell Gerald?"

"I don't know yet," said Clare.

She felt calm, omnipotent.

Vivien sat up, pushing the red curls back from her forehead.

"Would you like to hear all about it?"

"It would be as well, I think."

Vivien poured out the whole story. There was no reticence in her. Cyril 'Brown', was Cyril Haviland, a young engineer to whom she had previously been engaged. His health failed, and he lost his job, whereupon he made no bones about jilting the penniless Vivien and marrying a rich widow many years older than himself. Soon afterwards Vivien married Gerald Lee.

She had met Cyril again by chance. That was the first of many meetings. Cyril, backed by his wife's money, was prospering in his career, and becoming a well known figure.

It was a sordid story, a story of backstairs meeting, of ceaseless lying and intrigue.

"I love him so," Vivien repeated again and again, with a sudden moan, and each time the words made Clare feel physically sick.

At last the stammering recital came to an end.

Vivien muttered a shamefaced: "Well?"

"What am I going to do?" asked Clare. "I can't tell you. I must have time to think."

"You won't give me away to Gerald?"

"It may be my duty to do so."

"No, no.

" Vivien's voice rose to a hysterical shriek. "He'll divorce me. He won't listen to a word. He'll find out from that hotel, and Cyril will be dragged into it. And then his wife will divorce him. Everything will go - his career, his health - he'll be penniless again. He'd never forgive me - never."