Ask a Policeman by Agatha Christie

Author:Agatha Christie [Christie, Agatha]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Mystery
Publisher: Berkley
Published: 1933-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

(IV)

“What’s to do?

—A piece of work that will make sick men whole.”

“I had to come,” said the voice. “I inquired at your house. They said you were here. Dear Sir John—”

Dear Sir John rose.

“Ah, Miss Hope-Fairweather,” he said. He glanced round cautiously. Their portion of the garden was deserted except for the small girl who had found a swing and was now engaged in seeing whether it was possible to kick the roof of the summer-house. Sir John smiled and beckoned. With a jolt that threatened to dislocate every limb, she dropped to earth.

“Would it be possible for you to find Mrs. Pritchard and give her these,” he said, handing her the loose-leaved notebook and the pen. The child considered him.

“What shall I say you’ve done with the autograph money?”

Sir John raised his eyebrows in mock seriousness.

“Do I understand that you are questioning my good faith?” he asked. He gave the money he had made, having first considerably augmented it. The little girl counted it carefully, vouchsafed him an approving smile, said, “Thirteen pounds twelve. Righto,” and trotted off.

“Shall we walk?” Sir John suggested, steering Miss Hope-Fairweather across the lawn and past a meagre shrubbery.

“You don’t seem at all surprised to see me,” the lady said. She was young and charming and, it was obvious, a prey to considerable anxiety. Sir John considered her.

“I’m not easily surprised,” he said. As a matter of fact, he had expected her. “I hoped to pick up information here. Gossip. You know these county towns.”

She said she did.

“But there!” his rueful smile was eloquent. “Once I was coerced into collecting money, people fled from me. My shadow frightened them. The place wherein I was became a desert.”

In spite of anxiety, she laughed at that.

“I don’t believe there is much information to pick up,” she said. “Poor Brother Charles is in despair. He feels—I don’t mean to be ungrateful, Sir John!—but he does rather feel that it is madness on the part of the Home Secretary to keep the police out of the case for two whole days. He says that every possible clue will be cold and dead by that time. I came to see whether I could be of any help. I know all that happened. I know” —she floundered, but recovered—” I know someone else went with him, and, as he can’t appear in the affair—Oh, it is unfortunate! He is so brilliant—his career—everything!”

Sir John, his eyes upon the unweeded gravel path, managed to convey by the expression on his flawless countenance, presented profile-wise to her, his entire agreement that the whole affair, from start to finish, had been one vast “misfortune.” Greek tragedy, this death of Comstock, invented by the gods who kill us for their sport, Sir John’s face said; his hands, with a gesture of helplessness, bore witness to it; while his shoulders, expressive always, deplored the sense of humour of the gods.

Martella, beautifully gowned, exquisitely cool in spite of the warmth of the day and her efforts on behalf of the church fund, manifested herself apparently from the depths of the shrubbery.

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