The Moving Finger (6 page)

“But it happened to hit the bull's eye,” said Joanna. “After all, she wouldn't have killed herself otherwise, would she?”

Griffith said doubtfully:

“I'm not quite sure. She's been ailing in health for some time, neurotic, hysterical. I've been treating her for a nervous condition. It's possible, I think, that the shock of receiving such a letter, couched in those terms, may have induced such a state of panic and despondency that she may have decided to take her life. She may have worked herself up to feel that her husband might not believe her if she denied the story, and the general shame and disgust might have worked upon her so powerfully as to temporarily unbalance her judgment.”

“Suicide whilst of unsound mind,” said Joanna.

“Exactly. I shall be quite justified, I think, in putting forward that point of view at the inquest.”

“I see,” said Joanna.

There was something in her voice which made Owen say:

“Perfectly justified!” in an angry voice. He added, “You don't agree, Miss Burton?”

“Oh yes, I do,” said Joanna. “I'd do exactly the same in your place.”

Owen looked at her doubtfully, then moved slowly away down the street. Joanna and I went on into the house.

The front door was open and it seemed easier than ringing the bell, especially as we heard Elsie Holland's voice inside.

She was talking to Mr. Symmington who, huddled in a chair, was looking completely dazed.

“No, but really, Mr. Symmington, you must take something. You haven't had any breakfast, not what I call a proper breakfast, and nothing to eat last night, and what with the shock and all, you'll be getting ill yourself, and you'll need all your strength. The doctor said so before he left.”

Symmington said in a toneless voice:

“You're very kind, Miss Holland, but—”

“A nice cup of hot tea,” said Elsie Holland, thrusting the beverage on him firmly.

Personally I should have given the poor devil a stiff whisky and soda. He looked as though he needed it. However, he accepted the tea, and looking up at Elsie Holland:

“I can't thank you for all you've done and are doing, Miss Holland. You've been perfectly splendid.”

The girl flushed and looked pleased.

“It's nice of you to say that, Mr. Symmington. You must let me do all I can to help. Don't worry about the children—I'll see to them, and I've got the servants calmed down, and if there's anything I can do, letterwriting or telephoning, don't hesitate to ask me.”

“You're very kind,” Symmington said again.

Elsie Holland, turning, caught sight of us and came hurrying out into the hall.

“Isn't it terrible?” she said in a hushed whisper.

I thought, as I looked at her, that she was really a very nice girl. Kind, competent, practical in an emergency. Her magnificent blue eyes were just faintly rimmed with pink, showing that she had been softhearted enough to shed tears for her employer's death.

“Can we speak to you a minute,” asked Joanna. “We don't want to disturb Mr. Symmington.”

Elsie Holland nodded comprehendingly and led the way into the dining room on the other side of the hall.

“It's been awful for him,” she said. “Such a shock. Who ever would have thought a thing like this could happen? But of course, I do realize now that she had been queer for some time. Awfully nervy and weepy. I thought it was her health, though Dr. Griffith always said there was nothing really wrong with her. But she was snappy and irritable and some days you wouldn't know just how to take her.”

“What we really came for,” said Joanna, “was to know whether we could have Megan for a few days—that, is if she'd like to come.”

Elsie Holland looked rather surprised.

“Megan?” she said doubtfully. “I don't know, I'm sure. I mean, it's ever so kind of you, but she's such a queer girl. One never knows what she's going to say or feel about things.”

Joanna said rather vaguely:

“We thought it might be a help, perhaps.”

“Oh well, as far as that goes, it would. I mean, I've got the boys to look after (they're with Cook just now) and poor Mr. Symmington—he really needs looking after as much as any
one, and such a lot to do and see to. I really haven't had time to see much to Megan. I think she's upstairs in the old nursery at the top of the house. She seems to want to get away from everyone. I don't know if—”

Joanna gave me the faintest of looks. I slipped quickly out of the room and upstairs. The old nursery was at the top of the house. I opened the door and went in. The room downstairs had given on to the garden behind and the blinds had not been down there. But in this room which faced the road they were decorously drawn down.

Through a dim grey gloom I saw Megan. She was crouching on a divan set against the far wall, and I was reminded at once of some terrified animal, hiding. She looked petrified with fear.

“Megan,” I said.

I came forward, and unconsciously I adopted the tone one does adopt when you want to reassure a frightened animal. I'm really surprised I didn't hold out a carrot or a piece of sugar. I felt like that.

She stared at me, but she did not move, and her expression did not alter.

“Megan,” I said again. “Joanna and I have come to ask you if you would like to come and stay with us for a little.”

Her voice came hollowly out of the dim twilight.

“Stay with you? In your house?”

“Yes.”

“You mean, you'll take me away from here?”

“Yes, my dear.”

Suddenly she began to shake all over. It was frightening and very moving.

“Oh, do take me away! Please do. It's so awful, being here, and feeling so wicked.”

I came over to her and her hands fastened on my coat sleeve.

“I'm an awful coward. I didn't know what a coward I was.”

“It's all right, funny face,” I said. “These things are a bit shattering. Come along.”

“Can we go at once? Without waiting a minute?”

“Well, you'll have to put a few things together, I suppose.”

“What sort of things? Why?”

“My dear girl,” I said. “We can provide you with a bed and a bath and the rest of it, but I'm damned if I lend you my toothbrush.”

She gave a very faint weak little laugh.

“I see. I think I'm stupid today. You mustn't mind. I'll go and pack some things. You—you won't go away? You'll wait for me?”

“I'll be on the mat.”

“Thank you. Thank you very much. I'm sorry I'm so stupid. But you see it's rather dreadful when your mother dies.”

“I know,” I said.

I gave her a friendly pat on the back and she flashed me a grateful look and disappeared into a bedroom. I went on downstairs.

“I found Megan,” I said. “She's coming.”

“Oh now, that
is
a good thing,” exclaimed Elsie Holland. “It will take her out of herself. She's rather a nervy girl, you know. Difficult. It will be a great relief to feel I haven't got her on my mind as well as everything else. It's very kind of you, Miss Burton. I hope she won't be a nuisance. Oh dear, there's the telephone. I must go and answer it. Mr. Symmington isn't fit.”

She hurried out of the room. Joanna said:

“Quite the ministering angel!”

“You said that rather nastily,” I observed. “She's a nice kind girl, and obviously most capable.”

“Most. And she knows it.”

“This is unworthy of you, Joanna,” I said.

“Meaning why shouldn't the girl do her stuff?”

“Exactly.”

“I never can stand seeing people pleased with themselves,” said Joanna. “It arouses all my worst instincts. How did you find Megan?”

“Crouching in a darkened room looking rather like a stricken gazelle.”

“Poor kid. She was quite willing to come?”

“She leapt at it.”

A series of thuds out in the hall announced the descent of Megan and her suitcase. I went out and took it from her. Joanna, behind me, said urgently:

“Come on. I've already refused some nice hot tea twice.”

We went out to the car. It annoyed me that Joanna had to sling the suitcase in. I could get along with one stick now, but I couldn't do any athletic feats.

“Get in,” I said to Megan.

She got in. I followed her. Joanna started the car and we drove off.

We got to Little Furze and went into the drawing room.

Megan dropped into a chair and burst into tears. She cried with the hearty fervour of a child—bawled, I think, is the right word. I left the room in search of a remedy. Joanna stood by feeling rather helpless, I think.

Presently I heard Megan say in a thick choked voice:

“I'm sorry for doing this. It seems idiotic.”

Joanna said kindly, “Not at all. Have another handkerchief.”

I gather she supplied the necessary article. I reentered the room and handed Megan a brimming glass.

“What is it?”

“A cocktail,” I said.

“Is it? Is it really?” Megan's tears were instantly dried. “I've never drunk a cocktail.”

“Everything has to have a beginning,” I said.

Megan sipped her drink gingerly, then a beaming smile spread over her face, she tilted her head back and gulped it down at a draught.

“It's lovely,” she said. “Can I have another?”

“No,” I said.

“Why not?”

“In about ten minutes you'll probably know.”

“Oh!”

Megan transferred her attention to Joanna.

“I really am awfully sorry for having made such a nuisance of myself howling away like that. I can't think why. It seems awfully silly when I'm so glad to be here.”

“That's all right,” said Joanna. “We're very pleased to have you.”

“You can't be, really. It's just kindness on your part. But I am grateful.”

“Please don't be grateful,” said Joanna. “It will embarrass me. I was speaking the truth when I said we should be glad to have you. Jerry and I have used up all our conversation. We can't think of anymore things to say to each other.”

“But now,” I said, “we shall be able to have all sorts of interesting discussions—about Goneril and Regan and things like that.”

Megan's face lit up.

“I've been thinking about that, and I think I know the answer. It was because that awful old father of theirs always insisted on such a lot of sucking up. When you've always got to be saying thank you and how kind and all the rest of it, it would make you go a bit rotten and queer inside, and you'd just long to be able to be beastly for a change—and when you got the chance, you'd probably find it went to your head and you'd go too far. Old Lear was pretty awful, wasn't he? I mean, he did deserve the snub Cordelia gave him.”

“I can see,” I said, “that we are going to have many interesting discussions about Shakespeare.”

“I can see you two are going to be very highbrow,” said Joanna. “I'm afraid I always find Shakespeare terribly dreary. All those long scenes where everybody is drunk and it's supposed to be funny.”

“Talking of drink,” I said turning to Megan. “How are you feeling?”

“Quite all right, thank you.”

“Not at all giddy? You don't see two of Joanna or anything like that?”

“No. I just feel as though I'd like to talk rather a lot.”

“Splendid,” I said. “Obviously you are one of our natural drinkers. That is to say, if that really was your first cocktail.”

“Oh, it was.”

“A good strong head is an asset to any human being,” I said.

Joanna took Megan upstairs to unpack.

Partridge came in, looking sour, and said she had made two cup custards for lunch and what should she do about it?

I

T
he inquest was held three days later. It was all done as decorously as possible, but there was a large attendance and, as Joanna observed, the beady bonnets were wagging.

The time of Mrs. Symmington's death was put at between three and four o'clock. She was alone in the house, Symmington was at his office, the maids were having their day out, Elsie Holland and the children were out walking and Megan had gone for a bicycle ride.

The letter must have come by the afternoon post. Mrs. Symmington must have taken it out of the box, read it—and then in a state of agitation she had gone to the potting shed, fetched some of the cyanide kept there for taking wasps' nests, dissolved it in water and drunk it after writing those last agitated words, “I can't go on….”

Owen Griffith gave medical evidence and stressed the view he had outlined to us of Mrs. Symmington's nervous condition and
poor stamina. The coroner was suave and discreet. He spoke with bitter condemnation of people who write those despicable things, anonymous letters. Whoever had written that wicked and lying letter was morally guilty of murder, he said. He hoped the police would soon discover the culprit and take action against him or her. Such a dastardly and malicious piece of spite deserved to be punished with the utmost rigour of the law. Directed by him, the jury brought in the inevitable verdict. Suicide whilst temporarily insane.

The coroner had done his best—Owen Griffith also, but afterwards, jammed in the crowd of eager village women, I heard the same hateful sibilant whisper I had begun to know so well, “No smoke without fire, that's what
I
say!” “Must 'a been something in it for certain sure. She wouldn't never have done it otherwise….”

Just for a moment I hated Lymstock and its narrow boundaries, and its gossiping whispering women.

II

It is difficult to remember things in their exact chronological order. The next landmark of importance, of course, was Superintendent Nash's visit. But it was before that, I think, that we received calls from various members of the community, each of which was interesting in its way and shed some light on the characters and personalities of the people involved.

Aimée Griffith came on the morning after the inquest. She was looking, as always, radiant with health and vigour and succeeded, also as usual, in putting my back up almost immediately. Joanna and Megan were out, so I did the honours.

“Good morning,” said Miss Griffith. “I hear you've got Megan Hunter here?”

“We have.”

“Very good of you, I'm sure. It must be rather a nuisance to you. I came up to say she can come to us if you like. I dare say I can find ways of making her useful about the house.”

I looked at Aimée Griffith with a good deal of distaste.

“How kind of you,” I said. “But we like having her. She potters about quite happily.”

“I dare say. Much too fond of pottering, that child. Still, I suppose she can't help it, being practically half-witted.”

“I think she's rather an intelligent girl,” I said.

Aimée Griffith gave me a hard stare.

“First time I've ever heard anyone say that of her,” she remarked. “Why, when you talk to her, she looks through you as though she doesn't understand what you are saying!”

“She probably just isn't interested,” I said.

“If so, she's extremely rude,” said Aimée Griffith.

“That may be. But not half-witted.”

Miss Griffith declared sharply:

“At best, it's woolgathering. What Megan needs is good hard work—something to give her an interest in life. You've no idea what a difference that makes to a girl. I know a lot about girls. You'd be surprised at the difference even becoming a Guide makes to a girl. Megan's much too old to spend her time lounging about and doing nothing.”

“It's been rather difficult for her to do anything else so far,” I said. “Mrs. Symmington always seemed under the impression that Megan was about twelve years old.”

Miss Griffith snorted.

“I know. I had no patience with that attitude of hers. Of course she's dead now, poor woman, so one doesn't want to say much, but she was a perfect example of what I call the unintelligent domestic type. Bridge and gossip and her children—and even there that Holland girl did all the looking after them. I'm afraid I never thought very much of Mrs. Symmington, although of course I never suspected the truth.”

“The truth?” I said sharply.

Miss Griffith flushed.

“I was terribly sorry for Dick Symmington, its all having to come out as it did at the inquest,” she said. “It was awful for him.”

“But surely you heard him say that there was not a word of truth in that letter—that he was quite sure of that?”

“Of course he
said
so. Quite right. A man's got to stick up for his wife. Dick would.” She paused and then explained: “You see, I've known Dick Symmington a long time.”

I was a little surprised.

“Really?” I said. “I understood from your brother that he only bought this practice a few years ago.”

“Oh yes, but Dick Symmington used to come and stay in our part of the world up north. I've known him for years.”

Women jump to conclusions that men do not. Nevertheless, the suddenly softened tone of Aimée Griffith's voice put, as our old nurse would have expressed it, ideas into my head.

I looked at Aimée curiously. She went on—still in that softened tone:

“I know Dick very well… He's a proud man, and very reserved. But he's the sort of man who could be very jealous.”

“That would explain,” I said deliberately, “why Mrs. Symmington was afraid to show him or tell him about the letter. She was afraid that, being a jealous man, he might not believe her denials.”

Miss Griffith looked at me angrily and scornfully.

“Good Lord,” she said, “do you think any woman would go and swallow a lot of cyanide of potassium for an accusation that wasn't true?”

“The coroner seemed to think it was possible. Your brother, too—”

Aimée interrupted me.

“Men are all alike. All for preserving the decencies. But you don't catch
me
believing that stuff. If an innocent woman gets some foul anonymous letter, she laughs and chucks it away. That's what I—” she paused suddenly, and then finished, “would do.”

But I had noticed the pause. I was almost sure that what she had been about to say was “That's what I did.”

I decided to take the war into the enemy's country.

“I see,” I said pleasantly, “so you've had one, too?”

Aimée Griffith was the type of woman who scorns to lie. She paused a minute—flushed, then said:

“Well, yes. But I didn't let it worry me!”

“Nasty?” I inquired sympathetically, as a fellow sufferer.

“Naturally. These things always are. The ravings of a lunatic. I read a few words of it, realized what it was and chucked it straight into the wastepaper basket.”

“You didn't think of taking it to the police?”

“Not then. Least said soonest mended—that's what I felt.”

An urge came over me to say solemnly: “No smoke without fire!” but I restrained myself. To avoid temptation I reverted to Megan.

“Have you any idea of Megan's financial position?” I asked. “It's not idle curiosity on my part. I wondered if it would actually be necessary for her to earn her living.”

“I don't think it's strictly
necessary.
Her grandmother, her father's mother, left her a small income, I believe. And in any case Dick Symmington would always give her a home and provide for her, even if her mother hasn't left her anything outright. No, it's the
principle
of the thing.”

“What principle?”

“Work, Mr. Burton. There's nothing like work, for men and women. The one unforgivable sin is idleness.”

“Sir Edward Grey,” I said, “afterwards our foreign minister, was sent down from Oxford for incorrigible idleness. The Duke of Wellington, I have heard, was both dull and inattentive at his books. And has it ever occurred to you, Miss Griffith, that you would probably not be able to take a good express train to London if little Georgie Stephenson had been out with his youth movement instead of lolling about, bored, in his mother's kitchen until the curious behaviour of the kettle lid attracted the attention of his idle mind?”

Aimée merely snorted.

“It is a theory of mine,” I said, warming to my theme, “that we owe most of our great inventions and most of the achievements of genius to idleness—either enforced or voluntary. The human mind prefers to be spoon-fed with the thoughts of others, but deprived of such nourishment it will, reluctantly, begin to think for itself—and such thinking, remember, is original thinking and may have valuable results.

“Besides,” I went on, before Aimée could get in another sniff, “there is the artistic side.”

I got up and took from my desk where it always accompanied me a photograph of my favourite Chinese picture. It represents an old man sitting beneath a tree playing cat's cradle with a piece of string on his fingers and toes.

“It was in the Chinese exhibition,” I said. “It fascinated me. Allow me to introduce you. It is called ‘Old Man enjoying the Pleasure of Idleness.'”

Aimée Griffith was unimpressed by my lovely picture. She said: “Oh well, we all know what the Chinese are like!”

“It doesn't appeal to you?” I asked.

“Frankly, no. I'm not very interested in art, I'm afraid. Your attitude, Mr. Burton, is typical of that of most men. You dislike the idea of women working—of their competing—”

I was taken aback, I had come up against the Feminist. Aimée was well away, her cheeks flushed.

“It is incredible to you that women should want a career. It was incredible to my parents. I was anxious to study for a doctor. They would not hear of paying the fees. But they paid them readily for Owen. Yet I should have made a better doctor than my brother.”

“I'm sorry about that,” I said. “It was tough on you. If one wants to do a thing—”

She went on quickly:

“Oh, I've got over it now. I've plenty of willpower. My life is busy and active. I'm one of the happiest people in Lymstock. Plenty to do. But I do go up in arms against the silly old-fashioned prejudice that women's place is always the home.”

“I'm sorry if I offended you,” I said. “And that wasn't really my point. I don't see Megan in a domestic role at all.”

“No, poor child. She'll be a misfit anywhere, I'm afraid.” Aimée
had calmed down. She was speaking quite normally again. “Her father, you know—”

She paused and I said bluntly: “I
don't
know. Everyone says ‘her father' and drops their voice, and that is that. What did the man
do?
Is he alive still?”

“I really don't know. And I'm rather vague myself, I'm afraid. But he was definitely a bad lot. Prison, I believe. And a streak of very strong abnormality. That's why it wouldn't surprise me if Megan was a bit ‘wanting.'”

“Megan,” I said, “is in full possession of her senses, and as I said before, I consider her an intelligent girl. My sister thinks so too. Joanna is very fond of her.”

Aimée said:

“I'm afraid your sister must find it very dull down here.”

And as she said it, I learnt something else. Aimée Griffith disliked my sister. It was there in the smooth conventional tones of her voice.

“We've all wondered how you could both bear to bury yourselves in such an out-of-the-way spot.”

It was a question and I answered it.

“Doctor's orders. I was to come somewhere very quiet where nothing ever happened.” I paused and added, “Not quite true of Lymstock now.”

“No, no, indeed.”

She sounded worried and got up to go. She said then:

“You know—it's got to be put a stop to—all this beastliness! We can't have it going on.”

“Aren't the police doing anything?”

“I suppose so. But I think we ought to take it in hand
ourselves.
”

“We're not as well equipped as they are.”

“Nonsense! We probably have far more sense and intelligence! A little determination is all that is needed.”

She said goodbye abruptly and went away.

When Joanna and Megan came back from their walk I showed Megan my Chinese picture. Her face lighted up. She said, “It's heavenly, isn't it?”

“That
is
rather my opinion.”

Her forehead was crinkling in the way I knew so well.

“But it would be difficult, wouldn't it?”

“To be idle?”

“No, not to be idle—but to enjoy the pleasures of it. You'd have to be very old—”

She paused. I said: “He
is
an old man.”

“I don't mean old that way. Not
age.
I mean old in—in….”

“You mean,” I said, “that one would have to attain a very high state of civilization for the thing to present itself to you in that way—a fine point of sophistication? I think I shall complete your education, Megan, by reading to you one hundred poems translated from the Chinese.”

III

I met Symmington in the town later in the day.

“Is it quite all right for Megan to stay on with us for a bit?” I asked. “It's company for Joanna—she's rather lonely sometimes with none of her own friends.”

“Oh—er— Megan? Oh yes, very good of you.”

I took a dislike to Symmington then which I never quite over
came. He had so obviously forgotten all about Megan. I wouldn't have minded if he had actively disliked the girl—a man may sometimes be jealous of a first husband's child—but he didn't dislike her, he just hardly noticed her. He felt towards her much as a man who doesn't care much for dogs would feel about a dog in the house. You notice it when you fall over it and swear at it, and you give it a vague pat sometimes when it presents itself to be patted. Symmington's complete indifference to his stepdaughter annoyed me very much.