The Moving Finger

  “Yes, yes, that will do quite well,” said Mrs. Dane Calthrop.

  Aimée Griffith went into the International Stores.

  Mrs. Dane Calthrop said: “Poor thing.”

  I was puzzled. Surely she could not be pitying Aimée?

  She went on, however:

  “You know, Mr. Burton, I’m rather afraid—”

  “About this letter business?”

  “Yes, you see it means—it must mean—” She paused lost in thought, her eyes screwed up. Then she said slowly, as one who solves a problem, “Blind hatred…yes, blind hatred. But even a blind man might stab to the heart by pure chance… And what would happen then, Mr. Burton?”

  We were to know that before another day had passed.

  II

  It was Partridge who brought the news of the tragedy. Partridge enjoys calamity. Her nose always twitches ecstatically when she has to break bad news of any kind.

  She came into Joanna’s room with her nose working overtime, her eyes bright, and her mouth pulled down into an exaggerated gloom. “There’s terrible news, this morning, miss,” she observed as she drew up the blinds.

  It takes a minute or two for Joanna, with her London habits, to become fully conscious in the morning. She said, “Er ah,” and rolled over without real interest.

  Partridge placed her early tea beside her and began again. “Terrible it is. Shocking! I couldn’t hardly believe it when I heard.”

  “What’s terrible?” said Joanna, struggling into wakefulness.

  “Poor Mrs. Symmington.” She paused dramatically. “Dead.”

  “Dead?” Joanna sat up in bed, now wide awake.

  “Yes, miss, yesterday afternoon, and what’s worse, took her own life.”

  “Oh no, Partridge?”

  Joanna was really shocked—Mrs. Symmington was not, somehow, the sort of person you associated with tragedies.

  “Yes, miss, it’s the truth. Did it deliberate. Not but what she was drove to it, poor soul.”

  “Drove to it?” Joanna had an inkling of the truth then. “Not—?”

  Her eyes questioned Partridge and Partridge nodded.

  “That’s right, miss. One of them nasty letters!”

  “What did it say?”

  But that, to Partridge’s regret, she had not succeeded in learning.

  “They’re beastly things,” said Joanna. “But I don’t see why they should make one want to kill oneself.”

  Partridge sniffed and then said with meaning:

  “Not unless they were true, miss.”

  “Oh,” said Joanna.

  She drank her tea after Partridge had left the room, then she threw on a dressing-gown and came in to me to tell me the news.

  I thought of what Owen Griffith had said. Sooner or later the shot in the dark went home. It had done with Mrs. Symmington. She, apparently the most unlikely of women, had had a secret… It was true, I reflected, that for all her shrewdness she was not a woman of much stamina. She was the anaemic clinging type that crumples easily.

  Joanna nudged me and asked me what I was thinking about.

  I repeated to her what Owen had said.

  “Of course,” said Joanna waspishly, “he would know all about it. That man thinks he knows everything.”

  “He’s clever,” I said.

  “He’s conceited,” said Joanna. She added, “Abominably conceited!”

  After a minute or two she said:

  “How awful for her husband—and for the girl. What do you think Megan will feel about it?”

  I hadn’t the slightest idea and said so. It was curious that one could never gauge what Megan would think or feel.

  Joanna nodded and said:

  “No, one never does know with changelings.”

  After a minute or two she said:

  “Do you think—would you like—I wonder if she’d like to come and stay with us for a day or two? It’s rather a shock for a girl that age.”

  “We might go along and suggest it,” I agreed.

  “The children are all right,” said Joanna. “They’ve got that governess woman. But I expect she’s just the sort of creature that would drive someone like Megan mad.”

  I thought that was very possible. I could imagine Elsie Holland uttering platitude after platitude and suggesting innumerable cups of tea. A kindly creature, but not, I thought, the person for a sensitive girl.

  I had thought myself of bringing Megan away, and I was glad that Joanna had thought of it spontaneously without prompting from me.

  We went down to the Symmingtons’ house after breakfast.

  We were a little nervous, both of us. Our arrival might look like sheer ghoulish curiosity. Luckily we met Owen Griffith just coming out through the gate. He looked worried and preoccupied.

  He greeted me, however, with some warmth.

  “Oh, hallo, Burton. I’m glad to see you. What I was afraid would happen sooner or later has happened. A damnable business!”

  “Good morning, Dr. Griffith,” said Joanna, using the voice she keeps for one of our deafer aunts.

  Griffith started and flushed.

  “Oh—oh, good morning, Miss Burton.”

  “I thought perhaps,” said Joanna, “that you didn’t see me.”

  Owen Griffith got redder still. His shyness enveloped him like a mantle.

  “I’m— I’m so sorry—preoccupied—I didn’t.”

  Joanna went on mercilessly: “After all, I am life size.”

  “Merely kit-kat,” I said in a stern aside to her. Then I went on:

  “My sister and I, Griffith, wondered whether it would be a good thing if the girl came and stopped with us for a day or two? What do you think? I don’t want to butt in—but it must be rather grim for the poor child. What would Symmington feel about it, do you think?”

  Griffith turned the idea over in his mind for a moment or two.

  “I think it would be an excellent thing,” he said at last. “She’s a queer nervy sort of girl, and it would be good for her to get away from the whole thing. Miss Holland is doing wonders—she’s an excellent head on her shoulders, but she really has quite enough to do with the two children and Symmington himself. He’s quite broken up—bewildered.”

  “It was—” I hesitated—“suicide?”

  Griffith nodded.

  “Oh yes. No question of accident. She wrote, ‘I can’t go on’ on a scrap of paper. The letter must have come by yesterday afternoon’s post. The envelope was down on the floor by her chair and the letter itself was screwed up into a ball and thrown into the fireplace.”

  “What did—”

  I stopped, rather horrified at myself.

  “I beg your pardon,” I said.

  Griffith gave a quick unhappy smile.

  “You needn’t mind asking. That letter will have to be read at the inquest. No getting out of it, more’s the pity. It was the usual kind of thing—couched in the same foul style. The specific accusation was that the second boy, Colin, was not Symmington’s child.”

  “Do you think that was true?” I exclaimed incredulously.

  Griffith shrugged his shoulders.

  “I’ve no means of forming a judgment. I’ve only been here five years. As far as I’ve ever seen, the Symmingtons were a placid, happy couple devoted to each other and their children. It’s true that the boy doesn’t particularly resemble his parents—he’s got bright red hair, for one thing—but a child often throws back in appearance to a grandfather or grandmother.”

  “That lack of resemblance might have been what prompted the particular accusation. A foul and quite uncalled for bow at a venture.”

  “Very likely. In fact, probably. There’s not been much accurate knowledge behind these poison pen letters, just unbridled spite and malice.”

  “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 anyone, 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 an
d 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.”