The Hollow by Agatha Christie Read Free Book Online

statuette thing. To please Gerda and make her happy. I’m not inhuman!”
    â€œInhuman is exactly what you are.”
    â€œDo you think—honestly—that Gerda would ever recognize herself in this?”
    John looked at it unwillingly. For the first time his anger and resentment became subordinated to his interest. A strange submissive figure, a figure offering up worship to an unseen deity—the face raised—blind, dumb, devoted—terribly strong, terribly fanatical…He said:
    â€œThat’s rather a terrifying thing that you have made, Henrietta!”
    Henrietta shivered slightly.
    She said, “Yes— I thought that….”
    John said sharply:
    â€œWhat’s she looking at—who is it? There in front of her?”
    Henrietta hesitated. She said, and her voice had a queer note in it:
    â€œI don’t know. But I think —she might be looking at you, John.”

Five
    I
    I n the dining room the child Terry made another scientific statement.
    â€œLead salts are more soluble in cold water than hot. If you add potassium iodide you get a yellow precipitate of lead iodide.”
    He looked expectantly at his mother but without any real hope. Parents, in the opinion of young Terence, were sadly disappointing.
    â€œDid you know that, Mother—”
    â€œI don’t know anything about chemistry, dear.”
    â€œYou could read about it in a book,” said Terence.
    It was a simple statement of fact, but there was a certain wistfulness behind it.
    Gerda did not hear the wistfulness. She was caught in the trap of her anxious misery. Round and round and round. She had been miserable ever since she woke up this morning and realized that at last this long-dreaded weekend with the Angkatells was upon her. Staying at The Hollow was always a nightmare to her. She alwaysfelt bewildered and forlorn. Lucy Angkatell with her sentences that were never finished, her swift inconsequences, and her obvious attempts at kindliness, was the figure she dreaded most. But the others were nearly as bad. For Gerda it was two days of sheer martyrdom—to be endured for John’s sake.
    For John that morning as he stretched himself had remarked in tones of unmitigated pleasure:
    â€œSplendid to think we’ll be getting into the country this weekend. It will do you good, Gerda, just what you need.”
    She had smiled mechanically and had said with unselfish fortitude: “It will be delightful.”
    Her unhappy eyes had wandered round the bedroom. The wallpaper, cream striped with a black mark just by the wardrobe, the mahogany dressing table with the glass that swung too far forward, the cheerful bright blue carpet, the watercolours of the Lake District. All dear familiar things and she would not see them again until Monday.
    Instead, tomorrow a housemaid who rustled would come into the strange bedroom and put down a little dainty tray of early tea by the bed and pull up the blinds, and would then rearrange and fold Gerda’s clothes—a thing which made Gerda feel hot and uncomfortable all over. She would lie miserably, enduring these things, trying to comfort herself by thinking, “Only one morning more.” Like being at school and counting the days.
    Gerda had not been happy at school. At school there had been even less reassurance than elsewhere. Home had been better. But even home had not been very good. For they had all, of course, been quicker and cleverer than she was. Their comments, quick, impatient, not quite unkind, had whistled about her ears like ahailstorm. “Oh, do be quick, Gerda.” “Butterfingers, give it to me!” “Oh don’t let Gerda do it, she’ll be ages. ” “Gerda never takes in anything….”
    Hadn’t they seen, all of them, that that was the way to make her slower and stupider still? She’d got worse and worse, more clumsy with her fingers, more slow-witted, more inclined to stare