The Moving Finger by Agatha Christie Read Free Book Online

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. You're our friend and we're glad to have you here. That's all there is to it... ”
    She 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?
    The inquest was held three days later.
    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 while temporarily insane.
    The coroner had done his best - Owen Griffith also, but afterward, 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 gossipping whispering women.
    Outside, Aimйe Griffith said with a sigh:
    “Well, that's over. Bad luck on Dick Symmington, its all having to come out. I wonder whether he'd ever had any suspicion.”
    I was startled.
    “But surely you heard him say most emphatically that there wasn't a word of truth in that lying letter?”
    “Of course he said so. Quite right. A man's got to