The Seven Dials Mystery by Agatha Christie Read Free Book Online Page B

and was a good driver; had it been otherwise her reckless pace would have ended in disaster more than once.
    It was a crisp October day, with a blue sky and a dazzling sun. The sharp tang of the air brought the blood to Bundle’s cheeks and filled her with the zest of living.
    She had that morning sent Gerald Wade’s unfinished letter to Loraine Wade at Deane Priory, enclosing a few explanatory lines. The curious impression it had made upon her was somewhat dimmed in the daylight, yet it still struck her as needing explanation. She intended to get hold of Bill Eversleigh sometime and extract from him fuller details of the house party which had ended so tragically. In the meantime, it was a lovely morning and she felt particularly well and the Hispano was running like a dream.
    Bundle pressed her foot down on the accelerator and the Hispano responded at once. Mile after mile vanished, traffic was few and far between and Bundle had a clear stretch of road in front of her.
    And then, without any warning whatever, a man reeled out of the hedge and on to the road right in front of the car. To stop in time was out of the question. With all her might Bundle wrenched at the steering wheel and swerved out to the right. The car was nearly in the ditch—nearly, but not quite. It was a dangerous manoeuvre; but it succeeded. Bundle was almost certain that she had missed the man.
    She looked back and felt a sickening sensation in the middle of her anatomy. The car had not passed over the man, but nevertheless it must have struck him in passing. He was lying face downwards on the road, and he lay ominously still.
    Bundle jumped out and ran back. She had never yet run over anything more important than a stray hen. The fact that the accident was hardly her fault did not weigh with her at the minute. The man had seemed drunk, but drunk or not, she had killed him. She was quite sure she had killed him. Her heart beat sickeningly in great pounding thumps, sounding right up in her ears.
    She knelt down by the prone figure and turned him very gingerly over. He neither groaned nor moaned. He was young, she saw, rather a pleasant-faced young man, well-dressed and wearing a small toothbrush moustache.
    There was no external mark of injury that she could see, but she was quite positive that he was either dead or dying. His eyelids flickered and the eyes half-opened. Piteous eyes, brown and suffering, like a dog’s. He seemed to be struggling to speak. Bundle bent right over.
    â€œYes,” she said. “Yes?”
    There was something he wanted to say, she could see that. Wanted to say badly. And she couldn’t help him, couldn’t do anything.
    At last the words came, a mere sighing breath:
    â€œSeven Dials . . . tell . . .”
    â€œYes,” said Bundle again. It was a name he was trying to get out—trying with all his failing strength. “Yes. Who am I to tell?”
    â€œTell . . . Jimmy Thesiger . . .” He got it out at last, and then, suddenly, his head fell back and his body went limp.
    Bundle sat back on her heels, shivering from head to foot. She could never have imagined that anything so awful could have happened to her. He was dead—and she had killed him.
    She tried to pull herself together. What must she do now? A doctor—that was her first thought. It was possible—just possible—that the man might only be unconscious, not dead. Her instinct cried out against the possibility, but she forced herself to act upon it. Somehow or other she must get him into the car and take him to the nearest doctor’s. It was a deserted stretch of country road and there was no one to help her.
    Bundle, for all her slimness, was strong. She had muscles of whipcord. She brought the Hispano as close as possible, and then exerting all her strength, she dragged and pulled the inanimate figure into it. It was a horrid business, and one that made her set her teeth, but at last