Читать книгу The Moving Finger - Агата Кристи, Agatha Christie, Detection Club The - Страница 9

It was, I think, about a week later, that Partridge informed me that Mrs Baker would like to speak to me for a minute or two if I would be so kind.

The name Mrs Baker conveyed nothing at all to me.

‘Who is Mrs Baker?’ I said, bewildered—‘Can’t she see Miss Joanna?’

But it appeared that I was the person with whom an interview was desired. It further transpired that Mrs Baker was the mother of the girl Beatrice.

I had forgotten Beatrice. For a fortnight now, I had been conscious of a middle-aged woman with wisps of grey hair, usually on her knees retreating crablike from bathroom and stairs and passages when I appeared, and I knew, I suppose, that she was our new Daily Woman. Otherwise the Beatrice complication had faded from my mind.

I could not very well refuse to see Beatrice’s mother, especially as I learned that Joanna was out, but I was, I must confess, a little nervous at the prospect. I sincerely hoped that I was not going to be accused of having trifled with Beatrice’s affections. I cursed the mischievous activities of anonymous letter writers to myself at the same time as, aloud, I commanded that Beatrice’s mother should be brought to my presence.

Mrs Baker was a big broad weather-beaten woman with a rapid flow of speech. I was relieved to notice no signs of anger or accusation.

‘I hope, sir,’ she said, beginning at once when the door had closed behind Partridge, ‘that you’ll excuse the liberty I’ve taken in coming to see you. But I thought, sir, as you was the proper person to come to, and I should be thankful if you could see your way to telling me what I ought to do in the circumstances, because in my opinion, sir, something ought to be done, and I’ve never been one to let the grass grow under my feet, and what I say is, no use moaning and groaning, but “Up and doing” as vicar said in his sermon only the week before last.’

I felt slightly bewildered and as though I had missed something essential in the conversation.

‘Certainly,’ I said. ‘Won’t you—er—sit down, Mrs Baker? I’m sure I shall be glad to—er help you in any way I can—’

I paused expectantly.

‘Thank you, sir.’ Mrs Baker sat down on the edge of a chair. ‘It’s very good of you, I’m sure. And glad I am that I came to you, I said to Beatrice, I said, and her howling and crying on her bed, Mr Burton will know what to do, I said, being a London gentleman. And something must be done, what with young men being so hot-headed and not listening to reason the way they are, and not listening to a word a girl says, and anyway, if it was me, I says to Beatrice I’d give him as good as I got, and what about that girl down at the mill?’

I felt more than ever bewildered.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘But I don’t quite understand. What has happened?’

‘It’s the letters, sir. Wicked letters—indecent, too, using such words and all. Worse than I’ve ever seen in the Bible, even.’

Passing over an interesting side-line here, I said desperately:

‘Has your daughter been having more letters?’

‘Not her, sir. She had just the one. That one as was the occasion of her leaving here.’

‘There was absolutely no reason—’ I began, but Mrs Baker firmly and respectfully interrupted me:

‘There is no need to tell me, sir, that what was wrote was all wicked lies. I had Miss Partridge’s word for that—and indeed I would have known it for myself. You aren’t that type of gentleman, sir, that I well know, and you an invalid and all. Wicked untruthful lies it was, but all the same I says to Beatrice as she’d better leave because you know what talk is, sir. No smoke without fire, that’s what people say. And a girl can’t be too careful. And besides the girl herself felt bashful like after what had been written, so I says, “Quite right,” to Beatrice when she said she wasn’t coming up here again, though I’m sure we both regretted the inconvenience being such—’

Unable to find her way out of this sentence, Mrs Baker took a deep breath and began again.

‘And that, I hoped, would be the end of any nasty talk. But now George, down at the garage, him what Beatrice is going with, he’s got one of them. Saying awful things about our Beatrice, and how she’s going on with Fred Ledbetter’s Tom—and I can assure you, sir, the girl has been no more than civil to him and passing the time of day so to speak.’

My head was now reeling under this new complication of Mr Ledbetter’s Tom.

‘Let me get this straight,’ I said. ‘Beatrice’s—er—young man has had an anonymous letter making accusations about her and another young man?’

‘That’s right, sir, and not nicely put at all—horrible words used, and it drove young George mad with rage, it did, and he came round and told Beatrice he wasn’t going to put up with that sort of thing from her, and he wasn’t going to have her go behind his back with other chaps—and she says it’s all a lie—and he says no smoke without fire, he says, and rushes off being hot-like in his temper, and Beatrice she took on ever so, poor girl, and I said I’ll put my hat on and come straight up to you, sir.’

Mrs Baker paused and looked at me expectantly, like a dog waiting for reward after doing a particularly clever trick.

‘But why come to me?’ I demanded.

‘I understood, sir, that you’d had one of these nasty letters yourself, and I thought, sir, that being a London gentleman, you’d know what to do about them.’

‘If I were you,’ I said, ‘I should go to the police. This sort of thing ought to be stopped.’

Mrs Baker looked deeply shocked.

‘Oh, no, sir. I couldn’t go to the police.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’ve never been mixed up with the police, sir. None of us ever have.’

‘Probably not. But the police are the only people who can deal with this sort of thing. It’s their business.’

‘Go to Bert Rundle?’

Bert Rundle was the constable, I knew.

‘There’s a sergeant, or an inspector, surely, at the police station.’

‘Me, go into the police station?’

Mrs Baker’s voice expressed reproach and incredulity. I began to feel annoyed.

‘That’s the only advice I can give you.’

Mrs Baker was silent, obviously quite unconvinced. She said wistfully and earnestly:

‘These letters ought to be stopped, sir, they did ought to be stopped. There’ll be mischief done sooner or later.’

‘It seems to me there is mischief done now,’ I said.

‘I meant violence, sir. These young fellows, they get violent in their feelings—and so do the older ones.’

I asked:

‘Are a good many of these letters going about?’

Mrs Baker nodded.

‘It’s getting worse and worse, sir. Mr and Mrs Beadle at the Blue Boar—very happy they’ve always been—and now these letters comes and it sets him thinking things—things that aren’t so, sir.’

I leaned forward:

‘Mrs Baker,’ I said, ‘have you any idea, any idea at all, who is writing these abominable letters?’

To my great surprise she nodded her head.

‘We’ve got our idea, sir. Yes, we’ve all got a very fair idea.’

‘Who is it?’

I had fancied she might be reluctant to mention a name, but she replied promptly:

‘’Tis Mrs Cleat—that’s what we all think, sir. ’Tis Mrs Cleat for sure.’

I had heard so many names this morning that I was quite bewildered. I asked:

‘Who is Mrs Cleat?’

Mrs Cleat, I discovered, was the wife of an elderly jobbing gardener. She lived in a cottage on the road leading down to the Mill. My further questions only brought unsatisfactory answers. Questioned as to why Mrs Cleat should write these letters, Mrs Baker would only say vaguely that ‘’Twould be like her.’

In the end I let her go, reiterating once more my advice to go to the police, advice which I could see Mrs Baker was not going to act upon. I was left with the impression that I had disappointed her.

I thought over what she had said. Vague as the evidence was, I decided that if the village was all agreed that Mrs Cleat was the culprit, then it was probably true. I decided to go and consult Griffith about the whole thing. Presumably he would know this Cleat woman. If he thought advisable, he or I might suggest to the police that she was at the bottom of this growing annoyance.

I timed my arrival for about the moment I fancied Griffith would have finished his ‘Surgery’. When the last patient had left, I went into the surgery.

‘Hallo, it’s you, Burton.’

‘Yes. I want to talk to you.’

I outlined my conversation with Mrs Baker, and passed on to him the conviction that this Mrs Cleat was responsible. Rather to my disappointment, Griffith shook his head.

‘It’s not so simple as that,’ he said.

‘You don’t think this Cleat woman is at the bottom of it?’

‘She may be. But I should think it most unlikely.’

‘Then why do they all think it is her?’

He smiled.

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘you don’t understand. Mrs Cleat is the local witch.’

‘Good gracious!’ I exclaimed.

‘Yes, sounds rather strange nowadays, nevertheless that’s what it amounts to. The feeling lingers, you know, that there are certain people, certain families, for instance, whom it isn’t wise to offend. Mrs Cleat came from a family of “wise women”. And I’m afraid she’s taken pains to cultivate the legend. She’s a queer woman with a bitter and sardonic sense of humour. It’s been easy enough for her, if a child cut its finger, or had a bad fall, or sickened with mumps, to nod her head and say, “Yes, he stole my apples last week” or “He pulled my cat’s tail.” Soon enough mothers pulled their children away, and other women brought honey or a cake they’d baked to give to Mrs Cleat so as to keep on the right side of her so that she shouldn’t “ill wish” them. It’s superstitious and silly, but it happens. So naturally, now, they think she’s at the bottom of this.’