Read Online Death Knocks Three Times by Anthony Gilbert - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anthony Gilbert
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violence, by which he meant murder, are committed for one of two reasons —passion and greed.”
“The majority are a mixture of the two,” said Miss Pettigrew, unbending slightly. “I am convinced they are in this case.”
“But your friend—I mean, why … ?”
“She recently sujffered a severe bereavement, a very close relative died in distressing circumstances.”
“I think I see.” John nodded intelligently. “X claims to believe that she knows more of the tragedy than she has chosen to reveal. Is it a matter of an inconvenient husband being conveniently removed?”
Miss Pettigrew’s face seemed to close up. Her eyes returned to the book open on her knee.
“Like myself,” she said, “my friend is a spinster.”
A sudden suspicion, so monstrous that he would not allow himself to contemplate it, floated like some enormous balloon filled with poisonous gas into John’s mind.
“This relation?” he compelled himself to ask. “A brother, perhaps? Or a sister?”
“A sister,” said Miss Pettigrew, and it seemed that the balloon was about to burst. “A woman of emotional make-up, easily alarmed, easily dominated. I need hardly say that no other person, so far as we know, attaches any suspicion to my friend …”
“So far as you know,” agreed John.
Miss Pettigrew’s face suddenly loomed up enormous, so that it seemed to fill half the carriage.
“May I ask what you mean by that?”
“Well, but you don’t know, I mean nobody knows. Perhaps half Brakemouth is saying the same thing.” He couldn’t imagine why he was being so reckless. The old woman annoyed him, that was all.
Miss Pettigrew continued to regard him as if he were some monster unexpectedly revealed under a flat stone. “How very singular!” she said, after a moment, and he felt an icy thrill run through him. He tried to say something hearty and amusing, just to show her he had been pulling her leg, but another glance assured him that no one would dare hint she even possessed such a limb.
“I suppose I’m going off my head. It’s the strain,” he told himself foolishly. Hurriedly he buried himself behind his paper, and they didn’t exchange another word until they drew up at Brake-mouth. But like a worm tunnelling in his brain went the question, “What did she mean by that—how very singular? Did it have some personal application? Does she guess?” Who he was, he meant, why he’d come? She was such an old witch, anything was possible.
At Brakemouth John moved half-heartedly toward the rack with a murmur about getting her bag down, but she said in that deep, unfeeling voice: “Thank you. A porter will attend to that,” so he picked up his own bag and scurried across to the Railway Hotel to dump it there. He called himself every kind of a fool, but all the same he wanted to get to Greenglades (that was the name of his Aunt Clara’s hotel) and make sure that his idiotic inspiration in the train had no foundation in fact. It was a relief to find that they had allotted him a quite good room at the Railway Hotel, and he tidied himself rapidly and then hurried down again. As he crossed the hall a man standing by the desk lifted his head and instantly dropped it again. He was a short, sturdy figure, wearing a suit of bright brown and a brown billycock hat, that he casually tilted over his face as he sauntered forward to watch which way the newcomer went. John was in such a hurry he noticed nothing. As he raised his arm to signal the only taxi in view, a porter came out and beat him by a couple of seconds. Behind the porter, like a figure of doom, came the detestable Miss Pettigrew. John looked around frantically, as though he expected another taxi to drop from the clouds. He didn’t notice a little red car standing by the gutter, and indeed in his present mood he wasn’t likely to notice anything so small and, at first sight, so primitive. The next instant the porter had ushered his bete noire into the taxi and was
“The majority are a mixture of the two,” said Miss Pettigrew, unbending slightly. “I am convinced they are in this case.”
“But your friend—I mean, why … ?”
“She recently sujffered a severe bereavement, a very close relative died in distressing circumstances.”
“I think I see.” John nodded intelligently. “X claims to believe that she knows more of the tragedy than she has chosen to reveal. Is it a matter of an inconvenient husband being conveniently removed?”
Miss Pettigrew’s face seemed to close up. Her eyes returned to the book open on her knee.
“Like myself,” she said, “my friend is a spinster.”
A sudden suspicion, so monstrous that he would not allow himself to contemplate it, floated like some enormous balloon filled with poisonous gas into John’s mind.
“This relation?” he compelled himself to ask. “A brother, perhaps? Or a sister?”
“A sister,” said Miss Pettigrew, and it seemed that the balloon was about to burst. “A woman of emotional make-up, easily alarmed, easily dominated. I need hardly say that no other person, so far as we know, attaches any suspicion to my friend …”
“So far as you know,” agreed John.
Miss Pettigrew’s face suddenly loomed up enormous, so that it seemed to fill half the carriage.
“May I ask what you mean by that?”
“Well, but you don’t know, I mean nobody knows. Perhaps half Brakemouth is saying the same thing.” He couldn’t imagine why he was being so reckless. The old woman annoyed him, that was all.
Miss Pettigrew continued to regard him as if he were some monster unexpectedly revealed under a flat stone. “How very singular!” she said, after a moment, and he felt an icy thrill run through him. He tried to say something hearty and amusing, just to show her he had been pulling her leg, but another glance assured him that no one would dare hint she even possessed such a limb.
“I suppose I’m going off my head. It’s the strain,” he told himself foolishly. Hurriedly he buried himself behind his paper, and they didn’t exchange another word until they drew up at Brake-mouth. But like a worm tunnelling in his brain went the question, “What did she mean by that—how very singular? Did it have some personal application? Does she guess?” Who he was, he meant, why he’d come? She was such an old witch, anything was possible.
At Brakemouth John moved half-heartedly toward the rack with a murmur about getting her bag down, but she said in that deep, unfeeling voice: “Thank you. A porter will attend to that,” so he picked up his own bag and scurried across to the Railway Hotel to dump it there. He called himself every kind of a fool, but all the same he wanted to get to Greenglades (that was the name of his Aunt Clara’s hotel) and make sure that his idiotic inspiration in the train had no foundation in fact. It was a relief to find that they had allotted him a quite good room at the Railway Hotel, and he tidied himself rapidly and then hurried down again. As he crossed the hall a man standing by the desk lifted his head and instantly dropped it again. He was a short, sturdy figure, wearing a suit of bright brown and a brown billycock hat, that he casually tilted over his face as he sauntered forward to watch which way the newcomer went. John was in such a hurry he noticed nothing. As he raised his arm to signal the only taxi in view, a porter came out and beat him by a couple of seconds. Behind the porter, like a figure of doom, came the detestable Miss Pettigrew. John looked around frantically, as though he expected another taxi to drop from the clouds. He didn’t notice a little red car standing by the gutter, and indeed in his present mood he wasn’t likely to notice anything so small and, at first sight, so primitive. The next instant the porter had ushered his bete noire into the taxi and was
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