Read Online The Moving Finger by Agatha Christie - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Agatha Christie
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obvious.
Joanna and I came down rather late to breakfast the next morning. That is to say, late by the standards of Lymstock. It was nine-thirty, an hour at which, in London, Joanna was just unclosing an eyelid, and mine would probably be still tight shut.
However when Partridge had said, “Breakfast at half past eight, or nine o'clock?” neither Joanna nor I had had the nerve to suggest a later hour.
To my annoyance, Aimйe Griffith was standing on the doorstep talking to Megan.
She gave tongue with her usual heartiness at the sight of us:
“Hullo, there, slackers! I've been up for hours.”
That, of course, was her own business. A doctor, no doubt, has to have early breakfast, and a dutiful sister is there to pour out his tea or coffee. But it is no excuse for coming and butting in on one's more somnolent neighbours. Nine-thirty is not the time for a morning call.
Megan slipped back into the house and into the dining room, where I gathered she had been interrupted in her breakfast.
“I said I wouldn't come in,” said Aimйe Griffith - “though why it is more of a merit to force people to come and speak to you on the doorstep, than to talk to them inside the house I do not know. Just wanted to ask Miss Burton if she'd any vegetables to spare for our Red Cross stall on the main road. If so, I'd get Owen to call for them in the car.”
“You're out and about very early,” I said.
“The early bird catches the worm,” said Aimйe. “You have a better chance of finding people in this time of day. I'm off to Mr. Pye's next. Got to go over to Brenton this afternoon. Guides.”
“Your energy makes me quite tired,” I said, and at that moment the telephone rang and I retired to the back of the hall to answer it, leaving Joanna murmuring rather doubtfully something about rhubarb and French beans and exposing her ignorance of the vegetable garden.
“Yes?” I said into the telephone mouthpiece.
A confused noise of deep breathing came from the other end of the wire and a doubtful female voice said, “Oh!”
“Yes?” I said again encouragingly.
“Oh,” said the voice again, and then it inquired adenoidally, “Is that- what I mean - is that Little Furze?”
“This is Little Furze.”
“Oh!” This clearly a stock beginning to every sentence.
The voice inquired cautiously: “Could I speak to Miss Partridge just a minute?”
“Certainly,” I said. “Who shall I say is calling?”
“Oh. Tell her it's Agnes, would you? Agnes Waddle.”
“Agnes Waddle?”
“That's right.”
Resisting the temptation to say “Donald Duck to you,” I put down the telephone receiver and called up the stairs to where I could hear the sound of Partridge's activities overhead.
“Partridge! Partridge!”
Partridge appeared at the head of the stairs, a long mop in one hand, and a look of “What is it now?” clearly discernible behind her invariably respectful manner.
“Yes, sir?”
“Agnes Waddle wants to speak to you on the telephone.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
I raised my voice: “Agnes Waddle.”
I have spelled the name as it presented itself to my mind. But I will now spell it as it was actually written:
“Agnes Woddell - whatever can she want now?”
Very much put out of countenance Partridge relinquished her mop and rustled down the stairs, her print dress crackling with agitation.
I beat an unobtrusive retreat into the dining room where Megan was wolfing down kidneys and bacon. Megan, unlike Aimйe Griffith, was displaying no 'glorious morning face'. In fact she replied very gruffly to my morning salutations and continued to eat in silence.
I opened the morning paper and a minute or two later Joanna entered, looking somewhat shattered.
“Whew!” she said. “I'm so tired. And I think I've exposed my utter ignorance of what grows when. Aren't there runner beans this time of year?”
“August,” said Megan.
“Well, one has them any time in London,” said Joanna
Joanna and I came down rather late to breakfast the next morning. That is to say, late by the standards of Lymstock. It was nine-thirty, an hour at which, in London, Joanna was just unclosing an eyelid, and mine would probably be still tight shut.
However when Partridge had said, “Breakfast at half past eight, or nine o'clock?” neither Joanna nor I had had the nerve to suggest a later hour.
To my annoyance, Aimйe Griffith was standing on the doorstep talking to Megan.
She gave tongue with her usual heartiness at the sight of us:
“Hullo, there, slackers! I've been up for hours.”
That, of course, was her own business. A doctor, no doubt, has to have early breakfast, and a dutiful sister is there to pour out his tea or coffee. But it is no excuse for coming and butting in on one's more somnolent neighbours. Nine-thirty is not the time for a morning call.
Megan slipped back into the house and into the dining room, where I gathered she had been interrupted in her breakfast.
“I said I wouldn't come in,” said Aimйe Griffith - “though why it is more of a merit to force people to come and speak to you on the doorstep, than to talk to them inside the house I do not know. Just wanted to ask Miss Burton if she'd any vegetables to spare for our Red Cross stall on the main road. If so, I'd get Owen to call for them in the car.”
“You're out and about very early,” I said.
“The early bird catches the worm,” said Aimйe. “You have a better chance of finding people in this time of day. I'm off to Mr. Pye's next. Got to go over to Brenton this afternoon. Guides.”
“Your energy makes me quite tired,” I said, and at that moment the telephone rang and I retired to the back of the hall to answer it, leaving Joanna murmuring rather doubtfully something about rhubarb and French beans and exposing her ignorance of the vegetable garden.
“Yes?” I said into the telephone mouthpiece.
A confused noise of deep breathing came from the other end of the wire and a doubtful female voice said, “Oh!”
“Yes?” I said again encouragingly.
“Oh,” said the voice again, and then it inquired adenoidally, “Is that- what I mean - is that Little Furze?”
“This is Little Furze.”
“Oh!” This clearly a stock beginning to every sentence.
The voice inquired cautiously: “Could I speak to Miss Partridge just a minute?”
“Certainly,” I said. “Who shall I say is calling?”
“Oh. Tell her it's Agnes, would you? Agnes Waddle.”
“Agnes Waddle?”
“That's right.”
Resisting the temptation to say “Donald Duck to you,” I put down the telephone receiver and called up the stairs to where I could hear the sound of Partridge's activities overhead.
“Partridge! Partridge!”
Partridge appeared at the head of the stairs, a long mop in one hand, and a look of “What is it now?” clearly discernible behind her invariably respectful manner.
“Yes, sir?”
“Agnes Waddle wants to speak to you on the telephone.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
I raised my voice: “Agnes Waddle.”
I have spelled the name as it presented itself to my mind. But I will now spell it as it was actually written:
“Agnes Woddell - whatever can she want now?”
Very much put out of countenance Partridge relinquished her mop and rustled down the stairs, her print dress crackling with agitation.
I beat an unobtrusive retreat into the dining room where Megan was wolfing down kidneys and bacon. Megan, unlike Aimйe Griffith, was displaying no 'glorious morning face'. In fact she replied very gruffly to my morning salutations and continued to eat in silence.
I opened the morning paper and a minute or two later Joanna entered, looking somewhat shattered.
“Whew!” she said. “I'm so tired. And I think I've exposed my utter ignorance of what grows when. Aren't there runner beans this time of year?”
“August,” said Megan.
“Well, one has them any time in London,” said Joanna
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