Read Online The Moving Finger by Agatha Christie - Free Book Online

Calthrop, on the other hand, was quite terrifyingly on the spot. I have perhaps purposely put off mentioning her, because I was from the first a little afraid of her. She was a woman of character and of almost Olympian knowledge. She was not in the least the typical vicar’s wife—but that, as I set it down, makes me ask myself, what do I know of vicars’ wives?
    The only one I remember well was a quiet nondescript creature, devoted to a big strong husband with a magnetic way of preaching.She had so little general conversation that it was a puzzle to know how to sustain a conversation with her.
    Otherwise I was depending on the fictional presentment of vicars’ wives, caricatures of females poking their noses everywhere, and uttering platitudes. Probably no such type exists.
    Mrs. Dane Calthrop never poked her nose in anywhere, yet she had an uncanny power of knowing things and I soon discovered that almost everyone in the village was slightly afraid of her. She gave no advice and never interfered, yet she represented, to any uneasy conscience, the Deity personified.
    I have never seen a woman more indifferent to her material surroundings. On hot days she would stride about clad in Harris tweed, and in rain or even sleet, I have seen her absentmindedly race down the village street in a cotton dress of printed poppies. She had a long thin well-bred face like a greyhound, and a most devastating sincerity of speech.
    She stopped me in the High Street the day after Megan had come to lunch. I had the usual feeling of surprise, because Mrs. Dane Calthrop’s progress resembled coursing more than walking, and her eyes were always fixed on the distant horizon so that you felt sure her real objective was about a mile and a half away.
    â€œOh,” she said. “Mr. Burton!”
    She said it rather triumphantly, as someone might who had solved a particularly clever puzzle.
    I admitted that I was Mr. Burton and Mrs. Dane Calthrop stopped focusing on the horizon and seemed to be trying to focus on me instead.
    â€œNow what,” she said, “did I want to see you about?”
    I could not help her there. She stood frowning, deeply perplexed.
    â€œSomething rather nasty,” she said.
    â€œI’m sorry about that,” I said, startled.
    â€œAh,” cried Mrs. Dane Calthrop. “I hate my love with an A. That’s it. Anonymous letters! What’s this story you’ve brought down here about anonymous letters?”
    â€œI didn’t bring it,” I said. “It was here already.”
    â€œNobody got any until you came, though,” said Mrs. Dane Calthrop accusingly.
    â€œBut they did, Mrs. Dane Calthrop. The trouble had already started.”
    â€œOh dear,” said Mrs. Dane Calthrop. “I don’t like that.”
    She stood there, her eyes absent and faraway again. She said:
    â€œI can’t help feeling it’s all wrong. We’re not like that here. Envy, of course, and malice, and all the mean spiteful little sins—but I didn’t think there was anyone who would do that—No, I really didn’t. And it distresses me, you see, because I ought to know.”
    Her fine eyes came back from the horizon and met mine. They were worried, and seemed to hold the honest bewilderment of a child.
    â€œHow should you know?” I said.
    â€œI usually do. I’ve always felt that’s my function. Caleb preaches good sound doctrine and administers the sacraments. That’s a priest’s duty, but if you admit marriage at all for a priest, then I think his wife’s duty is to know what people are feeling and thinking, even if she can’t do anything about it. And I haven’t the least idea whose mind is—”
    She broke off, adding absently.
    â€œThey are such silly letters, too.”
    â€œHave you—er—had any yourself?”
    I was a little diffident of asking, but Mrs. Dane Calthrop replied perfectly naturally, her