Parker Pyne Investigates by Agatha Christie
‘Clapped into a lunatic asylum, poor girl,’ said Mrs Rymer.
A chill ran down her spine.
A lunatic asylum. They got you in there and they never let you get out. The more you said you were sane, the less they’d believe you. There you were and there you stayed. No, Mrs Rymer wasn’t going to run the risk of that.
The door opened and Mrs Gardner came in.
‘Ah, you’ve drunk your soup, my dear. That’s good. You’ll soon be better now.’
‘When was I taken ill?’ demanded Mrs Rymer.
‘Let me see. It was three days ago–on Wednesday. That was the fifteenth. You were took bad about four o’clock.’
‘Ah!’ The ejaculation was fraught with meaning. It had been just about four o’clock when Mrs Rymer had entered the presence of Doctor Constantine.
‘You slipped down in your chair,’ said Mrs Gardner. “Oh!” you says. “Oh!” just like that. And then: “I’m falling asleep,” you says in a dreamy voice. “I’m falling asleep.” And fall asleep you did, and we put you to bed and sent for the doctor, and here you’ve been ever since.’
‘I suppose,’ Mrs Rymer ventured, ‘there isn’t any way you could know who I am–apart from my face, I mean.’
‘Well, that’s a queer thing to say,’ said Mrs Gardner. ‘What is there to go by better than a person’s face, I’d like to know? There’s your birthmark, though, if that satisfies you better.’
‘A birthmark?’ said Mrs Rymer, brightening. She had no such thing.
‘Strawberry mark just under the right elbow,’ said Mrs Gardner. ‘Look for yourself, my dear.’
‘This will prove it,’ said Mrs Rymer to herself. She knew that she had no strawberry mark under the right elbow. She turned back the sleeve of her nightdress. The strawberry mark was there.
Mrs Rymer burst into tears.
IV
Four days later Mrs Rymer rose from her bed. She had thought out several plans of action and rejected them.
She might show the paragraph in the paper to Mrs Gardner and explain. Would they believe her? Mrs Rymer was sure they would not.
She might go to the police. Would they believe her? Again she thought not.
She might go to Mr Pyne’s office. That idea undoubtedly pleased her best. For one thing, she would like to tell that oily scoundrel what she thought of him. She was debarred from putting this plan into operation by a vital obstacle. She was at present in Cornwall (so she had learned), and she had no money for the journey to London. Two and fourpence in a worn purse seemed to represent her financial position.
And so, after four days, Mrs Rymer made a sporting decision. For the present she would accept things! She was Hannah Moorhouse. Very well, she would be Hannah Moorhouse. For the present she would accept that role, and later, when she had saved sufficient money, she would go to London and beard the swindler in his den.
And having thus decided, Mrs Rymer accepted her role with perfect good temper, even with a kind of sardonic amusement. History was repeating itself indeed. This life reminded her of her girlhood. How long ago that seemed!
V
The work was a bit hard after her years of soft living, but after the first week she found herself slipping into the ways of the farm.
Mrs Gardner was a good-tempered, kindly woman. Her husband, a big, taciturn man, was kindly also. The lank, shambling man of the photograph had gone; another farmhand came in his stead, a good-humoured giant of forty-five, slow of speech and thought, but with a shy twinkle in his blue eyes.
The weeks went by. At last the day came when Mrs Rymer had enough money to pay her fare to London. But she did not go. She put it off. Time enough, she thought. She wasn’t easy in her mind about asylums yet. That scoundrel, Parker Pyne, was clever. He’d get a doctor to say she was mad and she’d be clapped away out of sight with no one knowing anything about it.
‘Besides,’ said Mrs Rymer to herself, ‘a bit of a change does one good.’
She rose early and worked hard. Joe Welsh, the new farmhand, was ill that winter, and she and Mrs Gardner nursed him. The big man was pathetically dependent on them.
Spring came–lambing time; there were wild flowers in the hedges, a treacherous softness in the air. Joe Welsh gave Hannah a hand with her work. Hannah did Joe’s mending.
Sometimes, on Sundays, they went for a walk together. Joe was a widower. His wife had died four years before. Since her death he had, he frankly confessed it, taken a drop too much.
He didn’t go much to the Crown nowadays. He bought himself some new clothes. Mr and Mrs Gardner laughed.
Hannah made fun of Joe. She teased him about his clumsiness. Joe didn’t mind. He looked bashful but happy.
After spring came summer–a good summer that year. Everyone worked hard.
Harvest was over. The leaves were red and golden on the trees.
It was October eighth when Hannah looked up one day from a cabbage she was cutting and saw Mr Parker Pyne leaning over the fence.
‘You!’ said Hannah, alias Mrs Rymer. ‘You…’
It was some time before she got it all out, and when she had said her say, she was out of breath.
Mr Parker Pyne smiled blandly. ‘I quite agree with you,’ he said.
‘A cheat and a liar, that’s what you are!’ said Mrs Rymer, repeating herself. ‘You with your Constantines and your hypnotizing, and that poor girl Hannah Moorhouse shut up with–loonies.’
‘No,’ said Mr Parker Pyne, ‘there you misjudge me. Hannah Moorhouse is not in a lunatic asylum, because Hannah Moorhouse never existed.’
‘Indeed?’ said Mrs Rymer. ‘And what about the photograph of her that I saw with my own eyes?’
‘Faked,’ said Mr Pyne. ‘Quite a simple thing to manage.’
‘And the piece in the paper about her?’
‘The whole paper was faked so as to include two items in a natural manner which would carry conviction. As it did.’
‘That rogue, Doctor Constantine!’
‘An assumed name–assumed by a friend of mine with a talent for acting.’
Mrs Rymer snorted. ‘Ho! And I wasn’t hypnotized either, I suppose?’
‘As a matter of fact, you were not. You drank in your coffee a preparation of Indian hemp. After that, other drugs were administered and you were brought down here by car and allowed to recover consciousness.’
‘Then Mrs Gardner has been in it all the time?’ said Mrs Rymer.
Mr Parker Pyne nodded.
‘Bribed by you, I suppose! Or filled up with a lot of lies!’
‘Mrs Gardner trusts me,’ said Mr Pyne. ‘I once saved her only son from penal servitude.’
Something in his manner silenced Mrs Rymer on that tack. ‘What about the birthmark!’ she demanded.
Mr Pyne smiled. ‘It is already fading. In another six months it will have disappeared altogether.’
‘And what’s the meaning of all this tomfoolery? Making a fool of me, sticking me down here as a servant–me with all that good money in the bank. But I suppose I needn’t ask. You’ve been helping yourself to it, my fine fellow. That’s the meaning of all this.’
‘It is true,’ said Mr Parker Pyne, ‘that I did obtain from you, while you were under the influence of drugs, a power of attorney and that during your–er–absence, I have assumed control of your financial affairs, but I can assure you, my dear madam, that apart from that original thousand pounds, no money of yours has found its way into my pocket. As a matter of fact, by judicious investments your financial position is actually improved.’ He beamed at her.
‘Then why–?’ began Mrs Rymer.
‘I am going to ask you a question, Mrs Rymer,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘You are an honest woman. You will answer me honestly, I know. I am going to ask you if you are happy.’
‘Happy! That’s a pretty question! Steal a woman’s money and ask her if she’s happy. I like your impudence!’
‘You are still angry,’ he said. ‘Most natural. But leave my misd
Mrs Rymer looked at Mr Parker Pyne, but she dropped her eyes when she spoke at last.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not unhappy.’ A tone of wonder crept into her voice. ‘You’ve got me there. I admit it. I’ve not been as happy as I am now since Abner died. I–I’m going to marry a man who works here–Joe Welsh. Our banns are going up next Sunday; that is, they were going up next Sunday.’
‘But now, of course, everything is different.’
Mrs Rymer’s face flamed. She took a step forward.
‘What do you mean, different? Do you think that if I had all the money in the world it would make me a lady? I don’t want to be a lady, thank you; a helpless good-for-nothing lot they are. Joe’s good enough for me and I’m good enough for him. We suit each other and we’re going to be happy. As you for, Mr Nosey Parker, you take yourself off and don’t interfere with what doesn’t concern you!’
Mr Parker Pyne took a paper from his pocket and handed it to her. ‘The power of attorney,’ he said. ‘Shall I tear it up? You will assume control of your own fortune now, I take it.’
A strange expression came over Mrs Rymer’s face. She thrust back the paper.
‘Take it. I’ve said hard things to you–and some of them you deserved. You’re a downy fellow, but all the same I trust you. Seven hundred pounds I’ll have in the bank here–that’ll buy us a farm we’ve got our eye on. The rest of it–well, let the hospitals have it.’
‘You cannot mean to hand over your entire fortune to hospitals?’
‘That’s just what I do mean. Joe’s a dear, good fellow, but he’s weak. Give him money and you’d ruin him. I’ve got him off the drink now, and I’ll keep him off it. Thank God, I know my own mind. I’m not going to let money come between me and happiness.’
‘You are a remarkable woman,’ said Mr Pyne slowly. ‘Only one woman in a thousand would act as you are doing.’
‘Then only one woman in a thousand’s got sense,’ said Mrs Rymer.
‘I take my hat off to you,’ said Mr Parker Pyne, and there was an unusual note in his voice. He raised his hat with solemnity and moved away.
‘And Joe’s never to know, mind!’ Mrs Rymer called after him.
She stood there with the dying sun behind her, a great blue-green cabbage in her hands, her head thrown back and her shoulders squared. A grand figure of a peasant woman, outlined against the setting sun…
Have You Got Everything You Want?
I
‘Par ici, Madame.’
A tall woman in a mink coat followed her heavily encumbered porter along the platform of the Gare de Lyon.
She wore a dark-brown knitted hat pulled down over one eye and ear. The other side revealed a charming tip-tilted profile and little golden curls clustering over a shell-like ear. Typically an American, she was altogether a very charming-looking creature and more than one man turned to look at her as she walked past the high carriages of the waiting train.
Large plates were stuck in holders on the sides of the carriages.
PARIS-ATHENES. PARIS-BUCHAREST. PARIS-STAMBOUL.
At the last named the porter came to an abrupt halt. He undid the strap which held the suitcases together and they slipped heavily to the ground. ‘Voici, Madame.’
The wagon-lit conductor was standing beside the steps. He came forward, remarking, ‘Bonsoir, Madame,’ with an empressement perhaps due to the richness and perfection of the mink coat.
The woman handed him her sleeping-car ticket of flimsy paper.
‘Number Six,’ he said. ‘This way.’
He sprang nimbly into the train, the woman following him. As she hurried down the corridor after him, she nearly collided with a portly gentleman who was emerging from the compartment next to hers. She had a momentary glimpse of a large bland face with benevolent eyes.
‘Voici, Madame.’
The conductor displayed the compartment. He threw up the window and signalled to the porter. The lesser employee took in the baggage and put it up on the racks. The woman sat down.
Beside her on the seat she had placed a small scarlet case and her handbag. The carriage was hot, but it did not seem to occur to her to take off her coat. She stared out of the window with unseeing eyes. People were hurrying up and down the platform. There were sellers of newspapers, of pillows, of chocolate, of fruit, of mineral waters. They held up their wares to her, but her eyes looked blankly through them. The Gare de Lyon had faded from her sight. On her face were sadness and anxiety.
‘If Madame will give me her passport?’
The words made no impression on her. The conductor, standing in the doorway, repeated them. Elsie Jeffries roused herself with a start.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Your passport, Madame.’
She opened her bag, took out the passport and gave it to him.
‘That will be all right, Madame, I will attend to everything.’ A slight significant pause. ‘I shall be going with Madame as far as Stamboul.’
Elsie drew out a fifty-franc note and handed it to him. He accepted it in a business-like manner, and inquired when she would like her bed made up and whether she was taking dinner.
These matters settled, he withdrew and almost immediately the restaurant man came rushing down the corridor ringing his little bell frantically, and bawling out, ‘Premier service. Premier service.’
Elsie rose, divested herself of the heavy fur coat, took a brief glance at herself in the little mirror, and picking up her handbag and jewel case stepped out into the corridor. She had gone only a few steps when the restaurant man came rushing along on his return journey. To avoid him, Elsie stepped back for a moment into the doorway of the adjoining compartment, which was now empty. As the man passed and she prepared to continue her journey to the dining car, her glance fell idly on the label of a suitcase which was lying on the seat.
It was a stout pigskin case, somewhat worn. On the label were the words: ‘J. Parker Pyne, passenger to Stamboul.’ The suitcase itself bore the initials ‘P.P.’
A startled expression came over the girl’s face. She hesitated a moment in the corridor, then going back to her own compartment she picked up a copy of The Times which she had laid down on the table with some magazines and books.
She ran her eye down the advertisement columns on the front page, but what she was looking for was not there. A slight frown on her face, she made her way to the restaurant car.
The attendant allotted her a seat at a small table already tenanted by one person–the man with whom she had nearly collided in the corridor. In fact, the owner of the pigskin suitcase.
Elsie looked at him without appearing to do so. He seemed very bland, very benevolent, and in some way impossible to explain, delightfully reassuring. He behaved in reserved British fashion, and it was not until the fruit was on the table that he spoke.
‘They keep these places terribly hot,’ he said.
‘I know,’ said Elsie. ‘I wish one could have the window open.’
He gave a rueful smile. ‘Impossible! Every person present except ourselves would protest.’
She gave an answering smile. Neither said any more.
Coffee was brought and the usual indecipherable bill. Having laid some notes upon it, Elsie suddenly took her courage in both hands.
‘Excuse me,’ she murmured. ‘I saw your name upon your suitcase–Parker Pyne. Are you–are you, by any chance–?’
She hesitated and he came quickly to her rescue.
‘I believe I am. That is’–he quoted from the advertisement which Elsie had noticed more than once in The Times, and for which she had searched vainly just now: ‘“Are you happy? If not, consult Mr Parker
‘I see,’ said Elsie. ‘How–how extraordinary!’
He shook his head. ‘Not really. Extraordinary from your point of view, but not from mine.’ He smiled reassuringly, then leaned forward. Most of the other diners had left the car. ‘So you are unhappy?’ he said.
‘I–’ began Elsie, and stopped.
‘You would not have said “How extraordinary” otherwise,’ he pointed out.
Elsie was silent for a minute. She felt strangely soothed by the mere presence of Mr Parker Pyne. ‘Ye–es,’ she admitted at last. ‘I am–unhappy. At least, I am worried.’
He nodded sympathetically.
‘You see,’ she continued, ‘a very curious thing has happened–and I don’t know the least what to make of it.’
‘Suppose you tell me about it,’ suggested Mr Pyne.
Elsie thought of the advertisement. She and Edward had often commented on it and laughed. She had never thought that she…perhaps she had better not…if Mr Parker Pyne were a charlatan…but he looked–nice!
Elsie made her decision. Anything to get this worry off her mind.
‘I’ll tell you. I’m going to Constantinople to join my husband. He does a lot of Oriental business, and this year he found it necessary to go there. He went a fortnight ago. He was to get things ready for me to join him. I’ve been very excited at the thought of it. You see, I’ve never been abroad before. We’ve been in England six months.’
‘You and your husband are both American?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you have not, perhaps, been married very long?’
‘We’ve been married a year and a half.’
‘Happily?’
‘Oh, yes! Edward’s a perfect angel.’ She hesitated. ‘Not, perhaps, very much go to him. Just a little–well, I’d call it straightlaced. Lot of puritan ancestry and all that. But he’s a dear,’ she added hastily.
Mr Parker Pyne looked at her thoughtfully for a moment or two, then he said, ‘Go on.’
‘It was about a week after Edward had started. I was writing a letter in his study, and I noticed that the blotting paper was all new and clean, except for a few lines of writing across it. I’d just been reading a detective story with a clue in the blotter and so, just for fun, I held it up to a mirror. It really was just fun, Mr Pyne–I mean, he’s such a mild lamb one wouldn’t dream of anything of that kind.’