The Moving Finger by Agatha Christie Page B

matter to me,” said Partridge.
    She was so swelling with grievance that she condescended to pour it out to us:
    “It wasn't me who thought of asking her! She rang up herself, said she'd something on her mind and could she come here, it being her day off. And I said, yes, subject to your permission which I obtained. And after that, not a sound or sign of her! And no word of apology either, though I should hope I'll get a postcard tomorrow morning. These girls nowadays - don't know their place - no idea of how to behave.”
    Joanna attempted to soothe Partridge's wounded feelings:
    “She mightn't have felt well. You didn't ring up to find out?”
    Partridge drew herself up again.
    “No, I did not, Miss! No, indeed. If Agnes likes to behave rudely that's her lookout, but I shall give her a piece of my mind when we meet.”
    Partridge went out of the room still stiff with indignation, and Joanna and I laughed.
    “Probably a case of 'Advice from Aunt Nancy's Column,'” I said. “'My boy is very cold in his manner to me, what shall I do about it?' Failing Aunt Nancy, Partridge was to be applied to for advice, but instead there has been a reconciliation and I expect at this minute that Agnes and her boy are one of those speechless couples locked in each other's arms that you come upon suddenly standing by a dark hedge. They embarrass you horribly, but you don't embarrass them.”
    Joanna laughed and said she expected that was it.
    We began talking of the anonymous letters and wondered how Nash and the melancholy Graves were getting on.
    “It's a week today exactly,” said Joanna, “since Mrs. Symmington's suicide. I should think they must have got on to something by now. Fingerprints, or handwriting, or something.”
    I answered her absently. Somewhere behind my conscious mind, a queer uneasiness was growing. It was connected in some way with the phrase that Joanna had used, “a week exactly.”
    I ought, I dare say, to have put two and two together earlier. Perhaps, unconsciously, my mind was already suspicious. Anyway the leaven was working now. The uneasiness was growing - coming to a head.
    Joanna noticed suddenly that I wasn't listening to her spirited account of a village encounter.
    “What's the matter, Jerry?”
    I did not answer because my mind was busy piecing things together.
    Mrs. Symmington's suicide... She was alone in the house that afternoon Alone in the house because the maids were having their day out. A week ago exactly...
    “Jerry, what -”
    I interrupted:
    “Joanna, maids have days out once a week, don't they?”
    “And alternate Sundays,” said Joanna. “What on -”
    “Never mind Sundays. They go out the same day every week?”
    “Yes. That's the usual thing.”
    Joanna was staring at me curiously. Her mind had not taken the track mine had.
    I crossed the room and rang the bell.
    Partridge came.
    “Tell me,” I said, “this Agnes Woddell. She's in service?”
    “Yes, sir. At Mrs. Symmington's. At Mr. Symmington's I should say now.”
    I drew a deep breath. I glanced at the clock. It was half past ten.
    “Would she be back now, do you think?”
    Partridge was looking disapproving. “Yes, sir. The maids have to be in by ten there. They're old-fashioned.”
    I said, “I'm going to ring up.”
    I went out to the hall. Joanna and Partridge followed me. Partridge was clearly furious. Joanna was puzzled. She said as I was trying to get the number, “What are you going to do, Jerry?”
    “I'd like to be sure that the girl has come in all right.”
    Partridge sniffed. Just sniffed, nothing more. But I did not care twopence about Partridge's sniffs.
    Elsie Holland answered the telephone from the other end.
    “Sorry to ring you up,” I said. “This is Jerry Burton speaking. Is - has - your maid Agnes come in?”
    It was not until after I had said it that I suddenly felt a bit of a fool. For if the girl had come in and it was all right, how on earth was I going to explain my ringing up and