The Moving Finger by Agatha Christie

face, she tilted her head back and gulped it down at a draught.
    â€œIt’s lovely,” she said. “Can I have another?”
    â€œNo,” I said.
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œIn about ten minutes you’ll probably know.”
    â€œOh!”
    Megan transferred her attention to Joanna.
    â€œI really am awfully sorry for having made such a nuisance of myself howling away like that. I can’t think why. It seems awfully silly when I’m so glad to be here.”
    â€œThat’s all right,” said Joanna. “We’re very pleased to have you.”
    â€œYou can’t be, really. It’s just kindness on your part. But I am grateful.”
    â€œPlease don’t be grateful,” said Joanna. “It will embarrass me. I was speaking the truth when I said we should be glad to have you. Jerry and I have used up all our conversation. We can’t think of anymore things to say to each other.”
    â€œBut now,” I said, “we shall be able to have all sorts of interesting discussions—about Goneril and Regan and things like that.”
    Megan’s face lit up.
    â€œI’ve been thinking about that, and I think I know the answer. It was because that awful old father of theirs always insisted on such a lot of sucking up. When you’ve always got to be saying thank you and how kind and all the rest of it, it would make you go a bit rotten and queer inside, and you’d just long to be able to be beastly for a change—and when you got the chance, you’d probably find it went to your head and you’d go too far. Old Lear was pretty awful, wasn’t he? I mean, he did deserve the snub Cordelia gave him.”
    â€œI can see,” I said, “that we are going to have many interesting discussions about Shakespeare.”
    â€œI can see you two are going to be very highbrow,” said Joanna. “I’m afraid I always find Shakespeare terribly dreary. All those long scenes where everybody is drunk and it’s supposed to be funny.”
    â€œTalking of drink,” I said turning to Megan. “How are you feeling?”
    â€œQuite all right, thank you.”
    â€œNot at all giddy? You don’t see two of Joanna or anything like that?”
    â€œNo. I just feel as though I’d like to talk rather a lot.”
    â€œSplendid,” I said. “Obviously you are one of our natural drinkers. That is to say, if that really was your first cocktail.”
    â€œOh, it was.”
    â€œA good strong head is an asset to any human being,” I said.
    Joanna took Megan upstairs to unpack.
    Partridge came in, looking sour, and said she had made two cup custards for lunch and what should she do about it?

Six
    I
    T he inquest was held three days later. It was all done as decorously as possible, but there was a large attendance and, as Joanna observed, the beady bonnets were wagging.
    The time of Mrs. Symmington’s death was put at between three and four o’clock. She was alone in the house, Symmington was at his office, the maids were having their day out, Elsie Holland and the children were out walking and Megan had gone for a bicycle ride.
    The letter must have come by the afternoon post. Mrs. Symmington must have taken it out of the box, read it—and then in a state of agitation she had gone to the potting shed, fetched some of the cyanide kept there for taking wasps’ nests, dissolved it in water and drunk it after writing those last agitated words, “I can’t go on….”
    Owen Griffith gave medical evidence and stressed the view he had outlined to us of Mrs. Symmington’s nervous condition andpoor stamina. The coroner was suave and discreet. He spoke with bitter condemnation of people who write those despicable things, anonymous letters. Whoever had written that wicked and lying letter was morally guilty of murder, he said. He hoped the police would soon discover the culprit and take action