The Moving Finger by Agatha Christie Page A

against him or her. Such a dastardly and malicious piece of spite deserved to be punished with the utmost rigour of the law. Directed by him, the jury brought in the inevitable verdict. Suicide whilst temporarily insane.
    The coroner had done his best—Owen Griffith also, but afterwards, jammed in the crowd of eager village women, I heard the same hateful sibilant whisper I had begun to know so well, “No smoke without fire, that’s what I say!” “Must ’a been something in it for certain sure. She wouldn’t never have done it otherwise….”
    Just for a moment I hated Lymstock and its narrow boundaries, and its gossiping whispering women.
    II
    It is difficult to remember things in their exact chronological order. The next landmark of importance, of course, was Superintendent Nash’s visit. But it was before that, I think, that we received calls from various members of the community, each of which was interesting in its way and shed some light on the characters and personalities of the people involved.
    Aimée Griffith came on the morning after the inquest. She was looking, as always, radiant with health and vigour and succeeded, also as usual, in putting my back up almost immediately. Joanna and Megan were out, so I did the honours.
    â€œGood morning,” said Miss Griffith. “I hear you’ve got Megan Hunter here?”
    â€œWe have.”
    â€œVery good of you, I’m sure. It must be rather a nuisance to you. I came up to say she can come to us if you like. I dare say I can find ways of making her useful about the house.”
    I looked at Aimée Griffith with a good deal of distaste.
    â€œHow kind of you,” I said. “But we like having her. She potters about quite happily.”
    â€œI dare say. Much too fond of pottering, that child. Still, I suppose she can’t help it, being practically half-witted.”
    â€œI think she’s rather an intelligent girl,” I said.
    Aimée Griffith gave me a hard stare.
    â€œFirst time I’ve ever heard anyone say that of her,” she remarked. “Why, when you talk to her, she looks through you as though she doesn’t understand what you are saying!”
    â€œShe probably just isn’t interested,” I said.
    â€œIf so, she’s extremely rude,” said Aimée Griffith.
    â€œThat may be. But not half-witted.”
    Miss Griffith declared sharply:
    â€œAt best, it’s woolgathering. What Megan needs is good hard work—something to give her an interest in life. You’ve no idea what a difference that makes to a girl. I know a lot about girls. You’d be surprised at the difference even becoming a Guide makes to a girl. Megan’s much too old to spend her time lounging about and doing nothing.”
    â€œIt’s been rather difficult for her to do anything else so far,” I said. “Mrs. Symmington always seemed under the impression that Megan was about twelve years old.”
    Miss Griffith snorted.
    â€œI know. I had no patience with that attitude of hers. Of course she’s dead now, poor woman, so one doesn’t want to say much, but she was a perfect example of what I call the unintelligent domestic type. Bridge and gossip and her children—and even there that Holland girl did all the looking after them. I’m afraid I never thought very much of Mrs. Symmington, although of course I never suspected the truth.”
    â€œThe truth?” I said sharply.
    Miss Griffith flushed.
    â€œI was terribly sorry for Dick Symmington, its all having to come out as it did at the inquest,” she said. “It was awful for him.”
    â€œBut surely you heard him say that there was not a word of truth in that letter—that he was quite sure of that?”
    â€œOf course he said so. Quite right. A man’s got to stick up for his wife. Dick would.” She paused and then explained: “You see, I’ve known Dick