The Sittaford Mystery by Agatha Christie Page A

that the dead man's nephew had been detained in connection with the murder made the whole affair spring from a mere paragraph in the back pages of the newspapers to gigantic headlines. On the Monday, reporters had arrived at Exhampton in large numbers. Mr Charles Enderby had reason once more to congratulate himself on the superior position he had obtained from the purely fortuitous chance of the football competition prize.
    It was the journalist's intention to stick to Major Burnaby like a leech. And under the pretext of photographing the latter's cottage, to obtain exclusive information of the inhabitants of Sittaford and their relations with the dead man.
    It did not escape Mr Enderby's notice that at lunch time a small table near the door was occupied by a very attractive girl. Mr Enderby wondered what she was doing in Exhampton. She was well dressed in a demure and provocative style, and did not appear to be a relation of the deceased, and still less could be labeled as one of the idle curious.
    “I wonder how long she's staying?” thought Mr Enderby. “Rather a pity I am going up to Sittaford this afternoon. Just my luck. Well, you can't have it both ways, I suppose.”
    But shortly after lunch, Mr Enderby received an agreeable surprise. He was standing on the steps of the Three Crowns observing the fast melting snow, and enjoying the sluggish rays of wintry sunshine, when he was aware of a voice, an extremely charming voice, addressing him.
    “I beg your pardon - but could you tell me - if there is anything to see in Exhampton?”
    Charles Enderby rose to the occasion promptly.
    “There's a castle, I believe,” he said. “Not much to it - but there it is. Perhaps you would allow me to show you the way to it.”
    “That would be frightfully kind of you,” said the girl. “If you are sure you are not too busy -”
    Charles Enderby disclaimed immediately the notion of being busy.
    They set out together.
    “You are Mr Enderby, aren't you?” said the girl.
    “Yes. How did you know?”
    “Mrs Belling pointed you out to me.”
    “Oh, I see.”
    “My name is Emily Trefusis. Mr Enderby - I want you to help me.”
    “To help you?” said Enderby. “Why, certainly - but -”
    “You see, I am engaged to Jim Pearson.”
    “Oh!” said Mr Enderby, journalistic possibilities rising before his mind.
    “And the police are going to arrest him. I know they are. Mr Enderby, I know that Jim didn't do this thing. I am down here to prove he didn't. But I must have someone to help me. One can't do anything without a man. Men know so much, and are able to get information in so many ways that are simply impossible to women.”
    “Well - I - yes, I suppose that is true,” said Mr Enderby complacently.
    “I was looking at all these journalists this morning,” said Emily. “Such a lot of them I thought had such stupid faces. I picked you out as the one really clever one among them.”
    “Oh! I say. I don't think that's true, you know,” said Mr Enderby still more complacently.
    “What I want to propose,” said Emily Trefusis, “is a kind of partnership. There would, I think, be advantages on both sides. There are certain things I want to investigate - to find out about. There you in your charaeter of journalist can help me. I want -”
    Emily paused. What she really wanted was to engage Mr Enderby as a kind of private sleuth of her own. To go where she told him, to ask the questions she wanted asked, and in general to be a kind of bond slave. But she was aware of the necessity of couching these proposals in terms at once flattering and agreeable. The whole point was that she was to be the boss, but the matter needed managing tactfully.
    “I want,” said Emily, “to feel that I can depend upon you.”
    She had a lovely voice, liquid and alluring. As she uttered the last sentence a feeling rose in Mr Enderby's bosom that this lovely helpless girl could depend upon him to the last ditch.
    “It must be ghastly,” said