Free Three Blind Mice by Agatha Christie

“Please go, Christopher. Yes—really.”
    Christopher moved slowly toward the door. “I shan’t go very far,” he said, and the words were addressed to Molly and held a very definite meaning.
    “ Will you get out of here?”
    Christopher gave a high childish giggle. “Aye, aye, Commander,” he said.
    The door shut behind him. Giles turned on Molly.
    “For God’s sake, Molly, haven’t you got any sense? Shut in here alone with a dangerous homicidal maniac!”
    “He isn’t the—” she changed her phrase quickly—“he isn’t dangerous. Anyway, I’m on my guard. I can—look after myself.”
    Giles laughed unpleasantly. “So could Mrs. Boyle.”
    “Oh, Giles, don’t. ”
    “Sorry, my dear. But I’m het up. That wretched boy. What you see in him I can’t imagine.”
    Molly said slowly, “I’m sorry for him.”
    “Sorry for a homicidal lunatic?”
    Molly gave him a curious glance. “I could be sorry for a homicidal lunatic,” she said.
    “Calling him Christopher, too. Since when have you been on Christian-name terms?”
    “Oh Giles, don’t be ridiculous. Everyone always uses Christian names nowadays. You know they do.”
    “Even after a couple of days? But perhaps it’s more than that. Perhaps you knew Mr. Christopher Wren, the phony architect, before he came here? Perhaps you suggested to him that he should come here? Perhaps you cooked it all up between you?”
    Molly stared at him. “Giles, have you gone out of your mind? What on earth are you suggesting?”
    “I’m suggesting that Christopher Wren is an old friend, that you’re on rather closer terms with him than you’d like me to know.”
    “Giles, you must be crazy!”
    “I suppose you’ll stick to it that you never saw him until he walked in here. Rather odd that he should come and stay in an out-of-the-way place like this, isn’t it?”
    “Is it any odder than that Major Metcalf and—and Mrs. Boyle should?”
    “Yes—I think it is. I’ve always read that these murmuring loonies had a peculiar fascination for women. Looks as though it were true. How did you get to know him? How long has this been going on?”
    “You’re being absolutely absurd, Giles. I never saw Christopher Wren until he arrived here.”
    “You didn’t go up to London to meet him two days ago and fix up to meet here as strangers?”
    “You know perfectly well, Giles, I haven’t been up to London for weeks.”
    “Haven’t you? That’s interesting.” He fished a fur-lined glove out of his pocket and held it out. “That’s one of the gloves you were wearing day before yesterday, isn’t it? The day I was over at Sailham getting the netting.”
    “The day you were over at Sailham getting the netting,” said Molly, eying him steadily. “Yes, I wore those gloves when I went out.”
    “You went to the village, you said. If you only went to the village, what is this doing inside that glove?”
    Accusingly, he held out a pink bus ticket.
    There was a moment’s silence.
    “You went to London,” said Giles.
    “All right,” said Molly. Her chin shot up. “I went to London.”
    “To meet this chap Christopher Wren.”
    “No, not to meet Christopher.”
    “Then why did you go?”
    “Just at the moment, Giles,” said Molly, “I’m not going to tell you.”
    “Meaning you’ll give yourself time to think up a good story!”
    “I think,” said Molly, “that I hate you!”
    “I don’t hate you,” said Giles slowly. “But I almost wish I did. I simply feel that—I don’t know you any more—I don’t know anything about you.”
    “I feel the same,” said Molly. “You—you’re just a stranger. A man who lies to me—”
    “When have I ever lied to you?”
    Molly laughed. “Do you think I believed that story of yours about the wire netting? You were in London, too, that day.”
    “I suppose you saw me there,” said Giles. “And you didn’t trust me enough—”
    “Trust you? I’ll never trust anyone—ever—again.”
    Neither