Free The Moving Finger by Agatha Christie

defensively.
    “Tins, sweet fool,” I said. “And cold storage on ships from the far-flung limits of Empire.”
    “Like ivory, apes and peacocks?” asked Joanna.
    “Exactly.”
    “I'd rather have peacocks,” said Joanna thoughtfully.
    “I'd like a monkey of my own as a pet,” said Megan.
    Meditatively peeling an orange, Joanna said: “I wonder what it would feel like to be Aimйe Griffith, all bursting with health and vigour and enjoyment of life. Do you think she's ever tired, or depressed, or - or wistful?”
    I said I was quite certain Aimйe Griffith was never wistful, and followed Megan out of the open French window onto the veranda.
    Standing there, filling my pipe, I heard Partridge enter the dining room from the hall and heard her voice say grimly,
    “Can I speak to you a minute, Miss?”
    “Dear me,” I thought. “I hope Partridge isn't going to give notice. Emily Barton would be very annoyed with us if so.”
    Partridge went on: “I must apologise, Miss, for being rung up on the telephone. That is to say, the young person who did so should have known better. I have never been in the habit of using the telephone or of permitting my friends to ring me up on it, and I'm very sorry indeed that it should have occurred, and the master taking the call and everything.”
    “Why, that's quite all right, Partridge,” said Joanna soothingly, “why shouldn't your friends use the phone if they want to speak to you?”
    Partridge's face, I could feel, though I could not see it, was more dour than ever as she replied coldly:
    “It is not the kind of thing that has ever been done in this house. Miss Emily would never permit it. As I say, I am sorry it occurred, but Agnes Woddell, the girl who did it, was upset and she's young too, and doesn't know what's fitting in a gentleman's house.”
    “That's one for you, Joanna,” I thought gleefully.
    “This Agnes who rung me up, Miss,” went on Partridge, “she used to be in service here under me. Sixteen she was, then, and come straight from the orphanage. And you see, not having a home, or a mother or any relations to advise her, she's been in the habit of coming to me. I can tell her what's what, you see.”
    “Yes?” said Joanna and waited. Clearly there was more to follow.
    “So I am taking the liberty of asking you, Miss, if you would allow Agnes to come here to tea this afternoon in the kitchen. It's her day out, you see, and she's got something on her mind she wants to consult me about. I wouldn't dream of suggesting such a thing in the usual way.”
    Joanna said bewildered, “But why shouldn't you have anyone to tea with you?”
    Partridge drew herself up at this, so Joanna said afterward and really looked most formidable, as she replied:
    “It has never been the custom of this house, Miss. Old Mrs. Barton never allowed visitors in the kitchen, excepting as it should be our own day out, in which case we were allowed to entertain friends here instead of going out, but otherwise, on ordinary days, no. And Miss Emily keeps to the old ways.”
    Joanna is very nice to servants and most of them like her but she has never cut any ice with Partridge.
    “It's no good, my girl,” I said when Partridge had gone and Joanna had joined me outside. “Your sympathy and leniency are not appreciated. The good old overbearing ways for Partridge and things done the way they should be done in a gentleman's house.”
    “I never heard of such tyranny as not allowing them to have their friends to see them,” said Joanna. “It's all very well, Jerry, but they can't like being treated like black slaves.”
    “Evidently they do,” I said. “At least the Partridges of this world do.”
    “I can't imagine why she doesn't like me. Most people do.”
    “She probably despises you as an inadequate housekeeper. You never draw your hand across a shelf and examine it for traces of dust. You don't look under the mats. You don't ask what happened to the remains of the chocolate