Free The Moving Finger by Agatha Christie Page B

sister would be expecting him back...
    “We'll ring her up and explain,” said Joanna quickly, went out into the hall and did so.
    I thought Griffith looked a little uneasy, and it crossed mind that he was probably a little afraid of his sister.
    Joanna came back smiling and said that that was all.
    And Owen Griffith stayed to lunch and seemed to enjoy himself. We talked about books and plays and world politics, and about music and painting and modern architecture.
    We didn't talk about Lymstock at all, or about anonymous letters, or Mrs. Symmington's suicide.
    We got right away from everything, and I think Owen Griffith was happy. His dark sad face lighted up, and he revealed an interesting mind.
    When he had gone I said to Joanna, “That fellow's too good for your tricks.”
    “That's what you say!” Joanna said. “You men all stick together!”
    “Why are you out after his hide, Joanna? Wounded vanity?”
    “Perhaps,” said my sister.
    That afternoon we were to go to tea with Miss Emily Barton at her rooms in the village.
    We strolled down there on foot, for I felt strong enough now to manage the hill back again.
    We must actually have allowed too much time and got there early, for the door was opened to us by a tall, rawboned, fierce-looking woman who told us that Miss Barton wasn't in yet.
    “But she's expecting you, I know, so if you'll come up and wait, please.”
    This was evidently faithful Florence.
    We followed her up the stairs and she threw open a door and showed us into what was quite a comfortable sitting room, though perhaps a little over-furnished. Some of the things, I suspected, had come from Little Furze.
    The woman was clearly proud of her room.
    “It's nice, isn't it?” she demanded.
    “Very nice,” said Joanna warmly.
    “I make her as comfortable as I can. Not that I can do for her as I'd like to and in the way she ought to have. She ought to be in her own house, properly, not turned out into rooms.”
    Florence, who was clearly a dragon, looked from one to the other of us reproachfully. It was not, I felt, our lucky day. Joanna had been ticked off by Aimйe Griffith and Partridge and now we were both being ticked off by the dragon Florence.
    “Parlourmaid I was for nine years there,” she added.
    Joanna, goaded by injustice, said, “Well, Miss Barton wanted to let the house. She put it down at the house agents.”
    “Forced to it,” said Florence. “And she living so frugal and careful. But even then, the government can't leave her alone! Has to have its pound of flesh just the same.”
    I shook my head sadly.
    “Plenty of money there was in the old lady's time,” said Florence. “And then they all died off one after another, poor dears. Miss Emily nursing of them one after the other. Wore herself out she did, and always so patient and uncomplaining. But it told on her, and then to have worry about money on top of it all! Shares not bringing in what they used to, so she says, and why not, I should like to know? They ought to be ashamed of themselves. Doing down a lady like her who's got no head for figures and can't be up to their tricks.”
    “Practically everyone has been hit that way,” I said, but Florence remained unsoftened.
    “It's all right for some as can look after themselves, but not for her. She needs looking after, and as long as she's with me I'm going to see no one imposes on her or upsets her in any way. I'd do anything for Miss Emily.”
    And glaring at us for some moments in order to drive that point thoroughly home, the indomitable Florence left the room, carefully shutting the door behind her.
    “Do you feel like a bloodsucker, Jerry?” inquired Joanna.
    “Because I do. What's the matter with us?”
    “We don't seem to be going down very well,” I said. “Megan gets tired of us, Partridge disapproves of you, faithful Florence disapproves of both of us.”
    Joanna murmured, “I wonder why Megan did leave?”
    “She got bored.”
    “I don't think she