Free The Sittaford Mystery by Agatha Christie Page A

greeting. “It's shocking - really shocking! I am so dreadfully nervous of burglars myself. I had two extra bolts put on the back door last week, and new patent catches on the windows.”
    Sylvia Dering, the Inspector knew from Mrs Gardner, was only twenty-five, but she looked considerably over thirty. She was small and fair and anemic looking, with a worried and harassed expression. Her voice had that faintly complaining note in it which is about the most annoying sound a human voice can contain, still not allowing the Inspector to speak she went on:
    “If there's anything I can do to help you in any way, of course, I shall be only too glad to do so, but one hardly ever saw Uncle Joseph. He wasn't a very nice man - I am sure he couldn't have been. Not the sort of person one could go to in trouble, always carping and criticizing. Not the sort of man who had any knowledge of what literature meant. Success - true success is not always measured in terms of money, Inspector.”
    At last she paused and the Inspector, to whom those remarks had opened certain fields of conjecture, was given his turn to speak.
    “You've heard of the tragedy very quickly, Mrs Dering.”
    “Aunt Jennifer wired it to me.”
    “I see.”
    “But I suppose it will be in the evening papers. Dreadful, isn't it?”
    “I gather you've not seen your uncle of late years.”
    “I have only seen him twice since my marriage. On the second occasion he was really very rude to Martin. Of course, he was a regular philistine in every way - devoted to sport. No appreciation, as I said just now, of literature.”
    “Husband applied to him for a loan and got refused,” was Inspector Narracott's private comment on the situation.
    “Just as a matter of form, Mrs Dering, will you tell me what your movements were yesterday afternoon?”
    “My movements? What a very queer way of putting it, Inspector. I played bridge most of the afternoon and a friend came in and spent the evening with me, as my husband was out.”
    “Out, was he? Away from home altogether?”
    “A literary dinner,” explained Mrs Dering with importance. “He lunched with an American publisher and had this dinner in the evening.”
    “I see.”
    That seemed quite fair and above board. He went on.
    “Your younger brother is in Australia, I believe, Mrs Dering?”
    “Yes.”
    “You have his address?”
    “Oh, yes, I can find it for you if you wish - rather a peculiar name - I've forgotten it for the minute. Somewhere in New South Wales.”
    “And now, Mrs Dering, your elder brother?”
    “Jim?”
    “Yes. I shall want to get in touch with him.”
    Mrs Dering hastened to supply him with the address - the same as that which Mrs Gardner had already given him.
    Then, feeling there was no more to be said on either side, he cut the interview short.
    Glancing at his watch, he noted that by the time he had returned to town it would be seven o'clock - a likely time, he hoped, for finding Mr James Pearson at home.
    The same superior looking, middle-aged woman opened the door of No. 21. Yes, Mr Pearson was at home now. It was on the second floor, if the gentleman would walk up.
    She preceded him, tapped at a door, and in a murmured and apologetic voice said: “The gentleman to see you, sir.” Then, standing back, she allowed the Inspector to enter.
    A young man in evening dress was standing in the middle of the room. He was good-looking, indeed handsome, if you took no account of the rather weak mouth and the irresolute slant of the eyes. He had a haggard, worried look and an air of not having had much sleep of late.
    He looked inquiringly at the Inspector as the latter advanced.
    “I am Detective Inspector Narracott,” he began - but got no further.
    With a hoarse cry the young man dropped on to a chair, flung his arms out in front of him on the table, bowing his head on them and muttering:
    “Oh! my God! It's come.”
    After a minute or two he lifted his head and said,
    “Well, why don't you