Free The Ministry of Fear by Graham Greene

and Rowe’s fingers instinctively strained against Miss Pantil’s. That wasn’t a spirit. That was the human agency which shook tambourines or scattered flowers or imitated a child’s touch upon the cheek – it was the dangerous element, but his hands were held.
    â€˜There is an enemy here,’ the voice said. ‘Somebody who doesn’t believe, whose motives are evil . . .’ Rowe could feel Cost’s fingers tighten round his. He wondered whether Hilfe was still completely oblivious to what was happening: he wanted to shout to him for help, but convention held him as firmly as Cost’s hand. Again a board creaked. Why all this mummery, he thought, if they are all in it? But perhaps they were not all in it. For anything he knew he was surrounded by friends – but he didn’t know which they were.
    â€˜Arthur.’
    He pulled at the hands holding him: that wasn’t Mrs Bellairs’ voice.
    â€˜Arthur.’
    The flat hopeless voice might really have come from beneath the heavy graveyard slab.
    â€˜Arthur, why did you kill . . .’ The voice moaned away into silence, and he struggled against the hands. It wasn’t that he recognized the voice: it was no more his wife’s than any woman’s dying out in infinite hopelessness, pain and reproach: it was that the voice had recognized him. A light moved near the ceiling, feeling its way along the walls, and he cried, ‘Don’t. Don’t.’
    â€˜Arthur,’ the voice whispered.
    He forgot everything, he no longer listened for secretive movements, the creak of boards. He simply implored, ‘Stop it, please stop it,’ and felt Cost rise from the seat beside him and pull at his hand and then release it, throw the hand violently away, as though it were something he didn’t like to hold. Even Miss Pantil let him go, and he heard Hilfe say, ‘This isn’t funny. Put on the light.’
    It dazzled him, going suddenly on. They all sat there with joined hands watching him; he had broken the circle – only Mrs Bellairs seemed to see nothing, with her head down and her eyes closed and her breathing heavy. ‘Well,’ Hilfe said, trying to raise a laugh, ‘that was certainly quite an act,’ but Mr Newey said, ‘Cost. Look at Cost,’ and Rowe looked with all the others at his neighbour. He was taking no more interest in anything, leaning forward across the table with his face sunk on the French polish.
    â€˜Get a doctor,’ Hilfe said.
    â€˜I’m a doctor,’ Dr Forester said. He released the hands on either side of him, and everyone became conscious of sitting there like children playing a game and surreptitiously let each other go. He said gently, ‘A doctor’s no good, I’m afraid. The only thing to do is to call the police.’
    Mrs Bellairs had half-woken up and sat with leery eyes and her tongue a little protruding.
    â€˜It must be his heart,’ Mr Newey said. ‘Couldn’t stand the excitement.’
    â€˜I’m afraid not,’ Dr Forester said. ‘He has been murdered.’ His old noble face was bent above the body; one long sensitive delicate hand dabbled and came up stained like a beautiful insect that feeds incongruously on carrion.
    â€˜Impossible,’ Mr Newey said, ‘the door was locked.’
    â€˜It’s a pity,’ Dr Forester said, ‘but there’s a very simple explanation of that. One of us did it.’
    â€˜But we were all,’ Hilfe said, ‘holding . . .’ Then they all looked at Rowe.
    â€˜He snatched away his hand,’ Miss Pantil said.
    Dr Forester said softly, ‘I’m not going to touch the body again before the police come. Cost was stabbed with a kind of schoolboy’s knife . . .’
    Rowe put his hand quickly to an empty pocket and saw a room full of eyes noting the movement.
    â€˜We must get Mrs Bellairs