Free The Moving Finger by Agatha Christie

Symmington feel about it, do you think?”
    Griffith turned the idea over in his mind for a moment or two.
    â€œI think it would be an excellent thing,” he said at last. “She’s a queer nervy sort of girl, and it would be good for her to get away from the whole thing. Miss Holland is doing wonders—she’s an excellent head on her shoulders, but she really has quite enough to do with the two children and Symmington himself. He’s quite broken up—bewildered.”
    â€œIt was—” I hesitated—“suicide?”
    Griffith nodded.
    â€œOh yes. No question of accident. She wrote, ‘I can’t go on’ on a scrap of paper. The letter must have come by yesterday afternoon’s post. The envelope was down on the floor by her chair and the letter itself was screwed up into a ball and thrown into the fireplace.”
    â€œWhat did—”
    I stopped, rather horrified at myself.
    â€œI beg your pardon,” I said.
    Griffith gave a quick unhappy smile.
    â€œYou needn’t mind asking. That letter will have to be read at the inquest. No getting out of it, more’s the pity. It was the usual kind of thing—couched in the same foul style. The specific accusation was that the second boy, Colin, was not Symmington’s child.”
    â€œDo you think that was true?” I exclaimed incredulously.
    Griffith shrugged his shoulders.
    â€œI’ve no means of forming a judgment. I’ve only been here five years. As far as I’ve ever seen, the Symmingtons were a placid, happy couple devoted to each other and their children. It’s true that the boy doesn’t particularly resemble his parents—he’s got bright red hair, for one thing—but a child often throws back in appearance to a grandfather or grandmother.”
    â€œThat lack of resemblance might have been what prompted the particular accusation. A foul and quite uncalled for bow at a venture.”
    â€œVery likely. In fact, probably. There’s not been much accurate knowledge behind these poison pen letters, just unbridled spite and malice.”
    â€œBut it happened to hit the bull’s eye,” said Joanna. “After all, she wouldn’t have killed herself otherwise, would she?”
    Griffith said doubtfully:
    â€œI’m not quite sure. She’s been ailing in health for some time, neurotic, hysterical. I’ve been treating her for a nervous condition. It’s possible, I think, that the shock of receiving such a letter, couched in those terms, may have induced such a state of panic and despondency that she may have decided to take her life. She may have worked herself up to feel that her husband might not believe her if she denied the story, and the general shame and disgust might have worked upon her so powerfully as to temporarily unbalance her judgment.”
    â€œSuicide whilst of unsound mind,” said Joanna.
    â€œExactly. I shall be quite justified, I think, in putting forward that point of view at the inquest.”
    â€œI see,” said Joanna.
    There was something in her voice which made Owen say:
    â€œPerfectly justified!” in an angry voice. He added, “You don’t agree, Miss Burton?”
    â€œOh yes, I do,” said Joanna. “I’d do exactly the same in your place.”
    Owen looked at her doubtfully, then moved slowly away down the street. Joanna and I went on into the house.
    The front door was open and it seemed easier than ringing the bell, especially as we heard Elsie Holland’s voice inside.
    She was talking to Mr. Symmington who, huddled in a chair, was looking completely dazed.
    â€œNo, but really, Mr. Symmington, you must take something. You haven’t had any breakfast, not what I call a proper breakfast, and nothing to eat last night, and what with the shock and all, you’ll be getting ill yourself, and you’ll need all your strength. The doctor said so before he