Free The Moving Finger by Agatha Christie Page A

left.”
    Symmington said in a toneless voice:
    â€œYou’re very kind, Miss Holland, but—”
    â€œA nice cup of hot tea,” said Elsie Holland, thrusting the beverage on him firmly.
    Personally I should have given the poor devil a stiff whisky and soda. He looked as though he needed it. However, he accepted the tea, and looking up at Elsie Holland:
    â€œI can’t thank you for all you’ve done and are doing, Miss Holland. You’ve been perfectly splendid.”
    The girl flushed and looked pleased.
    â€œIt’s nice of you to say that, Mr. Symmington. You must let me do all I can to help. Don’t worry about the children—I’ll see to them, and I’ve got the servants calmed down, and if there’s anything I can do, letterwriting or telephoning, don’t hesitate to ask me.”
    â€œYou’re very kind,” Symmington said again.
    Elsie Holland, turning, caught sight of us and came hurrying out into the hall.
    â€œIsn’t it terrible?” she said in a hushed whisper.
    I thought, as I looked at her, that she was really a very nice girl. Kind, competent, practical in an emergency. Her magnificent blue eyes were just faintly rimmed with pink, showing that she had been softhearted enough to shed tears for her employer’s death.
    â€œCan we speak to you a minute,” asked Joanna. “We don’t want to disturb Mr. Symmington.”
    Elsie Holland nodded comprehendingly and led the way into the dining room on the other side of the hall.
    â€œIt’s been awful for him,” she said. “Such a shock. Who ever would have thought a thing like this could happen? But of course, I do realize now that she had been queer for some time. Awfully nervy and weepy. I thought it was her health, though Dr. Griffith always said there was nothing really wrong with her. But she was snappy and irritable and some days you wouldn’t know just how to take her.”
    â€œWhat we really came for,” said Joanna, “was to know whether we could have Megan for a few days—that, is if she’d like to come.”
    Elsie Holland looked rather surprised.
    â€œMegan?” she said doubtfully. “I don’t know, I’m sure. I mean, it’s ever so kind of you, but she’s such a queer girl. One never knows what she’s going to say or feel about things.”
    Joanna said rather vaguely:
    â€œWe thought it might be a help, perhaps.”
    â€œOh well, as far as that goes, it would. I mean, I’ve got the boys to look after (they’re with Cook just now) and poor Mr. Symmington—he really needs looking after as much as anyone, and such a lot to do and see to. I really haven’t had time to see much to Megan. I think she’s upstairs in the old nursery at the top of the house. She seems to want to get away from everyone. I don’t know if—”
    Joanna gave me the faintest of looks. I slipped quickly out of the room and upstairs. The old nursery was at the top of the house. I opened the door and went in. The room downstairs had given on to the garden behind and the blinds had not been down there. But in this room which faced the road they were decorously drawn down.
    Through a dim grey gloom I saw Megan. She was crouching on a divan set against the far wall, and I was reminded at once of some terrified animal, hiding. She looked petrified with fear.
    â€œMegan,” I said.
    I came forward, and unconsciously I adopted the tone one does adopt when you want to reassure a frightened animal. I’m really surprised I didn’t hold out a carrot or a piece of sugar. I felt like that.
    She stared at me, but she did not move, and her expression did not alter.
    â€œMegan,” I said again. “Joanna and I have come to ask you if you would like to come and stay with us for a little.”
    Her voice came hollowly out of the dim twilight.
    â€œStay with you? In your