The Witness for the Prosecution: And Other Stories. Агата Кристи

Chinese tea,’ she explained. ‘And we always drink it in the Chinese manner—out of bowls, not cups.’

      She broke off, peered into a bowl and exchanged it for another with an exclamation of annoyance.

      ‘George—it’s too bad of you. You’ve been taking these bowls again.’

      ‘I’m sorry, dear,’ said the professor apologetically. ‘They’re such a convenient size. The ones I ordered haven’t come.’

      ‘One of these days you’ll poison us all,’ said his wife with a half-laugh. ‘Mary finds them in the laboratory and brings them back here, and never troubles to wash them out unless they’ve anything very noticeable in them. Why, you were using one of them for potassium cyanide the other day. Really, George, it’s frightfully dangerous.’

      Merrowdene looked a little irritated.

      ‘Mary’s no business to remove things from the laboratory. She’s not to touch anything there.’

      ‘But we often leave our teacups there after tea. How is she to know? Be reasonable, dear.’

      The professor went into his laboratory, murmuring to himself, and with a smile Mrs Merrowdene poured boiling water on the tea and blew out the flame of the little silver lamp.

      Evans was puzzled. Yet a glimmering of light penetrated to him. For some reason or other, Mrs Merrowdene was showing her hand. Was this to be the ‘accident’? Was she speaking of all this so as deliberately to prepare her alibi beforehand? So that when, one day, the ‘accident’ happened, he would be forced to give evidence in her favour. Stupid of her, if so, because before that—

      Suddenly he drew in his breath. She had poured the tea into the three bowls. One she set before him, one before herself, the other she placed on a little table by the fire near the chair her husband usually sat in, and it was as she placed this last one on the table that a little strange smile curved round her lips. It was the smile that did it.

       He knew!

      A remarkable woman—a dangerous woman. No waiting—no preparation. This afternoon—this very after-noon—with him here as witness. The boldness of it took his breath away.

      It was clever—it was damnably clever. He would be able to prove nothing. She counted on his not suspecting—simply because it was ‘so soon’. A woman of lightning rapidity of thought and action.

      He drew a deep breath and leaned forward.

      ‘Mrs Merrowdene, I’m a man of queer whims. Will you be very kind and indulge me in one of them?’

      She looked inquiring but unsuspicious.

      He rose, took the bowl from in front of her and crossed to the little table where he substituted it for the other. This other he brought back and placed in front of her.

      ‘I want to see you drink this.’

      Her eyes met his. They were steady, unfathomable. The colour slowly drained from her face.

      She stretched out her hand, raised the cup. He held his breath. Supposing all along he had made a mistake.

      She raised it to her lips—at the last moment, with a shudder, she leant forward and quickly poured it into a pot containing a fern. Then she sat back and gazed at him defiantly.

      He drew a long sigh of relief, and sat down again.

      ‘Well?’ she said.

      Her voice had altered. It was slightly mocking—defiant.

      He answered her soberly and quietly:

      ‘You are a very clever woman, Mrs Merrowdene. I think you understand me. There must be no—repetition. You know what I mean?’

      ‘I know what you mean.’

      Her voice was even, devoid of expression. He nodded his head, satisfied. She was a clever woman, and she didn’t want to be hanged.

      ‘To your long life and to that of your husband,’ he said significantly, and raised his tea to his lips.

      Then his face changed. It contorted horribly … he tried to rise—to cry out … His body stiffened—his face went purple. He fell back sprawling over his chair—his limbs convulsed.

      Mrs Merrowdene leaned forward, watching him. A little smile crossed her lips. She spoke to him—very softly and gently.

      ‘You made a mistake, Mr Evans. You thought I wanted to kill George … How stupid of you—how very stupid.’

      She sat there a minute longer looking at the dead man, the third man who had threatened to cross her path and separate her from the man she loved.

      Her smile broadened. She looked more than ever like a madonna. Then she raised her voice and called:

      ‘George, George! … Oh, do come here! I’m afraid there’s been the most dreadful accident … Poor Mr Evans …’

       The Fourth Man

      Canon Parfitt panted a little. Running for trains was not much of a business for a man of his age. For one thing his figure was not what it was and with the loss of his slender silhouette went an increasing tendency to be short of breath. This tendency the Canon himself always referred to, with dignity, as ‘My heart, you know!’

      He sank into the corner of the first-class carriage with a sigh of relief. The warmth of the heated carriage was most agreeable to him. Outside the snow was falling. Lucky to get a corner seat on a long night journey. Miserable business if you didn’t. There ought to be a sleeper on this train.

      The other three corners were already occupied, and noting this fact Canon Parfitt became aware that the man in the far corner was smiling at him in gentle recognition. He was a clean-shaven man with a quizzical face and hair just turning grey on the temples. His profession was so clearly the law that no one could have mistaken him for anything else for a moment. Sir George Durand was, indeed, a very famous lawyer.

      ‘Well, Parfitt,’ he remarked genially, ‘you had a run for it, didn’t you?’

      ‘Very bad for my heart, I’m afraid,’ said the Canon. ‘Quite a coincidence meeting you, Sir George. Are you going far north?’

      ‘Newcastle,’ said Sir George laconically. ‘By the way,’ he added, ‘do you know Dr Campbell Clark?’

      The man sitting on the same side of the carriage as the Canon inclined his head pleasantly.

      ‘We met on the platform,’ continued the lawyer. ‘Another coincidence.’

      Canon Parfitt looked at Dr Campbell Clark with a good deal of interest. It was a name of which he had often heard. Dr Clark was in the forefront as a physician and mental specialist, and his last book, The Problem of the Unconscious Mind, had been the most discussed book of the year.

      Canon Parfitt saw a square jaw, very steady blue eyes and reddish hair untouched by grey, but thinning rapidly. And he received also the impression of a very forceful personality.

      By a perfectly natural association of ideas the Canon looked across to the seat opposite him, half-expecting to receive a glance of recognition there also, but the fourth occupant of the carriage proved to be a total stranger—a foreigner, the Canon fancied. He was a slight dark man, rather insignificant in appearance. Huddled in a big overcoat, he appeared to be fast asleep.

      ‘Canon Parfitt of Bradchester?’ inquired Dr Campbell Clark in a pleasant voice.

      The Canon looked flattered. Those ‘scientific sermons’ of his had really made a great hit—especially since the Press had taken them up. Well, that was what the Church needed—good modern up-to-date stuff.

      ‘I have read your book with great