Ordeal by Innocence. Agatha Christie

got into the boat as the ferryman steadied it with a boathook. He was an old man and gave Calgary the fanciful impression that he and his boat belonged together, were one and indivisible.

      A little cold wind came rustling up from the sea as they pushed off.

      ‘’Tis chilly this evening,’ said the ferryman.

      Calgary replied suitably. He further agreed that it was colder than yesterday.

      He was conscious, or thought he was conscious, of a veiled curiosity in the ferryman’s eyes. Here was a stranger. And a stranger after the close of the tourist season proper. Moreover, this stranger was crossing at an unusual hour–too late for tea at the café by the pier. He had no luggage so he could not be coming to stay. (Why, Calgary wondered, had he come so late in the day? Was it really because, subconsciously, he had been putting this moment off? Leaving as late as possible, the thing that had to be done?) Crossing the Rubicon–the river…the river…his mind went back to that other river–the Thames.

      He had stared at it unseeingly (was it only yesterday?) then turned to look again at the man facing him across the table. Those thoughtful eyes with something in them that he had not quite been able to understand. A reserve, something that was being thought but not expressed…

      ‘I suppose,’ he thought, ‘they learn never to show what they are thinking.’

      The whole thing was pretty frightful when one came right down to it. He must do what had to be done–and after that–forget!

      He frowned as he remembered the conversation yesterday. That pleasant, quiet, non-committal voice, saying:

      ‘You’re quite determined on your course of action, Dr Calgary?’

      He had answered, hotly:

      ‘What else can I do? Surely you see that? You must agree? It’s a thing I can’t possibly shirk.’

      But he hadn’t understood the look in those withdrawn grey eyes, and had been faintly perplexed by the answer.

      ‘One has to look all around a subject–consider it from all aspects.’

      ‘Surely there can be only one aspect from the point of view of justice?’

      He had spoken hotly, thinking for a moment that this was an ignoble suggestion of ‘hushing up’ the matter.

      ‘In a way, yes. But there’s more to it than that, you know. More than–shall we say–justice?’

      ‘I don’t agree. There’s the family to consider.’

      And the other had said quickly: ‘Quite–oh, yes–quite. I was thinking of them.’

      Which seemed to Calgary nonsense! Because if one were thinking of them–

      But immediately the other man had said, his pleasant voice unchanged:

      ‘It’s entirely up to you, Dr Calgary. You must, of course, do exactly as you feel you have to do.’

      The boat grounded on the beach. He had crossed the Rubicon.

      The ferryman’s soft West Country voice said:

      ‘That will be fourpence, sir, or do you want a return?’

      ‘No,’ Calgary said. ‘There will be no return.’ (How fateful the words sounded!)

      He paid. Then he asked:

      ‘Do you know a house called Sunny Point?’

      Immediately the curiosity ceased to be veiled. The interest in the old man’s eyes leaped up avidly.

      ‘Why, surely. ’Tis there, up along to your right–you can just see it through them trees. You go up the hill and along the road to the right, and then take the new road through the building estate. ’Tis the last house–at the very end.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      ‘You did say Sunny Point, sir? Where Mrs Argyle–’

      ‘Yes, yes–’ Calgary cut him short. He didn’t want to discuss the matter. ‘Sunny Point.’

      A slow and rather peculiar smile twisted the ferryman’s lips. He looked suddenly like an ancient sly faun.

      ‘It was her called the house that–in the war. It were a new house, of course, only just been built–hadn’t got a name. But the ground ’tis built on–that wooded spit–Viper’s Point, that is! But Viper’s Point wouldn’t do for her–not for the name of her house. Called it Sunny Point, she did. But Viper’s Point’s what we allus call it.’

      Calgary thanked him brusquely, said good evening, and started up the hill. Everyone seemed to be inside their houses, but he had the fancy that unseen eyes were peering through the windows of the cottages; all watching him with the knowledge of where he was going. Saying to each other, ‘He’s going to Viper’s Point…’

      Viper’s Point. What a horrible apposite name that must have seemed…

      For sharper than a serpent’s tooth…

      He checked his thoughts brusquely. He must pull himself together and make up his mind exactly what he was going to say…

      II

      Calgary came to the end of the nice new road with the nice new houses on either side of it, each with its eighth of an acre of garden; rock plants, chrysanthemums, roses, salvias, geraniums, each owner displaying his or her individual garden taste.

      At the end of the road was a gate with SUNNY POINT in Gothic letters on it. He opened the gate, passed through, and went along a short drive. The house was there ahead of him, a well-built, characterless modern house, gabled and porched. It might have stood on any good-class suburban site, or a new development anywhere. It was unworthy, in Calgary’s opinion, of its view. For the view was magnificent. The river here curved sharply round the point almost turning back on itself. Wooded hills rose opposite; up-stream to the left was a further bend of the river with meadows and orchards in the distance.

      Calgary looked for a moment up and down the river. One should have built a castle here, he thought, an impossible, ridiculous, fairy tale castle! The sort of castle that might be made of gingerbread or of frosted sugar. Instead there was good taste, restraint, moderation, plenty of money and absolutely no imagination.

      For that, naturally, one did not blame the Argyles. They had only bought the house, not built it. Still, they or one of them (Mrs Argyle?) had chosen it…

      He said to himself: ‘You can’t put it off any longer…’ and pressed the electric bell beside the door.

      He stood there, waiting. After a decent interval he pressed the bell again.

      He heard no footsteps inside but, without warning, the door swung suddenly open.

      He moved back a step, startled. To his already overstimulated imagination, it seemed as though Tragedy herself stood there barring his way. It was a young face; indeed it was in the poignancy of its youth that tragedy had its very essence. The Tragic Mask, he thought, should always be a mask of youth…Helpless, fore-ordained, with doom approaching…from the future…

      Rallying himself, he thought, rationalizing: ‘Irish type.’ The deep blue of the eyes, the dark shadow round them, the upspringing black hair, the mournful beauty of the bones of the skull and cheekbones–

      The girl stood there, young, watchful and hostile.

      She said:

      ‘Yes? What do you want?’

      He replied conventionally.

      ‘Is Mr Argyle in?’

      ‘Yes. But he doesn’t see people. I mean, people he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know you, does he?’

      ‘No. He doesn’t know me, but–’

      She began to close the door.

      ‘Then