Hickory Dickory Dock. Agatha Christie

Mrs Nicoletis threw the sheaf of bills dramatically up in the air whence they fluttered to the ground in all directions. Mrs Hubbard bent and picked them up, pursing her lips. ‘You enrage me,’ shouted her employer.

      ‘I dare say,’ said Mrs Hubbard, ‘but it’s bad for you, you know, getting all worked up. Tempers are bad for the blood pressure.’

      ‘You admit that these totals are higher than those of last week?’

      ‘Of course they are. There’s been some very good cut price stuff going at Lampson’s Stores. I’ve taken advantage of it. Next week’s totals will be below average.’

      Mrs Nicoletis looked sulky.

      ‘You explain everything so plausibly.’

      ‘There.’ Mrs Hubbard put the bills in a neat pile on the table. ‘Anything else?’

      ‘The American girl, Sally Finch, she talks of leaving—I do not want her to go. She is a Fulbright scholar. She will bring here other Fulbright scholars. She must not leave.’

      ‘What’s her reason for leaving?’

      Mrs Nicoletis humped monumental shoulders.

      ‘How can I remember? It was not genuine. I could tell that. I always know.’

      Mrs Hubbard nodded thoughtfully. She was inclined to believe Mrs Nicoletis on that point.

      ‘Sally hasn’t said anything to me,’ she said.

      ‘But you will talk to her?’

      ‘Yes, of course.’

      ‘And if it is these coloured students, these Indians, these Negresses—then they can all go, you understand? The colour bar, it means everything to these Americans—and for me it is the Americans that matter—as for these coloured ones—scram!’

      She made a dramatic gesture.

      ‘Not while I’m in charge,’ said Mrs Hubbard coldly. ‘And anyway, you’re wrong. There’s no feeling of that sort here amongst the students, and Sally certainly isn’t like that. She and Mr Akibombo have lunch together quite often, and nobody could be blacker than he is.’

      ‘Then it is Communists—you know what the Americans are about Communists. Nigel Chapman now—he is a Communist.’

      ‘I doubt it.’

      ‘Yes, yes. You should have heard what he was saying the other evening.’

      ‘Nigel will say anything to annoy people. He is very tiresome that way.’

      ‘You know them all so well. Dear Mrs Hubbard, you are wonderful! I say to myself again and again—what should I do without Mrs Hubbard? I rely on you utterly. You are a wonderful, wonderful woman.’

      ‘After the powder, the jam,’ said Mrs Hubbard.

      ‘What is that?’

      ‘Don’t worry. I’ll do what I can.’

      She left the room, cutting short a gushing speech of thanks.

      Muttering to herself: ‘Wasting my time—what a maddening woman she is!’ she hurried along the passage and into her own sitting-room.

      But there was to be no peace for Mrs Hubbard as yet. A tall figure rose to her feet as Mrs Hubbard entered and said:

      ‘I should be glad to speak to you for a few minutes, please.’

      ‘Of course, Elizabeth.’

      Mrs Hubbard was rather surprised. Elizabeth Johnston was a girl from the West Indies who was studying law. She was a hard worker, ambitious, who kept very much to herself. She had always seemed particularly well balanced and competent, and Mrs Hubbard had always regarded her as one of the most satisfactory students in the hostel.

      She was perfectly controlled now, but Mrs Hubbard caught the slight tremor in her voice although the dark features were quite impassive.

      ‘Is something the matter?’

      ‘Yes. Will you come with me to my room, please?’

      ‘Just a moment.’ Mrs Hubbard threw off her coat and gloves and then followed the girl out of the room and up the next flight of stairs. The girl had a room on the top floor. She opened the door and went across to a table near the window.

      ‘Here are the notes of my work,’ she said. ‘This represents several months of hard study. You see what has been done?’

      Mrs Hubbard caught her breath with a slight gasp.

      Ink had been spilled on the table. It had run all over the papers, soaking them through. Mrs Hubbard touched it with her fingertip. It was still wet.

      She said, knowing the question to be foolish as she asked it:

      ‘You didn’t spill the ink yourself?’

      ‘No. It was done whilst I was out.’

      ‘Mrs Biggs, do you think—’

      Mrs Biggs was the cleaning woman who looked after the top-floor bedrooms.

      ‘It was not Mrs Biggs. It was not even my own ink. That is here on the shelf by my bed. It has not been touched. It was done by someone who brought ink here and did it deliberately.’

      Mrs Hubbard was shocked.

      ‘What a very wicked—and cruel thing to do.’

      ‘Yes, it is a bad thing.’

      The girl spoke quietly, but Mrs Hubbard did not make the mistake of underrating her feelings.

      ‘Well, Elizabeth, I hardly know what to say. I am shocked, badly shocked, and I shall do my utmost to find out who did this wicked malicious thing. You’ve no ideas yourself as to that?’

      The girl replied at once.

      ‘This is green ink, you saw that.’

      ‘Yes, I noticed that.’

      ‘It is not very common, this green ink. I know one person here who uses it. Nigel Chapman.’

      ‘Nigel? Do you think Nigel would do a thing like that?’

      ‘I should not have thought so—no. But he writes his letters and his notes with green ink.’

      ‘I shall have to ask a lot of questions. I’m very sorry, Elizabeth, that such a thing should happen in this house and I can only tell you that I shall do my best to get to the bottom of it.’

      ‘Thank you, Mrs Hubbard. There have been—other things, have there not?’

      ‘Yes—er—yes.’

      Mrs Hubbard left the room and started towards the stairs. But she stopped suddenly before proceeding down and instead went along the passage to a door at the end of the corridor. She knocked and the voice of Miss Sally Finch bade her enter.

      The room was a pleasant one and Sally Finch herself, a cheerful redhead, was a pleasant person.

      She was writing on a pad and looked up with a bulging cheek. She held out an open box of sweets and said indistinctly:

      ‘Candy from home. Have some.’

      ‘Thank you, Sally. Not just now. I’m rather upset.’ She paused. ‘Have you heard what’s happened to Elizabeth Johnston?’

      ‘What’s happened to Black Bess?’

      The nickname was an affectionate one and had been accepted as such by the girl herself.

      Mrs Hubbard described what had happened. Sally showed every sign of sympathetic anger.

      ‘I’ll say that’s a mean thing to do. I wouldn’t believe anyone would do a thing like that to our Bess. Everybody likes her. She’s quiet and doesn’t get around much, or join in,