Taken At The Flood. Agatha Christie

      ‘Yes, it is rather. We are all so earnest nowadays. And it doesn’t seem to do much good either.’

      ‘It is usually more practical to wish to do harm. We’ve thought up one or two rather practical gadgets in that line during the last few years—including that pièce de résistance, the Atom Bomb.’

      ‘That was what I was thinking about—oh, I don’t mean the Atom Bomb. I meant ill will. Definite practical ill will.’

      David said calmly:

      ‘Ill will certainly—but I rather take issue to the word practical. They were more practical about it in the Middle Ages.’

      ‘How do you mean?’

      ‘Black magic generally. Ill wishing. Wax figures. Spells at the turn of the moon. Killing off your neighbour’s cattle. Killing off your neighbour himself.’

      ‘You don’t really believe there was such a thing as black magic?’ asked Lynn incredulously.

      ‘Perhaps not. But at any rate people did try hard. Nowadays, well—’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘With all the ill will in the world you and your family can’t do much about Rosaleen and myself, can you?’

      Lynn’s head went back with a jerk. Suddenly she was enjoying herself.

      ‘It’s a little late in the day for that,’ she said politely.

      David Hunter laughed. He, too, sounded as though he were enjoying himself.

      ‘Meaning we’ve got away with the booty? Yes, we’re sitting pretty all right.’

      ‘And you get a kick out of it!’

      ‘Out of having a lot of money? I’ll say we do.’

      ‘I didn’t mean only the money. I meant out of us.’

      ‘Out of having scored off you? Well, perhaps. You’d all have been pretty smug and complacent about the old boy’s cash. Looked upon it as practically in your pockets already.’

      Lynn said:

      ‘You must remember that we’d been taught to think so for years. Taught not to save, not to think of the future—encouraged to go ahead with all sorts of schemes and projects.’

      (Rowley, she thought, Rowley and the farm.)

      ‘Only one thing, in fact, that you hadn’t learnt,’ said David pleasantly.

      ‘What’s that?’

      ‘That nothing’s safe.’

      ‘Lynn,’ cried Aunt Katherine, leaning forward from the head of the table, ‘one of Mrs Lester’s controls is a fourth-dynasty priest. He’s told us such wonderful things. You and I, Lynn, must have a long talk. Egypt, I feel, must have affected you psychically.’

      Dr Cloade said sharply:

      ‘Lynn’s had better things to do than play about with all this superstitious tomfoolery.’

      ‘You are so biased, Lionel,’ said his wife.

      Lynn smiled at her aunt—then sat silent with the refrain of the words David had spoken swimming in her brain.

      ‘Nothing’s safe…’

      There were people who lived in such a world—people to whom everything was dangerous. David Hunter was such a person… It was not the world that Lynn had been brought up in—but it was a world that held attractions for her nevertheless.

      David said presently in the same low amused voice:

      ‘Are we still on speaking terms?’

      ‘Oh, yes.’

      ‘Good. And do you still grudge Rosaleen and myself our ill-gotten access to wealth?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Lynn with spirit.

      ‘Splendid. What are you going to do about it?’

      ‘Buy some wax and practise black magic!’

      He laughed.

      ‘Oh, no, you won’t do that. You aren’t one of those who rely on old outmoded methods. Your methods will be modern and probably very efficient. But you won’t win.’

      ‘What makes you think there is going to be a fight? Haven’t we all accepted the inevitable?’

      ‘You all behave beautifully. It is very amusing.’

      ‘Why,’ said Lynn, in a low tone, ‘do you hate us?’

      Something flickered in those dark unfathomable eyes.

      ‘I couldn’t possibly make you understand.’

      ‘I think you could,’ said Lynn.

      David was silent for a moment or two, then he asked in a light conversational tone:

      ‘Why are you going to marry Rowley Cloade? He’s an oaf.’

      She said sharply:

      ‘You know nothing about it—or about him. You couldn’t begin to know!’

      Without any air of changing the conversation David asked:

      ‘What do you think of Rosaleen?’

      ‘She’s very lovely.’

      ‘What else?’

      ‘She doesn’t seem to be enjoying herself.’

      ‘Quite right,’ said David, ‘Rosaleen’s rather stupid. She’s scared. She always has been rather scared. She drifts into things and then doesn’t know what it’s all about. Shall I tell you about Rosaleen?’

      ‘If you like,’ said Lynn politely.

      ‘I do like. She started by being stage-struck and drifted on to the stage. She wasn’t any good, of course. She got into a third-rate touring company that was going out to South Africa. She liked the sound of South Africa. The company got stranded in Cape Town. Then she drifted into marriage with a Government official from Nigeria. She didn’t like Nigeria—and I don’t think she liked her husband much. If he’d been a hearty sort of fellow who drank and beat her, it would have been all right. But he was rather an intellectual man who kept a large library in the wilds and who liked to talk metaphysics. So she drifted back to Cape Town again. The fellow behaved very well and gave her an adequate allowance. He might have given her a divorce, but again he might not for he was a Catholic; but anyway he rather fortunately died of fever, and Rosaleen got a small pension. Then the war started and she drifted on to a boat for South America. She didn’t like South America very much, so she drifted on to another boat and there she met Gordon Cloade and told him all about her sad life. So they got married in New York and lived happily for a fortnight, and a little later he was killed by a bomb and she was left a large house, a lot of expensive jewellery, and an immense income.’

      ‘It’s nice that the story has such a happy ending,’ said Lynn.

      ‘Yes,’ said David Hunter. ‘Possessing no intellect at all, Rosaleen has always been a lucky girl—which is just as well. Gordon Cloade was a strong old man. He was sixty-two. He might easily have lived for twenty years. He might have lived even longer. That wouldn’t have been much fun for Rosaleen, would it? She was twenty-four when she married him. She’s only twenty-six now.’

      ‘She looks even younger,’ said Lynn.

      David looked across the table. Rosaleen Cloade was crumbling her bread. She looked like a nervous child.

      ‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘She does. Complete absence of thought, I suppose.’

      ‘Poor thing,’ said Lynn suddenly.

      David frowned.

      ‘Why the pity?’ he said sharply. ‘I’ll look