Hickory Dickory Dock by Agatha Christie Page A

yes. I should say I'm probably the oldest inhabitant. That is to say, I've been here about two years and a half, now.”
    “So you probably know more about this hostel than anybody else?”
    “I should say so, yes.”
    “Have you any ideas of your own about Celia Austin's death? Any idea of the motive that underlay it?”
    Valèrie shook her bead. Her face was serious now.
    “No,” she said. “It was a horrible thing to happen. I can't see anybody who could possibly have wanted Celia to die. She was a nice, harmless child, and she'd just got engaged to be married, and...”
    “Yes. And?” the Inspector prompted.
    “I wondered if that was why,” said Valèrie slowly. “Because she'd got engaged. Because she was going to be happy. But that means, doesn't it, somebody well - mad.”
    She said the word with a little shiver, and Inspector Sharpe looked at her thoughtfully.
    “Yes,” he said. “We can't quite rule out madness.”
    He went on, “Have you any theory about the damage done to Elizabeth Johnston's notes and papers?”
    “No. That was a spiteful thing, too. I don't believe for a moment that Celia would do a thing like that.”
    “Any idea who it could have been?”
    “Well... Not a reasonable idea.”
    “But an unreasonable one?”
    “You don't want to hear something that's just a hunch, do you, Inspector?”
    “I'd like to hear a hunch very much. I'll accept it as such, and it'll only be between ourselves.”
    “Well, I may probably be quite wrong, but I've got a sort of idea that it was Patricia Lane's work.”
    “Indeed! Now you do surprise me, Miss Hobhouse. I shouldn't have thought of Patricia Lane. She seems a very well balanced, amiable young lady.”
    “I don't say she did do it. I just had a sort of idea she might have done.”
    “For what reason in particular?”
    “Well, Patricia disliked Black Bess. Black Bess was always ticking off Patricia's beloved Nigel, putting him right, you know, when he made silly statements in the way he does sometimes.”
    “You think it was more likely to have been Patricia Lane than Nigel himself?”
    “Oh, yes. I don't think Nigel would bother, and he'd certainly not go using his own pet brand of ink. He's got plenty of brains. But it's just the sort of stupid thing that Patricia would do without thinking that it might involve her precious Nigel as a suspect.”
    “Or again, it might be somebody who had a down on Nigel Chapman and wanted to suggest that it was his doing?”
    “Yes, that's another possibility.”
    “Who dislikes Nigel Chapman?”
    “Oh, well, Jean Tomlinson for one. And he and Len Bateson are always scrapping a good deal.”
    “Have you any ideas, Miss Hobhouse, how morphia could have been administered to Celia Austin?”
    “I've been thinking and thinking. Of course, I suppose the coffee is the most obvious way. We were all milling around in the Common Room. Celia's coffee was on a small table near her and she always waited until her coffee was nearly cold before she drank it. I suppose anybody who had sufficient nerve could have dropped a tablet or something into her cup without being seen, but it would be rather a risk to take. I mean, it's the sort of thing that might be noticed quite easily.”
    “The morphia,” said Inspector Sharpe, “was not in tablet form.”
    “What was it? Powder?”
    “Yes.”
    Valèrie frowned.
    “That would be rather more difficult, wouldn't it?”
    “Anything else - besides coffee - you can think of?”
    “She sometimes had a glass of hot milk before she went to bed. I don't think she did that night, though.”
    “Can you describe to me exactly what happened that evening in the Common Room?”
    “Well, as I say, we all sat about, talked, somebody turned the wireless on. Most of the boys, I think, went out. Celia went up to bed fairly early and so did Jean Tomlinson. Sally and I sat on there fairly late. I was writing letters and Sally was mugging over some notes. I rather think I was the