The Moving Finger by Agatha Christie

out on her bicycle about five minutes later. Agnes would then be alone in the house. As far as I can make out, she normally left the house between three o'clock and half past three.”
    “The house being then left empty?”
    “Oh, they don't worry about that down here. There's not much locking up done in these parts. As I say, at ten minutes to three Agnes was alone in the house. That she never left it is clear, for she was in her cap and apron still when we found her body.”
    “I suppose you can tell roughly the time of death?”
    “Doctor Griffith won't commit himself. Between two o'clock and four-thirty is his official medical verdict.”
    “How was she killed?”
    “She was first stunned by a blow on the back of the head. Afterward an ordinary kitchen skewer, sharpened to a fine point, was thrust into the base of the skull, causing instantaneous death.”
    I lit a cigarette. It was not a nice picture.
    “Pretty cold-blooded,” I said.
    “Oh, yes, yes, that was indicated.”
    I inhaled deeply.
    “Who did it?” I said. “And why?”
    “I don't suppose,” said Nash slowly, “that we shall ever know exactly why. But we can guess.”
    “She knew something?”
    “She knew something.”
    “She didn't give anyone here a hint?”
    “As far as I can make out, no. She's been upset, so the cook says, ever since Mrs. Symmington's death, and according to this Rose, she's been getting more and more worried, and kept saying she didn't know what she ought to do.”
    He gave a short exasperated sigh.
    “It's always the way. They won't come to us. They've got that deep-seated prejudice against 'being mixed up with the police.' If she'd come along and told us what was worrying her, she'd be alive today.”
    “Didn't she give the other women any hint?”
    “No, or so Rose says, and I'm inclined to believe her. For if she had, Rose would have blurted it out at once with a good many fancy embellishments of her own.”
    “It's maddening,” I said, “not to know.”
    “We can still guess, Mr. Burton. To begin with, it can't be anything very definite. It's got to be the sort of thing that you think over, and as you think it over, your uneasiness grows. You see what I mean?”
    “Yes.”
    “Actually, I think I know what it was.”
    I looked at him with respect.
    “That's good work, Superintendent.”
    “Well, you see, Mr. Burton, I know something that you don't. On the afternoon that Mrs. Symmington committed suicide both maids were supposed to be out. It was their day out. But actually Agnes came back to the house.”
    “You know that?”
    “Yes. Agnes has a boyfriend - young Rendell from the fish shop. Wednesday is early closing and he comes along to meet Agnes and they go for a walk, or to the pictures if it's wet. That Wednesday they had a row practically as soon as they met. Our letter writer had been active, suggesting that Agnes had other fish to fry, and young Fred Rendell was all worked up. They quarreled violently and Agnes bolted back home and said she wasn't coming out unless Fred said he was sorry.”
    “Well?”
    “Well, Mr. Burton, the kitchen faces the back of the house, but the pantry looks out where we are looking now. There's only one entrance gate. You come through it and either up to the front door, or else along the path at the side of the house to the back door.”
    He paused.
    “Now I'll tell you something: That letter that came to Mrs. Symmington that afternoon didn't come by post. It had a used stamp affixed to it, and the postmark faked quite convincingly in lamp black, so that it would seem to have been delivered by the postman with the afternoon letters. But actually it had not been through the post. You see what that means?”
    “It means,” I said slowly, “that it was left by hand, pushed through the letter box some time before the afternoon post was delivered, so that it should be among the other letters.”
    “Exactly. The afternoon post comes around about a quarter to four.