The Moving Finger by Agatha Christie Page B

should like to repeat now that I am firmly convinced that the subject matter of the letter my wife received was absolutely false. I know it was false. My wife was a very sensitive woman, and—er—well, you might call it prudish in some respects. Such a letter would have been a great shock to her, and she was in poor health.”
    Graves responded instantly.
    â€œThat’s quite likely to be right, sir. None of these letters show any signs of intimate knowledge. They’re just blind accusations. There’s been no attempt to blackmail. And there doesn’t seem to be any religious bias—such as we sometimes get. It’s just sex and spite! And that’s going to give us quite a good pointer towards the writer.”
    Symmington got up. Dry and unemotional as the man was, his lips were trembling.
    â€œI hope you find the devil who writes these soon. She murdered my wife as surely as if she’d put a knife into her.” He paused. “How does she feel now, I wonder?”
    He went out, leaving that question unanswered.
    â€œHow does she feel, Griffith?” I asked. It seemed to me the answer was in his province.
    â€œGod knows. Remorseful, perhaps. On the other hand, it may be that she’s enjoying her power. Mrs. Symmington’s death may have fed her mania.”
    â€œI hope not,” I said, with a slight shiver. “Because if so, she’ll—”
    I hesitated and Nash finished the sentence for me.
    â€œShe’ll try it again? That, Mr. Burton, would be the best thing that could happen, for us. The pitcher goes to the well once too often, remember.”
    â€œShe’d be mad to go on with it,” I exclaimed.
    â€œShe’ll go on,” said Graves. “They always do. It’s a vice, you know, they can’t let it alone.”
    I shook my head with a shudder. I asked if they needed me any longer, I wanted to get out into the air. The atmosphere seemed tinged with evil.
    â€œThere’s nothing more, Mr. Burton,” said Nash. “Only keep your eyes open, and do as much propaganda as you can—that is to say, urge on everyone that they’ve got to report any letter they receive.” I nodded.
    â€œI should think everyone in the place has had one of the foul things by now,” I said.
    â€œI wonder,” said Graves. He put his sad head a little on one side and asked, “You don’t know, definitely, of anyone who hasn’t had a letter?”
    â€œWhat an extraordinary question! The population at large isn’t likely to take me into their confidence.”
    â€œNo, no, Mr. Burton, I didn’t mean that. I just wondered if you knew of anyone person who quite definitely, to your certain knowledge, has not received an anonymous letter.”
    â€œWell, as a matter of fact,” I hesitated, “I do, in a way.”
    And I repeated my conversation with Emily Barton and what she had said.
    Graves received the information with a wooden face and said: “Well, that may come in useful. I’ll note it down.”
    I went out into the afternoon sunshine with Owen Griffith. Once in the street, I swore aloud.
    â€œWhat kind of place is this for a man to come to lie in the sun and heal his wounds? It’s full of festering poison, this place, and it looks as peaceful and as innocent as the Garden of Eden.”
    â€œEven there,” said Owen dryly, “there was one serpent.”
    â€œLook here, Griffith, do they know anything? Have they got any idea?”
    â€œI don’t know. They’ve got a wonderful technique, the police. They’re seemingly so frank, and they tell you nothing.”
    â€œYes. Nash is a nice fellow.”
    â€œAnd a very capable one.”
    â€œIf anyone’s batty in this place, you ought to know it.” I said accusingly.
    Griffith shook his head. He looked discouraged. But he looked more than that—he looked worried. I wondered if he had an