Three Blind Mice by Agatha Christie Page A

mean much more to do. We’d probably get a woman to come in after a bit when we got properly started. If we had only five people, each paying seven guineas a week—” Molly departed into the realms of somewhat optimistic mental arithmetic.
    “And think, Giles,” she ended, “it would be our own house. With our own things. As it is, it seems to me it will be years before we can ever find anywhere to live.”
    That, Giles admitted, was true. They had had so little time together since their hasty marriage, that they were both longing to settle down in a home.
    So the great experiment was set under way. Advertisements were put in the local paper and in the Times, and various answers came.
    And now, today, the first of the guests was to arrive. Giles had gone off early in the car to try and obtain some army wire netting that had been advertised as for sale on the other side of the county. Molly announced the necessity of walking to the village to make some last purchases.
    The only thing that was wrong was the weather. For the last two days it had been bitterly cold, and now the snow was beginning to fall. Molly hurried up the drive, thick, feathery flakes falling on her waterproofed shoulders and bright curly hair. The weather forecasts had been lugubrious in the extreme. Heavy snowfall was to be expected.
    She hoped anxiously that all the pipes wouldn’t freeze. It would be too bad if everything went wrong just as they started. She glanced at her watch. Past teatime. Would Giles have got back yet? Would he be wondering where she was?
    “I had to go to the village again for something I had forgotten,” she would say. And he would laugh and say, “More tins?”
    Tins were a joke between them. They were always on the lookout for tins of food. The larder was really quite nicely stocked now in case of emergencies.
    And, Molly thought with a grimace as she looked up at the sky, it looked as though emergencies were going to present themselves very soon.
    The house was empty. Giles was not back yet. Molly went first into the kitchen, then upstairs, going round the newly prepared bedrooms. Mrs. Boyle in the south room with the mahogany and the fourposter. Major Metcalf in the blue room with the oak. Mr. Wren in the east room with the bay window. All the rooms looked very nice—and what a blessing that Aunt Katherine had had such a splendid stock of linen. Molly patted a counterpane into place and went downstairs again. It was nearly dark. The house felt suddenly very quiet and empty. It was a lonely house, two miles from a village, two miles, as Molly put it, from anywhere.
    She had often been alone in the house before—but she had never before been so conscious of being alone in it.
    The snow beat in a soft flurry against the windowpanes. It made a whispery, uneasy sound. Supposing Giles couldn’t get back—supposing the snow was so thick that the car couldn’t get through? Supposing she had to stay alone here—stay alone for days, perhaps.
    She looked round the kitchen—a big, comfortable kitchen that seemed to call for a big, comfortable cook presiding at the kitchen table, her jaws moving rhythmically as she ate rock cakes and drank black tea—she should be flanked by a tall, elderly parlormaid on one side and a round, rosy housemaid on the other, with a kitchenmaid at the other end of the table observing her betters with frightened eyes. And instead there was just herself, Molly Davis, playing a role that did not yet seem a very natural role to play. Her whole life, at the moment, seemed unreal—Giles seemed unreal. She was playing a part—just playing a part.
    A shadow passed the window, and she jumped—a strange man was coming through the snow. She heard the rattle of the side door. The stranger stood there in the open doorway, shaking off snow, a strange man, walking into the empty house.
    And then, suddenly, illusion fled.
    “Oh Giles,” she cried, “I’m so glad you’ve come!”
    “Hullo, sweetheart!