Taken at the Flood by Agatha Christie Page A

girl. We’ve been pushed around enough, you and I. The Cloades have lived soft—soft. Lived on big brother Gordon. Little fleas on a big flea. I hate their kind—I always have.”
    She said, shocked:
    â€œI don’t like hating people. It’s wicked.”
    â€œDon’t you think they hate you? Have they been kind to you—friendly?”
    She said doubtfully:
    â€œThey haven’t been unkind. They haven’t done me any harm.”
    â€œBut they’d like to, babyface. They’d like to.” He laughedrecklessly. “If they weren’t so careful of their own skins, you’d be found with a knife in your back one fine morning.”
    She shivered.
    â€œDon’t say such dreadful things.”
    â€œWell—perhaps not a knife. Strychnine in the soup.”
    She stared at him, her mouth tremulous.
    â€œYou’re joking….”
    He became serious again.
    â€œDon’t worry, Rosaleen. I’ll look after you. They’ve got me to deal with.”
    She said, stumbling over the words, “If it’s true what you say—about their hating us—hating me —why don’t we go to London? We’d be safe there—away from them all.”
    â€œThe country’s good for you, my girl. You know it makes you ill being in London.”
    â€œThat was when the bombs were there—the bombs.” She shivered, closed her eyes. “I’ll never forget— never ….”
    â€œYes, you will.” He took her gently by the shoulders, shook her slightly. “Snap out of it, Rosaleen. You were badly shocked, but it’s over now. There are no more bombs. Don’t think about it. Don’t remember. The doctor said country air and a country life for a long time to come. That’s why I want to keep you away from London.”
    â€œIs that really why? Is it, David? I thought—perhaps—”
    â€œWhat did you think?”
    Rosaleen said slowly:
    â€œI thought perhaps it was because of her you wanted to be here….”
    â€œHer?”
    â€œYou know the one I mean. The girl the other night. The one who was in the Wrens.”
    His face was suddenly black and stern.
    â€œLynn? Lynn Marchmont.”
    â€œShe means something to you, David.”
    â€œLynn Marchmont? She’s Rowley’s girl. Good old stay-at-home Rowley. That bovine slow-witted good-looking ox.”
    â€œI watched you talking to her the other night.”
    â€œOh, for Heaven’s sake, Rosaleen.”
    â€œAnd you’ve seen her since, haven’t you?”
    â€œI met her near the farm the other morning when I was out riding.”
    â€œAnd you’ll meet her again.”
    â€œOf course I’ll always be meeting her! This is a tiny place. You can’t go two steps without falling over a Cloade. But if you think I’ve fallen for Lynn Marchmont, you’re wrong. She’s a proud stuck-up unpleasant girl without a civil tongue in her head. I wish old Rowley joy of her. No, Rosaleen, my girl, she’s not my type.”
    She said doubtfully, “Are you sure, David?”
    â€œOf course I’m sure.”
    She said half-timidly:
    â€œI know you don’t like my laying out the cards…But they come true, they do indeed. There was a girl bringing trouble and sorrow—a girl would come from over the sea. There was a dark stranger, too, coming into our lives, and bringing danger with him. There was the death card, and—”
    â€œYou and your dark strangers!” David laughed. “What a mass of superstition you are. Don’t have any dealings with a dark stranger, that’s my advice to you.”
    He strolled out of the house laughing, but when he was away from the house, his face clouded over and he frowned to himself, murmuring:
    â€œBad luck to you, Lynn. Coming home from abroad and upsetting the apple cart.”
    For he realized that at this very moment he was