The Moving Finger by Agatha Christie

abominable letters?”
    To my great surprise she nodded her head.
    â€œWe’ve got our idea, sir. Yes, we’ve all got a very fair idea.”
    â€œWho is it?”
    I had fancied she might be reluctant to mention a name, but she replied promptly:
    â€œâ€™Tis Mrs. Cleat—that’s what we all think, sir. ’Tis Mrs. Cleat for sure.”
    I had heard so many names this morning that I was quite bewildered. I asked:
    â€œWho is Mrs. Cleat?”
    Mrs. Cleat, I discovered, was the wife of an elderly jobbing gardener. She lived in a cottage on the road leading down to the Mill. My further questions only brought unsatisfactory answers. Questioned as to why Mrs. Cleat should write these letters, Mrs. Baker would only say vaguely that “’T would be like her.”
    In the end I let her go, reiterating once more my advice to go to the police, advice which I could see Mrs. Baker was not going to act upon. I was left with the impression that I had disappointed her.
    I thought over what she had said. Vague as the evidence was, I decided that if the village was all agreed that Mrs. Cleat was the culprit, then it was probably true. I decided to go and consult Griffith about the whole thing. Presumably he would know this Cleat woman. If he thought advisable, he or I might suggest to the police that she was at the bottom of this growing annoyance.
    I timed my arrival for about the moment I fancied Griffith would have finished his “Surgery.” When the last patient had left, I went into the surgery.
    â€œHallo, it’s you, Burton.”
    I outlined my conversation with Mrs. Baker, and passed on to him the conviction that this Mrs. Cleat was responsible. Rather to my disappointment, Griffith shook his head.
    â€œIt’s not so simple as that,” he said.
    â€œYou don’t think this Cleat woman is at the bottom of it?”
    â€œShe may be. But I should think it most unlikely.”
    â€œThen why do they all think it is her?”
    He smiled.
    â€œOh,” he said, “you don’t understand. Mrs. Cleat is the local witch.”
    â€œGood gracious!” I exclaimed.
    â€œYes, sounds rather strange nowadays, nevertheless that’s what it amounts to. The feeling lingers, you know, that there are certain people, certain families, for instance, whom it isn’t wise to offend. Mrs. Cleat came from a family of ‘wise women.’ And I’m afraid she’s taken pains to cultivate the legend. She’s a queer woman with a bitter and sardonic sense of humour. It’s been easy enough for her, if a child cut its finger, or had a bad fall, or sickened with mumps, to nod her head and say, ‘Yes, he stole my apples last week’ or ‘He pulled my cat’s tail.’ Soon enough mothers pulled their children away, and other women brought honey or a cake they’d baked to give to Mrs. Cleat so as to keep on the right side of her so that she shouldn’t ‘ill wish’ them. It’s superstitious and silly, but it happens. So naturally, now, they think she’s at the bottom of this.”
    â€œBut she isn’t?”
    â€œOh, no. She isn’t the type. It’s—it’s not so simple as that.”
    â€œHave you any idea?” I looked at him curiously.
    He shook his head, but his eyes were absent.
    â€œNo,” he said. “I don’t know at all. But I don’t like it, Burton—some harm is going to come of this.”
    II
    When I got back to the house I found Megan sitting on the veranda steps, her chin resting on her knees.
    She greeted me with her usual lack of ceremony.
    â€œHallo,” she said. “Do you think I could come to lunch?”
    â€œCertainly,” I said.
    â€œIf it’s chops, or anything difficult like that and they won’t go round, just tell me,” shouted Megan as I went round to apprize Partridge of the fact that there would be three to lunch.
    I fancy that