The Moving Finger by Agatha Christie Page B

father, who was cruel to her and pretty dreadful from all I can hear. Only mothers can’t say they don’t want their children and just goaway. Or eat them. Cats eat the kittens they don’t like. Awfully sensible, I think. No waste or mess. But human mothers have to keep their children, and look after them. It hasn’t been so bad while I could be sent away to school—but you see, what Mummie would really like is to be just herself and my stepfather and the boys.”
    I said slowly:
    â€œI still think you’re morbid, Megan, but accepting some of what you say as true, why don’t you go away and have a life of your own?”
    She gave me an unchildlike smile.
    â€œYou mean take up a career. Earn my living?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat at?”
    â€œYou could train for something, I suppose. Shorthand typing—bookkeeping.”
    â€œI don’t believe I could. I am stupid about doing things. And besides—”
    â€œWell?”
    She had turned her face away, now she turned it slowly back again. It was crimson and there were tears in her eyes. She spoke now with all the childishness back in her voice.
    â€œWhy should I go away? And be made to go away? They don’t want me, but I’ll stay. I’ll stay and make everyone sorry. I’ll make them all sorry. Hateful pigs! I hate everyone here in Lymstock. They all think I’m stupid and ugly. I’ll show them. I’ll show them. I’ll—”
    It was a childish, oddly pathetic rage.
    I heard a step on the gravel round the corner of the house.
    â€œGet up,” I said savagely. “Go into the house through the drawing room. Go up to the first floor to the bathroom. End of the passage. Wash your face. Quick.”
    She sprang awkwardly to her feet and darted through the window as Joanna came round the corner of the house.
    â€œGosh, I’m hot,” she called out. She sat down beside me and fanned her face with the Tyrolean scarf that had been round her head. “Still I think I’m educating these damned brogues now. I’ve walked miles. I’ve learnt one thing, you shouldn’t have these fancy holes in your brogues. The gorse prickles go through. Do you know, Jerry, I think we ought to have a dog?”
    â€œSo do I,” I said. “By the way, Megan is coming to lunch.”
    â€œIs she? Good.”
    â€œYou like her?” I asked.
    â€œI think she’s a changeling,” said Joanna. “Something left on a doorstep, you know, while the fairies take the right one away. It’s very interesting to meet a changeling. Oof, I must go up and wash.”
    â€œYou can’t yet,” I said, “Megan is washing.”
    â€œOh, she’s been footslogging too, has she?”
    Joanna took out her mirror and looked at her face long and earnestly. “I don’t think I like this lipstick,” she announced presently.
    Megan came out through the window. She was composed, moderately clean, and showed no signs of the recent storm. She looked doubtfully at Joanna.
    â€œHallo,” said Joanna, still preoccupied by her face. “I’m so glad you’ve come to lunch. Good gracious, I’ve got a freckle on my nose. I must do something about it. Freckles are so earnest and Scottish.”
    Partridge came out and said coldly that luncheon was served.
    â€œCome on,” said Joanna, getting up. “I’m starving.”
    She put her arm through Megan’s and they went into the house together.

Five
    I
    I see that there has been one omission in my story. So far I have made little or no mention of Mrs. Dane Calthrop, or indeed of the Rev. Caleb Dane Calthrop.
    And yet both the vicar and his wife were distinct personalities. Dane Calthrop himself was perhaps a being more remote from everyday life than anyone I have ever met. His existence was in his books and in his study, and in his intimate knowledge of early Church history. Mrs. Dane