The Hollow

The answer to the second question was, he strongly suspected, Hercule Poirot. He had thought so at the time. But he had thought then that it was an impertinence-a joke.

It was still an impertinence-but not a joke.

And the answer to the first question?

He shook his head. He did not know. He had not the least idea.

But he half closed his eyes and conjured them up-all of them-seeing them clearly in his mind's eye. Sir Henry, upright, responsible, trusted administrator of Empire.

Lady Angkatell, shadowy, elusive, unexpectedly and bewilderingly charming, with that deadly power of inconsequent suggestion.

Henrietta Savernake who had loved John Christow better than she loved herself.

The gentle and negative Edward Angkatell.

The dark, positive girl called Midge Hardcastle.

The dazed, bewildered face of Gerda Christow clasping a revolver in her hand.

The offended, adolescent personality of

David Angkatell.

There they all were, caught and held in the meshes of the law. Bound together for a little while in the relentless aftermath of sudden and violent death. Each of them had his or her own tragedy and meaning, his or her own story.

And somewhere in that interplay of characters and emotions lay the truth…

To Hercule Poirot there was only one thing more fascinating than the study of human beings, and that was the pursuit of truth…

He meant to know the truth of John Christow's death.

"But, of course. Inspector," said Veronica.

"I'm only too anxious to help you."

"Thank you. Miss Cray."

Veronica Cray was not, somehow, at all what the Inspector had imagined.

He had been prepared for glamour, for artiflciality, even possibly, for heroics. He would not have been at all surprised if she had put on an act of some kind.

In fact, she was, he shrewdly suspected, putting on an act. But it was not the kind of act he had expected.

There was no overdone feminine charm -glamour was not stressed.

Instead, he felt that he was sitting opposite to an exceedingly good-looking and expensively dressed woman who was also a good business woman. Veronica Cray, he thought, was no fool.

"We just want a clear statement. Miss Cray. You came over to The Hollow on Saturday evening?"

"Yes, I'd run out of matches. One forgets how important these things are in the country."

"You went all the way to The Hollow?

Why not to your next door neighbour, M.

Poirot?"

She smiled-a superb confident camera smile.

"I didn't know who my next door neighbour was-otherwise I should have. I just thought he was some little foreigner and I thought, you know, he might become a bore-living so near."

Yes, thought Grange, quite plausible.

She'd worked that one out ready for the occasion.

"You got your matches," he said. "And you recognized an old friend in Dr. Christow, I understand?"

She nodded.

"Poor John. Yes, I hadn't seen him for fifteen years."

"Really?" There was polite disbelief in the Inspector's tone.

"Really." Her tone was firmly assertive.

"You were pleased to see him?"

"Very pleased. It's always delightful, don't you think. Inspector, to come across an old friend?"

"It can be on some occasions."

Veronica Cray went on without waiting for further questioning:

"John saw me home. You'll want to know if he said anything that could have a bearing on the tragedy, and I've been thinking over our conversation very carefully-but really there wasn't a pointer of any kind."

"What did you talk about. Miss Cray?"

"Old days. 'Do you remember this, that and the other?'" She smiled pensively. "We had known each other in the South of France. John had really changed very little -older, of course, and more assured. I gather he was quite well known in his profession.

He didn't talk about his personal life at all. I just got the impression that his married life wasn't perhaps frightfully happy-but it was only the vaguest impression. I suppose his wife, poor thing, was one of those dim, jealous women-probably always making a fuss about his better-looking lady patients."

"No," said Grange. "She doesn't really seem to have been that way."

Veronica said quickly:

"You mean-it was all underneath? Yes-yes, I can see that that would be far more dangerous."

"I see you think Mrs. Christow shot him, Miss Cray?"

"I oughtn't to have said that! One mustn't comment-is that it-before a trial? I'm extremely sorry. Inspector. It was just that my maid told me she'd been found actually standing over the body with the revolver still in her hand. You know how in these quiet country places everything gets so exaggerated and servants do pass things on."

"Servants can be very useful sometimes, Miss Cray."

"Yes, I suppose you get a lot of your information that way."

Grange went on stolidly:

"It's a question, of course, of who had a motive-"

He paused. Veronica said with a faint rueful smile:

"And a wife is always the first suspect?

How cynical! But there's usually what's called 'the other woman.' I suppose she might be considered to have a motive, too?"

"You think there was another woman in

Dr. Christow's life?"