Sad Cypress (Hercule Poirot 22)

“The beginning… The beginning? The day that horrible anonymous letter came! That was the beginning of it….”

PART I

One

An anonymous letter!

Elinor Carlisle stood looking down at it as it lay open in her hand. She’d never had such a thing before. It gave one an unpleasant sensation. Ill-written, badly spelt, on cheap pink paper.

This is to Warn You (it ran),

I’m naming no Names but there’s Someone sucking up to your Aunt and if you’re not kareful you’ll get Cut Out of Everything. Girls Are very Artful and Old Ladies is Soft when Young Ones suck up to Them and Flatter them What I say is You’d best come down and see for Yourself whats Going On its not right you and the Young Gentleman should be Done Out of What’s yours—and She’s Very Artful and the Old Lady might Pop off at any time.

Well-Wisher

Elinor was still staring at this missive, her plucked brows drawn together in distaste, when the door opened. The maid announced, “Mr. Welman,” and Roddy came in.

Roddy! As always when she saw Roddy, Elinor was conscious of a slightly giddy feeling, a throb of sudden pleasure, a feeling that it was incumbent upon her to be very matter-of-fact and unemotional. Because it was so very obvious that Roddy, although he loved her, didn’t feel about her the way she felt about him. The first sight of him did something to her, twisted her heart round so that it almost hurt. Absurd that a man—an ordinary, yes, a perfectly ordinary young man—should be able to do that to one! That the mere look of him should set the world spinning, that his voice should make you want—just a little—to cry… Love surely should be a pleasurable emotion—not something that hurt you by its intensity….

One thing was clear: one must be very, very careful to be offhand and casual about it all. Men didn’t like devotion and adoration. Certainly Roddy didn’t.

She said lightly:

“Hallo, Roddy!

”

Roddy said:

“Hallo, darling. You’re looking very tragic. Is it a bill?”

Elinor shook her head.

Roddy said:

“I thought it might be—midsummer, you know—when the fairies dance, and the accounts rendered come tripping along!”

Elinor said:

“It’s rather horrid. It’s an anonymous letter.”

Roddy’s brows went up. His keen fastidious face stiffened and changed. He said—a sharp, disgusted exclamation:

“No!”

Elinor said again:

“It’s rather horrid….”

She moved a step towards her desk.

“I’d better tear it up, I suppose.”

She could have done that—she almost did—for Roddy and anonymous letters were two things that ought not to come together. She might have thrown it away and thought no more about it. He would not have stopped her. His fastidiousness was far more strongly developed than his curiosity.

But on impulse Elinor decided differently. She said:

“Perhaps, though, you’d better read it first. Then we’ll burn it. It’s about Aunt Laura.”