The Seven Dials Mystery. Agatha Christie

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      Bundle nodded.

      ‘Tredwell told me something else rather odd about the clocks,’ continued Lord Caterham, who was now quite enjoying himself. ‘It seems that somebody collected them all and put them in a row on the mantelpiece after the poor fellow was dead.’

      ‘Well, why not?’ said Bundle.

      ‘I don’t see why not myself,’ said Lord Caterham. ‘But apparently there was some fuss about it. No one would own up to having done it, you see. All the servants were questioned and swore they hadn’t touched the beastly things. In fact, it was rather a mystery. And then the coroner asked questions at the inquest, and you know how difficult it is to explain things to people of that class.’

      ‘Perfectly foul,’ agreed Bundle.

      ‘Of course,’ said Lord Caterham, ‘it’s very difficult to get the hang of things afterwards. I didn’t quite see the point of half the things Tredwell told me. By the way, Bundle, the fellow died in your room.’

      Bundle made a grimace.

      ‘Why need people die in my room?’ she asked with some indignation.

      ‘That’s just what I’ve been saying,’ said Lord Caterham, in triumph. ‘Inconsiderate. Everybody’s damned inconsiderate nowadays.’

      ‘Not that I mind,’ said Bundle valiantly. ‘Why should I?’

      ‘I should,’ said her father. ‘I should mind very much. I should dream things, you know–spectral hands and clanking chains.’

      ‘Well,’ said Bundle. ‘Great Aunt Louisa died in your bed. I wonder you don’t see her spook hovering over you.’

      ‘I do sometimes,’ said Lord Caterham, shuddering. ‘Especially after lobster.’

      ‘Well, thank heaven I’m not superstitious,’ declared Bundle.

      Yet that evening, as she sat in front of her bedroom fire, a slim, pyjamaed figure, she found her thoughts reverting to that cheery, vacuous young man, Gerry Wade. Impossible to believe that anyone so full of the joy of living could deliberately have committed suicide. No, the other solution must be the right one. He had taken a sleeping draught and by a pure mistake had swallowed an overdose. That was possible. She did not fancy that Gerry Wade had been overburdened in an intellectual capacity.

      Her gaze shifted to the mantelpiece and she began thinking about the story of the clocks. Her maid had been full of that, having just been primed by the second housemaid. She had added a detail which apparently Tredwell had not thought worth while retailing to Lord Caterham, but which had piqued Bundle’s curiosity.

      Seven clocks had been neatly ranged on the mantelpiece; the last and remaining one had been found on the lawn outside, where it had obviously been thrown from the window.

      Bundle puzzled over that point now. It seemed such an extraordinary purposeless thing to do. She could imagine that one of the maids might have tidied the clocks and then, frightened by the inquisition into the matter, have denied doing so. But surely no maid would have thrown a clock into the garden.

      Had Gerry Wade done so when its first sharp summons woke him? But no; that again was impossible. Bundle remembered hearing that his death must have taken place in the early hours of the morning, and he would have been in a comatose condition for some time before that.

      Bundle frowned. This business of the clocks was curious. She must get hold of Bill Eversleigh. He had been there, she knew.

      To think was to act with Bundle. She got up and went over to the writing desk. It was an inlaid affair with a lid that rolled back. Bundle sat down at it, pulled a sheet of notepaper towards her and wrote.

      Dear Bill,–

      She paused to pull out the lower part of the desk. It had stuck half-way, as she remembered it often did. Bundle tugged at it impatiently but it did not move. She recalled that on a former occasion an envelope had been pushed back with it and had jammed it for the time being. She took a thin paper-knife and slipped it into the narrow crack. She was so far successful that a corner of white paper showed. Bundle caught hold of it and drew it out. It was the first sheet of a letter, somewhat crumpled.

      It was the date that first caught Bundle’s eye. A big flourishing date that leaped out from the paper. Sept. 21st.

      ‘September 21st,’ said Bundle slowly. ‘Why, surely that was–’

      She broke off. Yes, she was sure of it. The 22nd was the day Gerry Wade was found dead. This, then, was a letter he must have been writing on the very evening of the tragedy.

      Bundle smoothed it out and read it. It was unfinished.

      ‘My Darling Loraine,–I will be down on Wednesday. Am feeling awfully fit and rather pleased with myself all round. It will be heavenly to see you. Look here, do forget what I said about that Seven Dials business. I thought it was going to be more or less a joke–but it isn’t–anything but. I’m sorry I ever said anything about it–it’s not the kind of business kids like you ought to be mixed up in. So forget about it, see?

      ‘Something else I wanted to tell you–but I’m so sleepy I can’t keep my eyes open.

      ‘Oh, about Lurcher; I think–’

      Here the letter broke off.

      Bundle sat frowning. Seven Dials. Where was that? Some rather slummy district of London, she fancied. The words Seven Dials reminded her of something else, but for the moment she couldn’t think of what. Instead her attention fastened on two phrases. ‘Am feeling awfully fit…’ and ‘I’m so sleepy I can’t keep my eyes open.’

      That didn’t fit in. That didn’t fit in at all. For it was that very night that Gerry Wade had taken such a heavy dose of chloral that he never woke again. And if what he had written in that letter were true, why should he have taken it?

      Bundle shook her head. She looked round the room and gave a slight shiver. Supposing Gerry Wade were watching her now. In this room he had died…

      She sat very still. The silence was unbroken save for the ticking of her little gold clock. That sounded unnaturally loud and important.

      Bundle glanced towards the mantelpiece. A vivid picture rose before her mind’s eyes. The dead man lying on the bed, and seven clocks ticking on the mantelpiece–ticking loudly, ominously…ticking…ticking…

      Chapter 5

      The Man in the Road

      ‘Father,’ said Bundle, opening the door of Lord Caterham’s special sanctum and putting her head in, ‘I’m going up to town in the Hispano. I can’t stand the monotony down here any longer.’

      ‘We only got home yesterday,’ complained Lord Caterham.

      ‘I know. It seems like a hundred years. I’d forgotten how dull the country could be.’

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