Ordeal by Innocence. Agatha Christie

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      ‘Why not?’

      He shook his head. ‘It’s not as simple as that…Your father’s right. We must all get together and have a consultation. Get Marshall down as he said.’

      ‘You mean–go over to Sunny Point?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Oh, we can’t do that.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘It’s not practicable. You’re an invalid and–’

      ‘I’m not an invalid.’ Philip spoke with irritation. ‘I’m quite strong and well. I just happen to have lost the use of my legs. I could go to Timbuctoo with the proper transport laid on.’

      ‘I’m sure it would be very bad for you to go to Sunny Point. Having all this unpleasant business raked up–’

      ‘It’s not my mind that’s affected.’

      ‘–And I don’t see how we can leave the house. There have been so many burglaries lately.’

      ‘Get someone to sleep in.’

      ‘It’s all very well to say that–as though it was the easiest thing in the world.’

      ‘Old Mrs Whatsername can come in every day. Do stop making housewifely objections, Polly. It’s you, really, who doesn’t want to go.’

      ‘No, I don’t.’

      ‘We won’t be there long,’ said Philip reassuringly. ‘But I think we’ve got to go. This is a time when the family’s got to present a united front to the world. We’ve got to find out exactly how we stand.’

      III

      At the Hotel in Drymouth, Calgary dined early and went up to his room. He felt profoundly affected by what he had passed through at Sunny Point. He had expected to find his mission painful and it had taken him all his resolution to go through with it. But the whole thing had been painful and upsetting in an entirely different way from the one he had expected. He flung himself down on his bed and lit a cigarette as he went over and over it in his mind.

      The clearest picture that came to him was of Hester’s face at that parting moment. Her scornful rejection of his plea for justice! What was it that she had said? ‘It’s not the guilty who matter, it’s the innocent.’ And then: ‘Don’t you see what you’ve done to us all?’ But what had he done? He didn’t understand.

      And the others. The woman they called Kirsty (why Kirsty? That was a Scottish name. She wasn’t Scottish–Danish, perhaps, or Norwegian?) Why had she spoken so sternly–so accusingly?

      There had been something odd, too, about Leo Argyle–a withdrawal, a watchfulness. No suggestion of the ‘Thank God my son was innocent!’ which surely would have been the natural reaction!

      And that girl–the girl who was Leo’s secretary. She had been helpful to him, kindly. But she, too, had reacted in an odd way. He remembered the way she had knelt there by Argyle’s chair. As though–as though–she were sympathizing with him, consoling him. Consoling him for what? That his son was not guilty of murder? And surely–yes, surely–there was more there than a secretary’s feelings–even a secretary of some years’ standing…What was it all about? Why did they–

      The telephone on the table by the bed rang. He picked up the receiver.

      ‘Hallo?’

      ‘Dr Calgary? There is someone asking for you.’

      ‘For me?’

      He was surprised. As far as he was aware, nobody knew that he was spending the night in Drymouth.

      ‘Who is it?’

      There was a pause. Then the clerk said:

      ‘It’s Mr Argyle.’

      ‘Oh. Tell him–’ Arthur Calgary checked himself on the point of saying that he would come down. If for some reason Leo Argyle had followed him to Drymouth and managed to find out where he was staying, then presumably the matter would be embarrassing to discuss in the crowded lounge downstairs.

      He said instead:

      ‘Ask him to come up to my room, will you?’

      He rose from where he had been lying and paced up and down until the knock came on the door.

      He went across and opened it.

      ‘Come in, Mr Argyle, I–’

      He stopped, taken aback. It was not Leo Argyle. It was a young man in his early twenties, a young man whose dark, handsome face was marred by its expression of bitterness. A reckless, angry, unhappy face.

      ‘Didn’t expect me,’ said the young man. ‘Expected my–father. I’m Michael Argyle.’

      ‘Come in.’ Calgary closed the door after his visitor had entered. ‘How did you find out I was here?’ he asked as he offered the boy his cigarette case.

      Michael Argyle took one and gave a short unpleasant laugh.

      ‘That one’s easy! Rang up the principal hotels on the chance you might be staying the night. Hit it the second try.’

      ‘And why did you want to see me?’

      Michael Argyle said slowly:

      ‘Wanted to see what sort of a chap you were…’ His eyes ran appraisingly over Calgary, noting the slightly stooped shoulders, the greying hair, the thin sensitive face. ‘So you’re one of the chaps who went on the “Hayes Bentley” to the Pole. You don’t look very tough.’

      Arthur Calgary smiled faintly.

      ‘Appearances are sometimes deceptive,’ he said. ‘I was tough enough. It’s not entirely muscular force that’s needed. There are other important qualifications; endurance, patience, technical knowledge.’

      ‘How old are you, forty-five?’

      ‘Thirty-eight.’

      ‘You look more.’

      ‘Yes–yes, I suppose I do.’ For a moment a feeling of poignant sadness came over him as he confronted the virile youth of the boy facing him.

      He asked rather abruptly:

      ‘Why did you want to see me?’

      The other scowled.

      ‘It’s natural, isn’t it? When I heard about the news you’d brought. The news about my dear brother.’

      Calgary did not answer.

      Michael Argyle went on:

      ‘It’s come a bit late for him, hasn’t it?’

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