The Secret of Chimneys by Agatha Christie, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . A Dead Man VIII. A Dead Man On that same Thursday afternoon Virginia Revel had been playing tennis at Ranelagh. All the way back to Pont Street, as she lay back in the long, luxurious limousine, a little smile played upon her lips, as she rehearsed her part in the forthcoming interview. Of course it was within the bounds of possibility that the blackmailer might not reappear, but she felt pretty certain that he would. She had shown herself an easy prey. Well, perhaps this time there would be a little surprise for him! When the car drew up at the house, she turned to speak to the chauffeur before going up the steps. “How’s your wife, Walton? I forgot to ask.” “Better I think, ma’am. The doctor said he’d look in and see her about half-past six. Will you be wanting the car again?” Virginia reflected for a minute. “I shall be away for the week-end. I’m going by the 6.40 from Paddington, but I shan’t need you again—a taxi will do for that. I’d rather you saw the doctor. If he thinks it would do your wife good to go away for the week-end, take her somewhere, Walton. I’ll stand the expense.” Cutting short the man’s thanks with an impatient nod of the head, Virginia ran up the steps, delved into her bag in search of her latchkey, remembered she hadn’t got it with her, and hastily rang the bell. It was not answered at once, but as she waited there a young man came up the steps. He was shabbily dressed, and carried in his hand a sheaf of leaflets. He held one out to Virginia with the legend on it plainly visible: “Why Did I Serve my Country?” In his left hand he held a collecting-box. “I can’t buy two of those awful poems in one day,” said Virginia pleadingly. “I bought one this morning. I did, indeed, honour bright.” The young man threw back his head and laughed. Virginia laughed with him. Running her eyes carelessly over him, she thought him a more pleasing specimen than usual of London’s unemployed. She liked his brown face, and the lean hardness of him. She went so far as to wish she had a job for him. But at that moment the door opened, and immediately Virginia forgot all about the problem of the unemployed, for to her astonishment the door was opened by her own maid, Élise. “Where’s Chilvers?” she demanded sharply, as she stepped into the hall. “But he is gone, madame, with the others.” “What others? Gone where?” “But to Datchet, madame—to the cottage, as your telegram said.” “My telegram?” said Virginia, utterly at sea. “Did not madame send a telegram? Surely there can be no mistake. It came but an hour ago.” “I never sent any telegram. What did it say?” “I believe it is still on the table là-bas.” Élise retired, pounced upon it, and brought it to her mistress in triumph. “Voilà, madame!” The telegram was addressed to Chilvers and ran as follows: “Please take household down to cottage at once, and make preparations for week-end party there. Catch 5.49 train.” There was nothing unusual about it, it was just the sort of message she herself had frequently sent before, when she had arranged a party at her riverside bungalow on the spur of the moment. She always took the whole household down, leaving an old woman as caretaker. Chilvers would not have seen anything wrong with the message, and like a good servant had carried out his orders faithfully enough. “Me, I remained,” explained Élise, “knowing that madame would wish me to pack for her.” “It’s a silly hoax,” cried Virginia, flinging down the telegram angrily. “You know perfectly well, Élise, that I am going to Chimneys. I told you so this morning.” “I thought madame had changed her mind. Sometimes that does happen, does it not, madame?” Virginia admitted the truth of the accusation with a half smile. She was busy trying to find a reason for this extraordinary practical joke. Élise cut forward a suggestion. “Mon Dieu!” she cried, clasping her hands. “If it should be the malefactors, the thieves! They send the bogus telegram and get the domestiques all out of the house, and then they rob it.” “I suppose that might be it,” said Virginia doubtfully. “Yes, yes, madame, that is it without a doubt. Every day you read in the papers of such things. Madame will ring up the police at once—at once—before they arrive and cut our throats.” “Don’t get so excited, Élise. They won’t come and cut our throats at six o’clock in the afternoon.” “Madame, I implore you, let me run out and fetch a policeman now, at once.” “What on earth for? Don’t be silly, Élise. Go up and pack my things for Chimneys if you haven’t already done it. The new Cailleuax evening dress, and the white crêpe marocain, and—yes, the black velvet—black velvet is so political, is it not?” “Madame looks ravishing in the eau de nil satin,” suggested Élise, her professional instincts reasserting themselves. “No, I won’t take that. Hurry up, Élise, there’s a good girl. We’ve got very little time. I’ll send a wire to Chilvers at Datchet, and I’ll speak to the policeman on the beat as we go out and tell him to keep an eye on the place. Don’t start rolling your eyes again, Élise—if you get so frightened before anything has happened, what would you do if a man jumped out from some dark corner and stuck a knife into you?” Élise gave vent to a shrill squeak, and beat a speedy retreat up the stairs, darting nervous glances over each shoulder as she went. Virginia made a face at her retreating back, and crossed the hall to the little study where the telephone was. Élise’s suggestion of ringing up the police station seemed to her a good one, and she intended to act upon it without any further delay. She opened the study door and crossed to the telephone. Then, with her hand on the receiver, she stopped. A man was sitting in the big arm-chair, sitting in a curious huddled position. In the stress of the moment, she had forgotten all about her expected visitor. Apparently he had fallen asleep whilst waiting for her. She came right up to the chair, a slightly mischievous smile upon her face. And then suddenly the smile faded. The man was not asleep. He was dead. She knew it at once, knew it instinctively even before her eyes had seen and noted the small shining pistol lying on the floor, the little-singed hole just above the heart with the dark stain round it, and the horrible dropped jaw. She stood quite still, her hands pressed to her sides. In the silence she heard Élise running down the stairs. “Madame! Madame!” “Well, what is it?” She moved quickly to the door. Her whole instinct was to conceal what had happened—for the moment anyway—from Élise. Élise would promptly go into hysterics, she knew that well enough, and she felt a great need for calm and quiet in which to think things out. “Madame, would it not be better if I should draw the chain across the door? These malefactors, at any minute they may arrive.” “Yes, if you like. Anything you like.” She heard the rattle of the chain, and then Élise running upstairs again, and drew a long breath of relief. She looked at the man in the chair and then at the telephone. Her course was quite clear, she must ring up the police at once. But still she did not do so. She stood quite still, paralysed with horror and with a host of conflicting ideas rushing through her brain. The bogus telegram. Had it something to do with this? Supposing Élise had not stayed behind? She would have let herself in—that is, presuming she had had her latchkey with her as usual, to find herself alone in the house with a murdered man—a man whom she had permitted to blackmail her on a former occasion. Of course she had an explanation of that; but thinking of that explanation she was not quite easy in her mind. She remembered how frankly incredible George had found it. Would other people think the same. Those letters now—of course she hadn’t written them, but would it be so easy to prove that? She put her hands on her forehead, squeezing them tight together. “I must think,” said Virginia. “I simply must think.” Who had let the man in? Surely not Élise. If she had done so, she would have been sure to have mentioned the fact at once. The whole thing seemed more and more mysterious as she thought about it. There was really only one thing to be done—ring up the police. She stretched out her hand to the telephone, and suddenly she thought of George. A man—that was what she wanted—an ordinary level-headed, unemotional man who would see things in their proper proportion and point out to her the best course to take. Then she shook her head. Not George. The first thing George would think of would be his own position. He would hate being mixed up in this kind of business. George wouldn’t do at all. Then her face softened. Bill, of course! Without more ado, she rang up Bill. She was informed that he had left half an hour ago for Chimneys. “Oh, damn!” cried Virginia, jamming down the receiver. It was horrible to be shut up with a dead body and to have no one to speak to. And at that minute the front-door bell rang. Virginia jumped. In a few minutes it rang again. Élise, she knew, was upstairs packing and wouldn’t hear it. Virginia went out in the hall, drew back the chain, and undid all the bolts that Élise had fastened in her zeal. Then, with a long breath, she threw open the door. On the steps was the unemployed young man. Virginia plunged headlong with a relief born of overstrung nerves. “Come in,” she said. “I think that perhaps I’ve got a job for you.” She took him into the dining-room, pulled toward a chair for him, sat down herself facing him, and stared at him very attentively. “Excuse me,” she said, “but are you—I mean——” “Eton and Oxford,” said the young man. “That’s what you wanted to ask me, wasn’t it?” “Something of the kind,” admitted Virginia. “Come down in the world entirely through my own incapacity to stick to regular work. This isn’t regular work you’re offering me, I hope?” A smile hovered for a moment on her lips. “It’s very irregular.” “Good,” said the young man in a tone of satisfaction. Virginia noted his bronzed face and long lean body with approval. “You see,” she explained, “I’m in rather a hole, and most of my friends are—well, rather high up. They’ve all got something to lose.” “I’ve nothing whatever to lose. So go ahead. What’s the trouble?” “There’s a dead man in the next room,” said Virginia. “He’s been murdered, and I don’t know what to do about it.” She blurted out the words as simply as a child might have done. The young man went up enormously in her estimation by the way he accepted her statement. He might have been used to hearing a similar announcement made every day of his life. “Excellent,” he said, with a trace of enthusiasm. “I’ve always wanted to do a bit of amateur detective work. Shall we go and view the body, or will you give me the facts first?” “I think I’d better give you the facts.” She paused for a moment to consider how best to condense her story, and then began, speaking quietly and concisely. “This man came to the house for the first time yesterday and asked to see me. He had certain letters with him—love letters, signed with my name——” “But which weren’t written by you,” put in the young man quietly. Virginia looked at him in some astonishment “How did you know that?” “Oh, I deduced it. But go on.” “He wanted to blackmail me—and I—well, I don’t know if you’ll understand, but I—let him.” She looked at him appealingly, and he nodded his head reassuringly. “Of course I understand. You wanted to see what it felt like.” “How frightfully clever of you! That’s just what I did feel.” “I am clever,” said the young man modestly. “But, mind you, very few people would understand that point of view. Most people, you see, haven’t got any imagination.” “I suppose that’s so. I told this man to come back to-day—at six o’clock. I arrived home from Ranelagh to find that a bogus telegram had got all the servants except my maid out of the house. Then I walked into the study and found the man shot.” “Who let him in?” “I don’t know. I think if my maid had done so she would have told me.” “Does she know what has happened?” “I have told her nothing.” The young man nodded, and rose to his feet. “And now to view the body,” he said briskly. “But I’ll tell you this—on the whole it’s always best to tell the truth. One lie involves you in such a lot of lies—and continuous lying is so monotonous.” “Then you advise me to ring up the police?” “Probably. But we’ll just have a look at the fellow first.” Virginia led the way out the room. On the threshold she paused, looking back at him. “By the way,” she said, “you haven’t told me your name yet?” “My name? My name’s Anthony Cade.” About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Agatha Christie (1998). The Secret of Chimneys. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. 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