victims of their heredity and environment… ?”
She took another sip; the coffee was wonderfully bitter. “I’m willing to believe that the likes of our Ripper are ‘made’ that way… born with a kind of disability, as if coming into this world blind.”
“That hardly justifies—”
“One should pity them,” she said, interrupting (something she seldom did, but the views she held on this subject were strong within her). “But not spare them.”
He chuckled; the ridged forehead smoothed itself out. “Well, hearing that from you is a relief. Because if ever a villain needed to swing, this one does.”
She shrugged. “I’m not against hanging. What else can we do with those who are tainted with hatred and ruthlessness? For whom other people’s lives go for nothing?”
“Mrs. Mallowan… Mrs. Christie. You are not what I expected.”
“Have you read Milton, Inspector?”
“As a schoolboy.”
“How well do you remember it?”
“As well as the next bloke, I’d say.”
“Satan wanted to be great, do you recall? He wanted power—he wanted to be God. He had no love in him, no… humility. He chose evil.”
The inspector was shaking his head again. “Difficult to believe that the newspapers themselves, by glorifying the likes of a Ripper, could somehow encourage him….”
“It’s a pity the papers save their bad reviews for artists, and reserve their rave reviews for criminals.”
That amused the inspector, who finished his tea and requested that Agatha give him the names of—and any insights she might have into—each of the individuals they would be interviewing this afternoon. She did this, and he dutifully jotted notes.
A dress rehearsal of her new play was scheduled for two p.m. at the St. James, and Agatha felt confident that the inspector’s interviews with the appropriate parties—producer Bertram Morris, director Irene Helier Morris, dialogue coach Francis L. Sullivan, and the producer’s secretary, Janet Cummins—could be squeezed in around the proceedings. This left only Stephen Glanville and Janet’s RAF pilot husband, who would not be at the theater for an interview.
“We could call Stephen,” Agatha said, “and arrange a meeting for his Whitehall office, or at the Lawn Road Flats, after work.”
“Either would be fine—you’re kind to suggest it.” The inspector rose, saying, “I’ll take care of the bill while you give him a call, if you would. Oh, and would you ask Dr. Glanville what the best way is, to get ahold of this young cadet? Seeing as how he’s a superior of the boy’s.”
The cafe had a public phone, which Agatha used. Stephen was apparently fairly important at the Air Ministry, because it took her one switchboard operator and two secretaries to make her way to him.
“Well, what a bizarre coincidence,” Stephen said. “That young woman the next victim… how terrible. How tragic.”
Stephen’s words rang hollow, but that was to be expected: when someone one knows only slightly dies, the news arrives with an abstract impact, devoid of the emotion the loss of a close friend would bring.
“Frankly, dear,” Stephen was saying, “I really don’t know that I would have anything of use for your inspector….”
Rather than point out to Stephen that talking to the police in a murder investigation was not optional, Agatha said, “Would you speak to him, though? Just as a favor to me. I’m the one that caused this inconvenience, after all.”
“And how on earth is that?”
“Well, by recognizing the girl.”
“… Would six-fifteen be convenient?”
“It would. Could you stop by my flat?”
“Certainly. Is there anything else?”
“Actually, there is. Inspector Greeno is going to want to chat with Janet Cummins’s young flier. Perhaps you could make a call and find out when and how that might best be arranged.”
“I will. Does the inspector want to talk to young Cummins this afternoon, or shall I bring the information to our meeting at six-fifteen?”
“I would imagine the latter is fine. We’ll be at the theater for the better part of the afternoon, I should think.”
As it turned out, the interviews were not held at the theater. With a full dress rehearsal under way, nowhere in the theater—from the stalls to the dressing rooms—could be commandeered; even the offices were bustling with phone calls relating to last-minute preparations for Friday’s big event.
Agatha suggested the Golden Lion, next door. The narrow, intimate pub possessed dark mahogany woodwork, an impressive wooden liquor rack behind the bar, and an elaborate stained-glass window that had been boarded over for the duration, for protection of itself and the patrons.
The manager—a small man with big opinions—knew Agatha by sight (and reputation); she had signed a copy of Orient Express for