The Mystery of the Blue Jar and The Witness for the Prosecution

Agatha Christie

• Editore: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
• Anno: 2021
• ISBN:
  9781504079082
• Argomento: Literatur
• Categoria: Kriminal- & Mysterienliteratur

This collection of classic short mysteries by the author of The Mousetrap will have you asking, "Whodunit, howdunit, and whydunit?"

At the same time every day, Jack's morning golf routine is interrupted by the sound of a woman calling for help. Though the cry is clearly coming from a nearby cottage, the lady who lives there has no distress to report—until she starts having nightmares about a mysterious woman and a blue Chinese vase. Could the cottage be haunted? Or is Jack losing his mind? His attempts to find out will lead him down a dangerous path.

A taut psychological thriller, "The Mystery of the Blue Jar" is quintessential Agatha Christie. This volume presents that story alongside other short works by the British master of mystery and suspense.

The Witness for the Prosecution

“The Witness for the Prosecution” was first published in the USA as “Traitor Hands” in Flynns Weekly, 31 January 1925.

Mr. Mayherne adjusted his pince-nez and cleared his throat with a little dry-as-dust cough that was wholly typical of him. Then he looked again at the man opposite him, the man charged with wilful murder.

Mr. Mayherne was a small man precise in manner, neatly, not to say foppishly dressed, with a pair of very shrewd and piercing grey eyes. By no means a fool. Indeed, as a solicitor, Mr. Mayherne’s reputation stood very high. His voice, when he spoke to his client, was dry but not unsympathetic.

“I must impress upon you again that you are in very grave danger, and that the utmost frankness is necessary.”

Leonard Vole, who had been staring in a dazed fashion at the blank wall in front of him, transferred his glance to the solicitor.

“I know,” he said hopelessly. “You keep telling me so. But I can’t seem to realize yet that I’m charged with murder—murder. And such a dastardly crime too.”

Mr. Mayherne was practical, not emotional. He coughed again, took off his pince-nez, polished them carefully, and replaced them on his nose. Then he said:

“Yes, yes, yes. Now, my dear Mr. Vole, we’re going to make a determined effort to get you off—and we shall succeed—we shall succeed. But I must have all the facts. I must know just how damaging the case against you is likely to be. Then we can fix upon the best line of defence.”

Still the young man looked at him in the same dazed, hopeless fashion. To Mr. Mayherne the case had seemed black enough, and the guilt of the prisoner assured. Now, for the first time, he felt a doubt.

“You think I’m guilty,” said Leonard Vole, in a low voice. “But, by God, I swear I’m not! It looks pretty black against me, I know that. I’m like a man caught in a net—the meshes of it all round me, entangling me whichever way I turn. But I didn’t do it, Mr. Mayherne, I didn’t do it!”

In such a position a man was bound to protest his innocence. Mr. Mayherne knew that. Yet, in spite of himself, he was impressed. It might be, after all, that Leonard Vole was innocent.

“You are right, Mr. Vole,” he said gravely. “The case does look very black against you. Nevertheless, I accept your assurance. Now, let us get to facts. I want you to tell me in your own words exactly how you came to make the acquaintance of Miss Emily French.”

“It was one day in Oxford Street. I saw an elderly lady crossing the road. She was carrying a lot of parcels. In the middle of the street she dropped them, tried to recover them, found a bus was almost on top of her and just managed to reach the kerb safely, dazed and bewildered by people having shouted at her. I recovered the parcels, wiped the mud off them as best I could, retied the string of one, and returned them to her.”

“There was no question of your having saved her life?”

“Oh! dear me, no. All I did was to perform a common act of courtesy. She was extremely grateful, thanked me warmly, and said something about my manners not being those of most of the younger generation—I can’t remember the exact words. Then I lifted my hat and went on. I never expected to see her again. But life is full of coincidences. That very evening I came across her at a party at a friend’s house. She recognized me at once and asked that I should be introduced to her. I then found out that she was a Miss Emily French and that she lived at Cricklewood. I talked to her for some time. She was, I imagine, an old lady who took sudden violent fancies to people. She took one to me on the strength of a perfectly simple action which anyone might have performed. On leaving, she shook me warmly by the hand, and asked me to come and see her. I replied, of course, that I should be very pleased to do so, and she then urged me to name a day. I did not want particularly to go, but it would have seemed churlish to refuse, so I fixed on the following Saturday. After she had gone, I learned something about her from my friends. That she was rich, eccentric, lived alone with one maid and owned no less than eight cats.”

“I see,” said Mr. Mayherne. “The question of her being well off came up as early as that?”

“If you mean that I inquired—” began Leonard Vole hotly, but Mr. Mayherne stilled him with a gesture.

“I have to look at the case as it will be presented by the other side. An ordinary observer would not have supposed Miss French to be a lady of means. She lived poorly, almost humbly. Unless you had been told the contrary, you would in all probability have considered her to be in poor circumstances—at any rate to begin with. Who was it exactly who told you that she was well off?”

“My friend, George Harvey, at whose house the party took place.”

“Is he likely to remember having done so?”

“I really don’t know. Of course it is some time ago now.”

“Quite so, Mr. Vole. You see, the first aim of the prosecution will be to establish that you were in low water financially—that is true, is it not?”

Leonard Vole flushed.

“Yes,” he said, in a low voice. “I’d been having a run of infernal bad luck just then.”

“Quite so,” said Mr. Mayherne again. “That being, as I say, in low. water financially, you met this rich old lady and cultivated her acquaintance assiduously. Now if we are in a position to say that you had no idea she was well off, and that you visited her out of pure kindness of heart—”

“Which is the case.”

“I dare say. I am not disputing the point. I am looking at it from the outside point of view. A great deal depends on the memory of Mr. Harvey. Is he likely to remember that conversation or is he not? Could he be confused by counsel into believing that it took place later?”

Leonard Vole reflected for some minutes. Then he said steadily enough, but with a rather paler face:

“I do not think that that line would be successful, Mr. Mayherne. Several of those present heard his remark, and one or two of them chaffed me about my conquest of a rich old lady.”

The solicitor endeavoured to hide his disappointment with a wave of the hand.

“Unfortunately,” he said. “But I congratulate you upon your plain speaking, Mr. Vole. It is to you I look to guide me. Your judgement is quite right. To persist in the line I spoke of would have been disastrous. We must leave that point. You made the acquaintance of Miss French, you called upon her, the acquaintanceship progressed. We want a clear reason for all this. Why did you, a young man of thirty-three, good-looking, fond of sport, popular with your friends, devote so much time to an elderly woman with whom you could hardly have anything in common?”

Leonard Vole flung out his hands in a nervous gesture.

“I can’t tell you—I really can’t tell you. After the first visit, she pressed me to come again, spoke of being lonely and unhappy. She made it difficult for me to refuse. She showed so plainly her fondness and affection for me that I was placed in an awkward position. You see, Mr. Mayherne, I’ve got a weak nature—I drift—I’m one of those people who can’t say “No.” And believe me or not, as you like, after the third or fourth visit I paid her I found myself getting genuinely fond of the old thing. My mother died when I was young, an aunt brought me up, and she too died before I was fifteen. If I told you that I genuinely enjoyed being mothered and pampered, I dare say you’d only laugh.”

Mr. Mayherne did not laugh. Instead he took off his pince-nez again and polished them, always a sign with him that he was thinking deeply.

“I accept your explanation, Mr. Vole,” he said at last. “I believe it to be psychologically probable. Whether a jury would take that view of it is another matter. Please continue your narrative. When was it that Miss French first asked you to look into her business affairs?”

“After my third or fourth visit to her. She understood very little of money matters, and was worried about some investments.”

Mr. Mayherne looked up sharply.

“Be careful, Mr. Vole. The maid, Janet Mackenzie, declares that her mistress was a good woman of business and transacted all her own affairs, and this is borne out by the testimony of her bankers.”

“I can’t help that,” said Vole earnestly. “That’s what she said to me.”

Mr. Mayherne looked at him for a moment or two in silence. Though he had no intention of saying so, his belief in Leonard Vole’s innocen...