The Murder at the Vicarage by Agatha Christie

“Have you any light to throw upon the matter?” he asked.

“That’s your business. It’s the business of the police. What do we pay rates and taxes for, I should like to know?”

One wonders how many times that query is uttered in a year!

“We’re doing our best, Mrs. Price Ridley,” said the Chief Constable.

“But the man here hadn’t even heard of it till I told him about it!” cried the lady.

We all looked at the constable.

“Lady been rung up on the telephone,” he said. “Annoyed. Matter of obscene language, I understand.”

“Oh! I see.” The colonel’s brow cleared. “We’ve been talking at cross purposes. You came down here to make a complaint, did you?”

Melchett is a wise man. He knows that when it is a question of an irate middle-aged lady, there is only one thing to be done – to listen to her. When she has said all that she wants to say, there is a chance that she will listen to you.

Mrs. Price Ridley surged into speech.

“Such disgraceful occurrences ought to be prevented. They ought not to occur. To be rung up in one’s own house and insulted – yes, insulted. I’m not accustomed to such things happening. Ever since the war there has been a loosening of moral fibre. Nobody minds what they say, and as to the clothes they wear -”

“Quite,” said Colonel Melchett hastily. “What happened exactly?”

Mrs. Price Ridley took breath and started again.

“I was rung up -”

“When?”

“Yesterday afternoon – evening to be exact. About half-past six. I went to the telephone, suspecting nothing. Immediately I was foully attacked, threatened -”

“What actually was said?”

Mrs. Price Ridley got slightly pink.

“That I decline to state.”

“Obscene language,” murmured the constable in a ruminative bass.

“Was bad language used?” asked Colonel Melchett

“It depends on what you call bad language.”

“Could you understand it?” I asked.

“Of course I could understand it.”

“Then it couldn’t have been bad language,” I said.

Mrs. Price Ridley looked at me suspiciously.

“A refined lady,” I explained, “is naturally unacquainted with bad language.”

“It wasn’t that kind of thing,” said Mrs. Price Ridley. “At first, I must admit, I was quite taken in. I thought it was a genuine message. Then the – er – person became abusive.”

“Abusive?”

“Most abusive. I was quite alarmed.”

“Used threatening language, eh?”

“Yes. I am not accustomed to being threatened.”

“What did they threaten you with? Bodily damage?”

“Not exactly.”

“I’m afraid, Mrs. Price Ridley, you must be more explicit. In what way were you threatened?”

This Mrs. Price Ridley seemed singularly reluctant to answer.

“I can’t remember exactly. It was all so upsetting. But right at the end – when I was really very upset, this – this – wretch laughed.”

“Was it a man’s voice or a woman’s?”

“It was a degenerate voice,” said Mrs. Price Ridley, with dignity. “I can only describe it as a kind of perverted voice. Now gruff, now squeaky. Really a very peculiar voice.”

“Probably a practical joke,” said the colonel soothingly.

“A most wicked thing to do, if so. I might have had a heart attack.”

“We’ll look into it,” said the colonel; “eh, inspector? Trace the telephone call. You can’t tell me more definitely exactly what was said, Mrs. Price Ridley?”

A struggle began in Mrs. Price Ridley’s ample black bosom. The desire for reticence fought against a desire for vengeance. Vengeance triumphed.

“This, of course, will go no further,” she began.

“Of course not.”

“This creature began by saying – I can hardly bring myself to repeat it -”

” Yes, yes,” said Melchett encouragingly.

“‘You are a wicked scandal-mongering old woman!’ Me, Colonel Melchett – a scandal-mongering old woman. ‘But this time you’ve gone too far. Scotland Yard are after you for libel.'”

“Naturally, you were alarmed,” said Melchett, biting his moustache to conceal a smile.

“‘Unless you hold your tongue in future, it will be the worse for you – in more ways than one.’ I can’t describe to you the menacing way that was said. I gasped, ‘Who are you?’ faintly – like that, and the voice answered, ‘The Avenger.’ I gave a little shriek. It sounded so awful, and then – the person laughed. Laughed! Distinctly. And that was all. I heard them hang up the receiver. Of course I asked the exchange what number had been ringing me up, but they said they didn’t know. You know what exchanges are. Thoroughly rude and unsympathetic.”

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