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The Clergyman’s Daughter & The Red House
A Short Story
by Agatha Christie
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
First published 2008
Copyright © 2008 Agatha Christie Ltd.
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2013
Agatha Christie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental
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Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2013 ISBN: 9780007526802
Version: 2017-04-13
Contents
The Clergyman’s Daughter & The Red House
‘The Clergyman’s Daughter’, combining the later book chapter ‘The Red House’, was first published as ‘The First Wish’ in Grand Magazine in December 1923, before all the other stories in The Sketch. Roger Sherringham was created by Anthony Berkeley (1893–1971).
‘I wish,’ said Tuppence, roaming moodily round the office, ‘that we could befriend a clergyman’s daughter.’
‘Why?’ asked Tommy.
‘You may have forgotten the fact, but I was once a clergyman’s daughter myself. I remember what it was like. Hence this altruistic urge – this spirit of thoughtful consideration for others – this –’
‘You are getting ready to be Roger Sheringham, I see,’ said Tommy. ‘If you will allow me to make a criticism, you talk quite as much as he does, but not nearly so well.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Tuppence. ‘There is a feminine subtlety about my conversation, a je ne sais quoi that no gross male could ever attain to. I have, moreover, powers unknown to my prototype – do I mean prototype? Words are such uncertain things, they so often sound well, but mean the opposite of what one thinks they do.’
‘Go on,’ said Tommy kindly.
‘I was. I was only pausing to take breath. Touching these powers, it is my wish today to assist a clergyman’s daughter. You will see, Tommy, the first person to enlist the aid of Blunt’s Brilliant Detectives will be a clergyman’s daughter.’
‘I’ll bet you it isn’t,’ said Tommy.
‘Done,’ said Tuppence. ‘Hist! To your typewriters, Oh! Israel. One comes.’
Mr Blunt’s office was humming with industry as Albert opened the door and announced:
‘Miss Monica Deane.’
A slender, brown-haired girl, rather shabbily dressed, entered and stood hesitating. Tommy came forward.
‘Good-morning, Miss Deane. Won’t you sit down and tell us what we can do for you? By the way, let me introduce my confidential secretary, Miss Sheringham.’
‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Deane,’ said Tuppence. ‘Your father was in the Church, I think.’
‘Yes, he was. But how did you know that?’
‘Oh! we have our methods,’ said Tuppence. ‘You mustn’t mind me rattling on. Mr Blunt likes to hear me talk. He always says it gives him ideas.’
The girl stared at her. She was a slender creature, not beautiful, but possessing a wistful prettiness. She had a quantity of soft mouse-coloured hair, and her eyes were dark blue and very lovely, though the dark shadows round them spoke of trouble and anxiety.
‘Will you tell me your story, Miss Deane?’ said Tommy.
The girl turned to him gratefully.
‘It’s such a long rambling story,’ said the girl. ‘My name is Monica Deane. My father was the rector of Little Hampsley in Suffolk. He died three years ago, and my mother and I were left very badly off. I went out as a governess, but my mother became a confirmed invalid, and I had to come home to look after her. We were desperately poor, but one day we received a lawyer’s letter telling us that an aunt of my father’s had died and had left everything to me. I had often heard of this aunt, who had quarrelled with my father many years ago, and I knew that she was very well off, so it really seemed that our troubles were at an end. But matters did not turn out quite as well as we had hoped. I inherited the house she had lived in, but after paying one or two small legacies, there was no money left. I suppose she must have lost it during the war, or perhaps she had been living on her capital. Still, we had the house, and almost at once we had a chance of selling it at quite an advantageous price. But, foolishly perhaps, I refused the offer. We
