Harper
an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2000
Spider’s Web™ is a trade mark of Agatha Christie Limited and Agatha Christie® and the Agatha Christie Signature are registered trade marks of Agatha Christie Limited in the UK and elsewhere.
Copyright © 2000 Agatha Christie Limited. All rights reserved.
Cover by crushed.co.uk © HarperCollins/Agatha Christie Ltd 2017
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.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008196660
Ebook Edition © May 2017 ISBN: 9780007423071
Version: 2017-03-30
Contents
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
The Plays of Agatha Christie
Also by Agatha Christie
About the Publisher
Copplestone Court, the elegant, eighteenth-century country home of Henry and Clarissa Hailsham-Brown, set in gently undulating hilly country in Kent, looked handsome even at the close of a rainy March afternoon. In the tastefully furnished ground-floor drawing-room, with French windows onto the garden, two men stood near a console table on which there was a tray with three glasses of port, each marked with a sticky label, one, two and three. Also on the table was a pencil and sheet of paper.
Sir Rowland Delahaye, a distinguished-looking man in his early fifties with a charming and cultivated manner, seated himself on the arm of a comfortable chair and allowed his companion to blindfold him. Hugo Birch, a man of about sixty and inclined to be somewhat irascible in manner, then placed in Sir Rowland’s hand one of the glasses from the table. Sir Rowland sipped, considered for a moment, and then said, ‘I should think—yes—definitely—yes, this is the Dow ’forty-two.’
Hugo replaced the glass on the table, murmuring ‘Dow ’forty-two’, made a note on the paper, and handed over the next glass. Again Sir Rowland sipped the wine. He paused, took another sip, and then nodded affirmatively. ‘Ah, yes,’ he declared with conviction. ‘Now, this is a very fine port indeed.’ He took another sip. ‘No doubt about it. Cockburn ’twenty-seven.’
He handed the glass back to Hugo as he continued, ‘Fancy Clarissa wasting a bottle of Cockburn ’twenty-seven on a silly experiment like this. It’s positively sacrilegious. But then women just don’t understand port at all.’
Hugo took the glass from him, noted his verdict on the piece of paper on the table, and handed him the third glass. After a quick sip, Sir Rowland’s reaction was immediate and violent. ‘Ugh!’ he exclaimed in disgust. ‘Rich Ruby port-type wine. I can’t imagine why Clarissa has such a thing in the house.’
His opinion duly noted, he removed the blindfold. ‘Now it’s your turn,’ he told Hugo.
Taking off his horn-rimmed spectacles, Hugo allowed Sir Rowland to blindfold him. ‘Well, I imagine she uses the cheap port for jugged hare or for flavouring soup,’ he suggested. ‘I don’t imagine Henry would allow her to offer it to guests.’
‘There you are, Hugo,’ Sir Rowland declared as he finished tying the blindfold over his companion’s eyes. ‘Perhaps I ought to turn you around three times like they do in Blind Man’s Buff,’ he added as he led Hugo to the armchair and turned him around to sit in it.
‘Here, steady on,’ Hugo protested. He felt behind him for the chair.
‘Got it?’ asked Sir Rowland.
‘Yes.’
‘Then I’ll swivel the glasses around instead,’ Sir Rowland said as he moved the glasses on the table slightly.
‘There’s no need to,’ Hugo told him. ‘Do you think I’m likely to be influenced by what you said? I’m as good a judge of port as you are any day, Roly, my boy.’
‘Don’t be too sure of that. In any case, one can’t be too careful,’ Sir Rowland insisted.
Just as he was about to take one of the glasses across to Hugo, the third of the Hailsham-Browns’ guests came in from the garden. Jeremy Warrender, an attractive young man in his twenties, was wearing a raincoat over his suit. Panting, and obviously out of breath, he headed for the sofa and was about to flop into it when he noticed what was going on. ‘What on earth are you two up to?’ he asked, as he removed his raincoat and jacket. ‘The three-card trick with glasses?’
‘What’s