The Burden

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Heinemann 1956

Copyright © 1956 Rosalind Hicks Charitable Trust. All rights reserved.

www.agathachristie.com

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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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Source ISBN: 9780008131456

Ebook Edition © June 2017 ISBN: 9780007534999

Version: 2018-04-11

Epigraph

‘For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light’

ST MATTHEW, Ch. 11, v.30

‘Lord, Thy most pointed pleasure take

And stab my spirit broad awake;

Or, Lord, if too obdurate I,

Choose Thou, before that spirit die,

A piercing pain, a killing sin,

And to my dead heart run them in!’

R. L. STEVENSON

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

Prologue

PART I. Laura—1929

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

PART II. Shirley—1946

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

PART III. Llewellyn—1956

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

PART IV. As it was in the Beginning—1956

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Also by Agatha Christie

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

The church was cold. It was October, too early for the heating to be on. Outside, the sun gave a watery promise of warmth and good cheer, but here within the chill grey stone there was only dampness and a sure foreknowledge of winter.

Laura stood between Nannie, resplendent in crackling collars and cuffs, and Mr Henson, the curate. The vicar was in bed with mild influenza. Mr Henson was young and thin, with an Adam’s apple and a high nasal voice.

Mrs Franklin, looking frail and attractive, leant on her husband’s arm. He himself stood upright and grave. The birth of his second daughter had not consoled him for the loss of Charles. He had wanted a son. And it seemed now, from what the doctor had said, that there would not be a son …

His eyes went from Laura to the infant in Nannie’s arms gurgling happily to itself.

Two daughters … Of course Laura was a nice child, a dear child and, as babies go, the new arrival was a splendid specimen, but a man wanted a son.

Charles—Charles, with his fair hair, his way of throwing back his head and laughing. Such an attractive boy, so handsome, so bright, so intelligent. Really a very unusual boy. It seemed a pity that if one of his children had to die, it hadn’t been Laura …

His eyes suddenly met those of his elder daughter, eyes that seemed large and tragic in her small pale face, and Franklin flushed guiltily—what had he been thinking of?

Suppose the child should guess what had been in his mind. Of course he was devoted to Laura—only—only, she wasn’t, she could never be Charles.

Leaning against her husband, her eyes half closed, Angela Franklin was saying to herself:

‘My boy—my beautiful boy—my darling … I still can’t believe it. Why couldn’t it have been Laura?’

She felt no guilt in that thought as it came to her. More ruthless and more honest than her husband, closer to primeval needs, she admitted the simple fact that her second child, a daughter, had never meant, and could never mean to her what her first-born had. Compared with Charles, Laura was an anti-climax—a quiet disappointing child, well-behaved, giving no trouble, but lacking in—what was it?—personality.

She thought again: ‘Charles—nothing can ever make up to me for losing Charles.’ She felt the pressure of her husband’s hand on her arm, and opened her eyes—she must pay attention to the Service. What a very irritating voice poor Mr Henson had!

Angela looked with half-amused indulgence at the baby in Nannie’s arms—such big solemn words for such a tiny mite.

The baby, who had been sleeping, blinked and opened her eyes. Such dazzling blue eyes—like Charles’s eyes—she made a happy gurgling noise.

Angela thought: ‘Charles’s smile.’ A rush of mother love swept over her. Her baby—her own lovely baby. For the first time Charles’s death receded into the past.

Angela met Laura’s dark sad gaze, and thought with momentary curiosity: ‘I wonder just what that child is thinking?’

Nannie also was conscious of Laura standing quiet and erect beside her.

‘Such a quiet little thing,’ she thought. ‘A bit too quiet for my taste—not natural for any child to be as quiet and well-behaved as she is. There has never been much notice taken of her—maybe not as much as there ought to have been—I wonder now—’

The Reverend Eustace Henson was approaching the moment that always made him nervous. He had not done many christenings. If only the vicar were here. He noticed with approval Laura’s grave eyes and serious expression. A well-behaved child. He wondered suddenly what was passing through her mind.

It was as well that neither he, nor Nannie, nor Arthur and Angela Franklin knew.

It wasn’t fair …

Oh, it wasn’t fair …

Her mother loved this baby sister as much as she loved Charles.

It wasn’t fair …

She hated the baby—she hated it, hated it, hated it!

‘I’d like her to die.’

Standing by the font, the solemn words of baptism were ringing in her ears—but far more clear, far more real—was the thought translated into words:

‘I’d like her to die …’

There was a gentle nudge. Nannie was handing her the baby, whispering:

‘Careful, now, take her—steady—and then you hand her to the clergyman.’

Laura whispered back: ‘I know.’

Baby was in her arms. Laura looked down at her. She thought: ‘Supposing I opened my arms and just let her fall—on to the stones. Would it kill her?’

Down on to the stones, so hard and grey—but then babies were so well wrapped up, so—so padded. Should she? Dare she?

She hesitated and then the moment was gone—the baby was now in the somewhat nervous arms of the Reverend Eustace Henson, who lacked the practised ease of the vicar. He was asking the names and repeating them after Laura. Shirley, Margaret, Evelyn … The water trickled off the baby’s forehead. She did not cry, only gurgled as though an even more delightful thing than usual had happened to her. Gingerly, with inward shrinking, the curate kissed the baby’s forehead. The vicar always did that, he knew. With relief he handed the baby back to Nannie.

The christening was over.

CHAPTER 1

Below the quiet exterior of the child standing beside the font, there raged an ever-growing resentment and misery.

Ever since Charles had died she had hoped … Though she had grieved for Charles’s death (she had been very fond of Charles), grief had been eclipsed by a tremulous longing and expectation. Naturally, when Charles had been there, Charles with his good looks and his charm and his merry carefree ways, the love had gone to Charles. That, Laura felt, was quite right, was fair. She had always been the quiet, the dull one, the so often unwanted second child that follows too soon upon the first. Her father and mother had been kind to her, affectionate, but it was Charles they had loved.

Once she had overheard her mother say to a visiting friend:

‘Laura’s a dear child, of course, but rather a dull child.’

And she had accepted the justice of that with the honesty of the hopeless. She was a dull child. She was small and pale and her hair didn’t curl, and the things she said never made people laugh—as they laughed at Charles. She was good and obedient and caused nobody trouble, but she was not and, she thought, never would be, important.

Once she had said to Nannie: ‘Mummy loves Charles more than she loves me …’

Nannie had snapped immediately:

‘That’s a very silly thing to say and not at all true. Your mother loves both of her children equally—fair as fair can be she is, always. Mothers always love all their children just the same.’

‘Cats don’t,’ said Laura, reviewing in her mind a recent arrival of kittens.

‘Cats are just animals,’ said Nannie. ‘And anyway,’ she added, slightly weakening the magnificent simplicity of her former pronouncement, ‘God loves you, remember.’

Laura accepted the dictum. God loved you—He had to. But even God, Laura thought, probably loved Charles best … Because to have made Charles must be far more satisfactory than to have made her, Laura.

‘But of course,’ Laura had consoled herself by reflecting, ‘I can love myself best. I can love myself better than Charles or Mummy or Daddy or anyone.’

It was after this that Laura became paler and quieter and more unobtrusive than ever, and was so good and obedient that it made even Nannie uneasy. She confided to the housemaid an uneasy fear that Laura might be ‘taken’ young.

But it was Charles who died, not Laura.

‘Why don’t you get that child a dog?’ Mr Baldock demanded suddenly of his friend and crony, Laura’s father.

Arthur Franklin looked rather astonished, since he was in the middle of an impassioned argument with his friend on the implications of the Reformation.

‘What child?’ he asked, puzzled.

Mr Baldock nodded his large head towards a sedate Laura who was propelling herself on a fairy-bicycle in and out of the trees on the lawn. It was an unimpassioned performance with no hint of danger or accident about it. Laura was a careful child.

‘Why on earth should I?’ demanded Mr Franklin. ‘Dogs, in my opinion, are a nuisance, always coming in with muddy paws, and ruining the carpets.’

‘A dog,’ said Mr Baldock, in his lecture-room style, which was capable of rousing almost anybody to violent irritation, ‘has an extraordinary power of bolstering up the human ego. To a dog, the human being who owns him is a god to be worshipped, and not only worshipped but, in our present decadent state of civilization, also loved.

‘The possession of a dog goes to most people’s heads. It makes them feel important and powerful.’

‘Humph,’ said Mr Franklin, ‘and would you call that a good thing?’

‘Almost certainly not,’ said Mr Baldock. ‘But I have the inveterate weakness of liking to see human beings happy. I’d like to see Laura happy.’

‘Laura’s perfectly happy,’ said Laura’s father. ‘And anyway she’s got a kitten,’ he added.

‘Pah,’ said Mr Baldock. ‘It’s not at all the same thing. As you’d realize if you troubled to think. But that’s what is wrong with you. You never think. Look at your argument just now about economic conditions at the time of the Reformation. Do you suppose for one moment—’

And they were back at it, hammer and tongs, enjoying themselves a great deal, with Mr Baldock making the most preposterous and provocative statements.

Yet a vague disquiet lingered somewhere in Arthur Franklin’s mind, and that evening, as he came into his wife’s room where she was changing for dinner, he said abruptly:

‘Laura’s quite all right, isn’t she? Well and happy and all that?’

His wife turned astonished blue eyes on him, lovely dark cornflower-blue eyes, like the eyes of her son Charles.

‘Darling!’ she said. ‘Of course! Laura’s always all right. She never even seems to have bilious attacks like most children. I never have to worry about Laura. She’s satisfactory in every way. Such a blessing.’

A moment later, as she fastened the clasp of her pearls round her neck, she asked suddenly: ‘Why? Why did you ask about Laura this evening?’

Arthur Franklin said vaguely:

‘Oh, just Baldy—something he said.’

‘Oh, Baldy!’ Mrs Franklin’s voice held amusement. ‘You know what he’s like. He likes starting things.’

And on an occasion a few days later when Mr Baldock had been to lunch, and they came out of the dining-room, encountering Nannie in the hall, Angela Franklin stopped her deliberately and asked in a clear, slightly raised voice:

‘There’s nothing wrong with Miss Laura, is there? She’s quite well and happy?’

‘Oh yes, madam.’ Nannie was positive and slightly affronted. ‘She’s a very good little girl, never gives any trouble. Not like Master Charles.’

‘So Charles does give you trouble, does he?’ said Mr Baldock.

Nannie turned to him deferentially.

‘He’s a regular boy, sir, always up to pranks! He’s getting on, you know. He’ll soon be going to school. Always high-spirited at this age, they are. And then his digestion is weak, he gets hold of too many sweets without my knowing.’

An indulgent smile on her lips and shaking her head, she passed on.

‘All the same, she adores him,’ said Angela Franklin as they went into the drawing-room.

‘Obviously,’ said Mr Baldock. He added reflectively: ‘I always have thought women were fools.’

‘Nannie isn’t a fool—very far from it.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of Nannie.’

‘Me?’ Angela gave him a sharp, but not too sharp, glance, because after all it was Baldy, who was celebrated and eccentric and was allowed a certain licence in rudeness, which was, actually, one of his stock affectations.

‘I’m thinking of writing a book on the problem of the second child,’ said Mr Baldock.

‘Really, Baldy! You don’t advocate the only child, do you? I thought that was supposed to be unsound from every point of view.’

‘Oh! I can see a lot of point in the family of ten. That is, if it was allowed to develop in the legitimate way. Do the household chores, older ones look after the younger ones, and so on. All cogs in the household machine. Mind you, they’d have to be really of some use—not just made to think they were. But nowadays, like fools, we split ’em up and segregate ’em off, each with their own “age group”! Call it education! Pah! Flat against nature!’

‘You and your theories,’ said Angela indulgently. ‘But what about the second child?’

‘The trouble about the second child,’ said Mr Baldock didactically, ‘is that it’s usually an anti-climax. The first child’s an adventure. It’s frightening and it’s painful; the woman’s sure she’s going to die, and the husband (Arthur here, for example) is equally sure you’re going to die. After it’s all over, there you are with a small morsel of animate flesh yelling its head off, which has caused two people all kinds of hell to produce! Naturally they value it accordingly! It’s new, it’s ours, it’s wonderful! And then, usually rather too soon, Number Two comes along—all the caboodle over again—not so frightening this time, much more boring. And there it is, it’s yours, but it’s not a new experience, and since it hasn’t cost you so much, it isn’t nearly so wonderful.’

Angela shrugged her shoulders.

‘Bachelors know everything,’ she murmured ironically. ‘And isn’t that equally true of Number Three and Number Four and all the rest of them?’

‘Not quite. I’ve noticed that there’s usually a gap before Number Three. Number Three is often produced because the other two are getting independent, and it would be “nice to have a baby in the nursery again”. Curious taste; revolting little creatures, but biologically a sound instinct, I suppose. And so they go on, some nice and some nasty, and some bright and some dull, but they pair off and pal up more or less, and finally comes the afterthought which like the firstborn gets an undue share of attention.’

‘And it’s all very unfair, is that what you’re saying?’

‘Exactly. That’s the whole point about life, it is unfair!’

‘And what can one do about it?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Then really, Baldy, I don’t see what you’re talking about.’

‘I told Arthur the other day. I’m a soft-hearted chap. I like to see people being happy. I like to make up to people a bit for what they haven’t got and can’t have. It evens things up a bit. Besides, if you don’t—’ he paused a moment—‘it can be dangerous …’

‘I do think Baldy talks a lot of nonsense,’ said Angela pensively to her husband when their guest had departed.

‘John Baldock is one of the foremost scholars in this country,’ said Arthur Franklin with a slight twinkle.

‘Oh, I know that.’ Angela was faintly scornful. ‘I’d be willing to sit in meek adoration if he was laying down the law on Greeks and Romans, or obscure Elizabethan poets. But what can he know about children?’

‘Absolutely nothing, I should imagine,’ said her husband. ‘By the way, he suggested the other day that we should give Laura a dog.’

‘A dog? But she’s got a kitten.’

‘According to him, that’s not the same thing.’

‘How very odd … I remember him saying once that he disliked dogs.’

‘I believe he does.’

Angela said thoughtfully: ‘Now Charles, perhaps, ought to have a dog … He looked quite scared the other day when those puppies at the Vicarage rushed at him. I hate to see a boy afraid of dogs. If he had one of his own, it would accustom him to it. He ought to learn to ride, too. I wish he could have a pony of his own. If only we had a paddock!’

‘A pony’s out of the question, I’m afraid,’ said Franklin.

In the kitchen, the parlourmaid, Ethel, said to the cook:

‘That old Baldock, he’s noticed it too.’

‘Noticed what?’

‘Miss Laura. That she isn’t long for this world. Asking Nurse about it, they were. Ah, she’s got the look, sure enough, no mischief in her, not like Master Charles. You mark my words, she won’t live to grow up.’

But it was Charles who died.

CHAPTER 2

Charles died of infantile paralysis. He died at school; two other boys had the disease but recovered.

To Angela Franklin, herself now in a delicate state of health, the blow was so great as to crush her completely. Charles, her beloved, her darling, her handsome merry high-spirited boy.

She lay in her darkened bedroom, staring at the ceiling, unable to weep. And her husband and Laura and the servants crept about the muted house. In the end the doctor advised Arthur Franklin to take his wife abroad.

‘Complete change of air and scene. She must be roused. Somewhere with good air—mountain air. Switzerland, perhaps.’

So the Franklins went off, and Laura remained under the care of Nannie, with daily visits from Miss Weekes, an amiable but uninspiring governess.

To Laura, her parents’ absence was a period of pleasure. Technically, she was the mistress of the house! Every morning she ‘saw the cook’ and ordered meals for the day. Mrs Brunton, the cook, was fat and good-natured. She curbed the wilder of Laura’s suggestions and managed it so that the actual menu was exactly as she herself had planned it. But Laura’s sense of importance was not impaired. She missed her parents the less because she was building in her own mind a fantasy for their return.

It was terrible that Charles was dead. Naturally they had loved Charles best—she did not dispute the justice of that, but now—now—it was she who would enter into Charles’s kingdom. It was Laura now who was their only child, the child in whom all their hopes lay and to whom would flow all their affection. She built up scenes in her mind of the day of their return. Her mother’s open arms …

‘Laura, my darling. You’re all I have in the world now!’

Affecting scenes, emotional scenes. Scenes that in actual fact were wildly unlike anything Angela or Arthur Franklin were likely to do or say. But to Laura, they were warming and rich in drama, and by slow degrees she began to believe in them so much that they might almost already have happened.

Walking down the lane to the village, she rehearsed conversations: raising her eyebrows, shaking her head, murmuring words and phrases under her breath.

So absorbed was she in this rich feast of emotional imagination, that she failed to observe Mr Baldock, who was coming towards her from the direction of the village, pushing in front of him a gardening basket on wheels, in which he brought home his purchases.

‘Hallo, young Laura.’

Laura, rudely jostled out of an affecting drama where her mother had gone blind and she, Laura, had just refused an offer of marriage from a viscount (‘I shall never marry. My mother means everything to me’), started and blushed.

‘Father and mother still away, eh?’

‘Yes, they won’t be coming back for ten days more.’

‘I see. Like to come to tea with me tomorrow?’

‘Oh, yes.’

Laura was elated and excited. Mr Baldock, who had a Chair at the University fourteen miles away, had a small cottage in the village where he spent the vacations and occasional weekends. He declined to behave in a social manner, and affronted Bellbury by refusing, usually impolitely, their many invitations. Arthur Franklin was his only friend—it was a friendship of many years’ standing. John Baldock was not a friendly man. He treated his pupils with such ruthlessness and irony that the best of them were goaded into distinguishing themselves, and the rest perished by the wayside. He had written several large and abstruse volumes on obscure phases of history, written in such a way that very few people could understand what he was driving at. Mild appeals from his publishers to write in a more readable fashion were turned down with a savage glee, Mr Baldock pointing out that the people who could appreciate his books were the only readers of them who were worth while! He was particularly rude to women, which enchanted many of them so much that they were always coming back for more. A man of savage prejudices, and over-riding arrogance, he had an unexpectedly kindly heart which was always betraying his principles.