once became apparent. Here was a woman in deadly terror
playing her part with the assurance of a fine actress. Her
easy greeting of Scarpia, her nonchalance, her smiling replies
to him! In this scene, Paula Nazorkoff acted with her
eyes; she carded herself with deadly quietness, with an
impassive, smiling face. Only her eyes that kept darting
glances at Scarpia betrayed her true feelings. And so the
story went from the torture scene, the breaking down of
Tosca's composure, and her utter abandonment when she
fell at Scarpia's feet imploring him vainly for mercy. Old
Lord Leconmere, a connoisseur of music, moved appreciatively,
and a foreign ambassador sitting next to him murmured:
"She surpasses herself, Nazorkoff, tonight. There is no
other woman on the stage who can let herself go as she does. '
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Agatha Christie
Leconmere nodded.
And now Scarpia has named his price, and Tosca, horrified, flies from him to the window. Then comes the beat
of drums from afar, and Tosca flings herself wearily down
on the sofa. Scarpia, standing over her, recites how his
people are raising up the gallows--and then silence, and
again the far-off beat of drums. Nazorkoff lay prone on the
sofa, her head hanging downwards almost touching the floor,
masked by her hair. Then, in exquisite contrast to the passion
and stress of the last twenty minutes, her voice rang
out, high and clear, the voice, as she had told Cowan, of
a choir boy or an angel.
"Vissi d'arte, vissi d'amore} no feci mai male ad anima rival. Con man furtiva quante miserie conobbi,
aiu-tai. "
It was the voice of a wondering, puzzled child. Then she is once more kneeling and imploring, till the instant when
Spoletta enters. Tosca, exhausted, gives in, and Scarpia
utters his fateful words of double-edged meaning. Spoletta
departs once more. Then comes the dramatic moment when
Tosca, raising a glass of wine in her trembling hand, catches
sight of the knife on the table and slips it behind her.
Br6on rose up, handsome, saturnine, inflamed with passion. "Tosca, finalmente mia!" The lightning stab with the
knife, and Tosca's hiss of vengeance:
"Questo e il baccio di Tosca!" ("It is thus that Tosca kisses.")
Never had Nazorkoff shown such an appreciation of Tos-ca's act of vengeance. That last fierce whispered "Muori
dannato," and then in a strange, quiet voice that filled the
theatre:
"Or gli perdono,t'' ("Now I forgive him!")
The soft death tune began as Tosca set about her ceremonial, placing the candles each side of his head, the crucifix
on his breast, her last pause in the doorway looking
back, the roll of distant drums, and the curtain fell.
This time real enthusiasm broke out in the audience, but it was short-lived. Someone hurried out from behind the
wings and spoke to Lord Rustonbury. He rose, and after a
SWAN SONG
minute or two's consultation, turned and beckoned to Donald Calthorp, who was an eminent physician. Aln
immediately the truth spread through the audience. So:
thing had happened; an accident; someone was badly h
One of the singers appeared before the curtain and explai
that M, Br6on had unfortunately met with an acciden
the opera could not proceed. Again the mmour went roll
Br6on had been stabbed, Nazorkoff had lost her head,
had lived in her part so completely that she had actu
stabbed the man who was acting with her. Lord Leconm
talking to his ambassador friend, felt a touch on his
and turned to look into Blanche Amery's eyes.
"It was not an accident," the girl was saying. "I am
it was not an accident. Didn't you hear, just before dim
that story he was telling about the gift in Italy? That
was Paula Nazorkoff. Just after, she said something at
being Russian, and I saw Mr. Cowan look amazed.
may have taken a Russian name, but he knows well eno'
that she is Italian."
"My dear Blanche," said Lord Leconmere.
"I tell you I am sure of it. She had a picture paper in
bedroom opened at the page showin-g M. Br6on in
English country home. She knew before she came dc
here. I believe she gave something to that poor little Ira
man to make him ill."
i'But why?" cried Lord Leconmere. "Why?"
'Don't you see? It's the story of Tosca all over ag:
He wanted her in Italy, but she was faithful to her 1o'
and she went to him to try to get him to save her lover,
he pretended he would. Instead be let him die. And no
last her revenge has come. Didn't you hear the way
hissed "I am Tosca' ?And I saw Br6on's face when she
it, he knew then--he recognized her!"
In her dressing room, Paula Nazorkoff sat motionles
white ermine cloak held round her. There was a knoC
the door.
"Come in," said the prima donna.
Elise entered. She was sobbing.
"Madame, madame, he is dead! And--"
"Yes?"
"Madame, how can I tell you? There are two gentle
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Agatha Christie
of the police there; they want to speak to you."
Pula Nazorkoff rose to her full height.
"I will go to them," she said quietly.
She untwisted a collar of pearls from her neck and put
them into the French girl's hands.
"Those are for you, Elise; you have been a good girl. I
shallnot need them now where I am going. You understand,
Elise? I shall not sing 'Tosca' again."
She stood a moment by the door, her eyes sweeping over
the dressing room, as though she looked back over the past
thirty years of her career.
Then softly between her teeth, she murmured the last
line of another opera:
"La commedia e finita,t''
'Tt e J urtd of'Dea
It was from William P. Ryan, American newspaper correspondent,
that I first heard of the affair. I was dining with
him in London on the eve of his return to New York and
happened to mention that on the morrow I was going down
to Folbridge.
He looked up atad said sharply: "Folbridge, Cornwall?"
Now only about one person in a thousand knows that
there is a Folbridge in Cornwall. They always take it for
granted that the Folbridge, Hampshire, is meant. So Ryan's
knowledge aroused my curiosity.
"Yes," I said. "Do you know it?"
He merely replied that he was darned. He then asked if
I happened to know a house called Treame down there.
My interest increased.
"Very well indeed. In fact, it's to Treame I'm going.
It's my sister's house."
"Well," said William P. Ryan. "If that doesn't beat the
band!"
I suggested that he should cease making cryptic remarks
and explain himself.
"Well," he said. "To do that I shall have to go back to
an experience of mine at the beginning of the war."
I sighed. The events which I am relating took place in
1921. To be reminded of the war was the last thing any
man wanted. We were, thank God, beg
inning to forget
.... Besides, William P. Ryan on his war experiences
was apt, as I knew, to be unbelievably longwinded.
But there was no stopping him now.
"At the start of the war, as I dare say you know, I was
in Belgium for my paper--moving about some. Well, there's
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Agatha Christie
a little village---I'll call it X. A one-horse place if there ever was one, but there's quite a big convent there. Nuns
in white what do you call 'em--I don't know the name of
the order. Anyway, it doesn't matter. Well, this little burg
was right in the way of the German advance. The Uhlans
arrived--"
I shifted uneasily. William P. Ryan lifted a hand rea-suringly.
"It's all right," he said. "This isn't a German atrocity story. It might have been, perhaps, but it isn't. As a matter
of fact, the boot's on the other leg. The Huns made for that
convent--they got there and the whole thing blew up." "Oh!" I said, rather startled.
"Odd business, wasn't it? Of course, offhand, I should say the Huns had been celebrating and had monkeyed round
with their own explosives. But it seems they hadn't anything
of that kind with them. They weren't the high explosive
johnnies. Well, then, I ask you, what should a pack of nuns
know about high explosive? Some nuns, I should say!" "It is odd," I agreed.
"I was interested in hearing the peasants' account of the matter. They'd got it all cut and dried. According to them
it was a slap-up, one hundred percent efficient first-class
modern miracle. It seems one of the nuns had got something
of a reputation--a budding saint--went into trances and
saw visions. And according to them she worked the stunt.
She called down the lightning to blast the impious Hun--and
it blasted him, all right--and everything else within
range. A pretty efficient miracle, that!
"I never really got at the truth of the matter--hadn't time. But miracles were all the rage just then--angels at
Mons and all that. I wrote up the thing, put in a bit of sob
stuff, and pulled the religious stop out well, and sent it to
my paper. It went down very well in the States. They were
liking that kind of thing just then.
"But (I don't know if you'll understand this) in writing, I got kind of interested. I felt I'd like to know what really
had happened. There was nothing to see at the spot itself.
Two walls still left standing, and on one of them was a
black powder mark that was the exact shape of a great
hound. The peasants round about were scared to death of
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129
that mark. They called it the Hound of Death and they wouldn't pass that way after dark.
"Superstition's always interesting. I felt I'd like to see the lady who worked the stunt. She hadn't perished, it
seemed. She'd gone to England with a batch of other refugees.
I took the taouble to trace her. I found-she'd been
sent to Trearne, Folbridge, Cornwall."
I nodded.
"My sister took in a lot of Belgi .a refugees the beginning of the war. Abbut twenty."
"Well, I always meant, if I had time, to look up the lady. I wanted to hear her own account of the disaster. Then,
what with being busy and one thing and another, it slipped
my memory. Cornwall's a bit out of the way anyhow. In
fact, I'd forgotten the whole thing till your mentioning Fol-bridge
just now brought it back."
"I must ask my sister," I said. "'She may have heard something about it. Of course, the Belgians have all been
repatriated long ago."
"Naturally. All the same, in case your sister does know
anything, I'll be glad if you'd pass it on to me." "Of course I will," I said heartily.
And that was that.
II
It was the second day after my arrival at Trearne that the story recurred to me. My sister and I were having tea on the terrace.
"Kitty," I said. "Didn't you have a nun among your Belgians?"
"You don't mean Sister Marie Angelique, do you?" "Possibly I do,? I said cautiously. "Tell me about her."
"Oh, my dear! She was the most uncanny creature. She's still here, you know."
"What? In the house?"
"No, no in the village. Dr. Rose--you remember Dr. Rose?"
I shook my head.
"I remember an old man of about eighty-three."
130 Agatha Christie
"Dr. Laird. Oh! He died. Dr. Rose has only been here
a few years. He's quite young and very keen on new ideas.
He took the most enormous interest in Sister Marie Angelique.
She has hallucinations and things, you know, and
apparently is most frightfully interesting from a medical
point of view. Poor thing, she'd nowhere to go--and really
was in my opinion quite potty--only impressive, if you
know what I mean--well, as I say, she'd nowbere to go,
and Dr. Rose very kindly fixed her up in the village. I
believe he's writing a monograph or whatever it is that
doctors write, about her."
She paused and then said: "But what do you know about
"I heard a rather curious story."
I passed on the story as I had received it from Ryan.
Kitty was very much interested.
"She looks the sort of person who could blast you--if
know what I mean," she said.
Y°U"I really think," I said, my curiosity heightened, "that I
must see this young woman."
"Do. I'd like to know what you think of her. Go and see
Dr. Rose first. Why not walk down to the village after tea?"
I accepted the suggestion.
I found Dr. Rose at home and introduced myself. He
seemed a pleasant young man, yet there was something
about his personality that rather repelled me. It was too
forceful to be altogether agreeable.
The moment I mentioned Sister Marie Angelique he stiffened
to attention. He was evidently keenly interested. I gave
him Ryan's account of the matter.
"Ah!" he said thoughtfully. "That explains a great deal."
He looked up quickly at me and went on.
"The case is really an extraordinarily interesting one.
The woman .arrived here having evidently suffered some
severe mental shock. She was in a state of great mental
excitement also. She was given to hallucinations of a most
startling character. Her personality is most unusual. Perhaps
you would like to come with me and call upon her. She is
really well worth seeing."
I agreed readily.
We set out together. Our objective was a small cottage
THE HOUND OF DEATH
131
on the outskirts of the village. Folbridge is a most picturesque place. It lies in the mouth of the river Fol mostly on
the east bank; the west bank is too precipitous for building,
though a few cottages do cling to the cliffside there. The
doctor's own cottage was perched on the extreme edge of
the cliff on the west side. From it you looked down on the big waves lashing against the black rocks.
The little cottage to which we were now proceeding lay inland out of sight of the sea.
"The district nurse lives here," explained Dr. Rose. "I have arranged for Sister Marie Angelique to board with her.
It is ju
st as well that she should be under skilled supervision.''
"Is she quite normal in her manner?" I asked curiously.
"You can judge for yourself in a minute," he replied, smiling.
The district nurse, a dumpy, pleasant little body, was just setting out on her bicycle when we arrived.
"Good evening, nurse; how's your patient?" called out the doctor.
"She's much as usual, doctor. Just sitting there with her hands folded and her mind far away. Often enough she'll
not answer when I speak to her, though for the matter of
that it's little enough English she understands even now."
Rose nodded, and as the nurse bicycled away, he went up to the cottage door, rapped sharply and entered.
Sister Marie Angelique was lying in a long chair near the window. She turned her head as we entered.
It was a strange face--pale, transparent-looking, with enormous eyes. There seemed to be an infinitude of tragedy
in those eyes.
"Good evening, my sister," said the doctor in French. "Good evening, M. le docteur.'
"Permit me to introduce a friend, Mr. Anstruther."
I bowed and she inclined her head with a faint smile.
"And how are you today?" inquired the doctor, sitting down beside her.
"I am much the same as usual." She paused and then went on. "Nothing seems real to me. Are they days that
pass--or months--or years? I hardly know. Only my dreams
seem real to me."
132 Agatha Christie
"You still dream a lot, then?"
"Always--always--and, you understand?--the dreams seem more real than life."
"You dream of your own country--of Belgium?" She shook her head.
"No. I dream of a country that never existed--never. But you know this, M, le docteur. I have told you many
times." She stopped and then said abruptly: "But perhaps
this gentleman is also a doctor--a doctor perhaps for the
diseases of the brain?"
"No, no." Rose was reassuring, but as he smiled, I noticed how extraordinarily pointed his canine teeth were, and
it occurred to me that there was something wolfiike about
the man. He went on: