Sad Cypress (Hercule Poirot, #22)

by Agatha Christie

Mary bent over the form, writing. As she came to the end she shivered suddenly. A shadow had come between her and the sun. She looked up to see Elinor Carlisle standing outside the window looking in. Elinor said: “What are you doing so busily?” Nurse Hopkins said with a laugh: “She’s making her will, that’s what she’s doing.” “Making her will?” Suddenly Elinor laughed—a strange laugh—almost hysterical. She said: “So you’re making your will, Mary. That’s funny. That’s very funny….” Still laughing, she turned away and walked rapidly along the street. Nurse Hopkins stared. “Did you ever? What’s come to her?”

Elinor had not taken more than half a dozen steps—she was still laughing—when a hand fell on her arm from behind. She stopped abruptly and turned. Dr. Lord looked straight at her, his brow creased into a frown. He said peremptorily: “What were you laughing at?” Elinor said: “Really—I don’t know.” Peter Lord said: “That’s rather a silly answer!” Elinor flushed. She said: “I think I must be nervous—or something. I looked in at the District Nurse’s cottage and—and Mary Gerrard was writing out her will. It made me laugh; I don’t know why!” Lord said abruptly: “Don’t you?”

This whole passage is just superbly written and gives me the eeriest feeling!

Peter Lord said: “I’ll write you out a tonic.” Elinor said incisively: “How useful!” He grinned disarmingly. “Quite useless, I agree. But it’s the only thing one can do when people won’t tell one what is the matter with them!” Elinor said: “There’s nothing the matter with me.” Peter Lord said calmly: “There’s quite a lot the matter with you.”