A Fruitful Sunday: A Short Story
Author: Agatha Christie
Date: 2013-11-05 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Mystery; Classics; Crime
Description: Previously published in the print anthology The Golden Ball and Other Stories. Edward Palgrove has saved up to buy a small car, which he and his fianc�e, Dorothy Pratt, are both proud of. But neither one is prepared for the journey it will take them on.
Publisher: Harper Collins
Rights: All rights reserved

Contents

A Fruitful Sunday

About the Author

The Agatha Christie Collection

Copyright

About the Publisher

A FRUITFUL SUNDAY

Well, really, I call this too delightful,” said Miss Dorothy Pratt for the fourth time. “How I wish the old cat could see me now. She and her Janes!”

The “old cat” thus scathingly alluded to was Miss Pratt’s highly estimable employer, Mrs. Mackenzie Jones, who had strong views upon the Christian names suitable for parlourmaids and had repudiated Dorothy in favour of Miss Pratt’s despised second name of Jane.

Miss Pratt’s companion did not reply at once—for the best of reasons. When you have just purchased a Baby Austin, fourth hand, for the sum of twenty pounds, and are taking it out for the second time only, your whole attention is necessarily focused on the difficult task of using both hands and feet as the emergencies of the moment dictate.

“Er—ah!” said Mr. Edward Palgrove and negotiated a crisis with a horrible grinding sound that would have set a true motorist’s teeth on edge.

“Well, you don’t talk to a girl much,” complained Dorothy.

Mr. Palgrove was saved from having to respond as at that moment he was roundly and soundly cursed by the driver of a motor omnibus.

“Well, of all the impudence,” said Miss Pratt, tossing her head.

“I only wish he had this foot brake,” said her swain bitterly.

“Is there anything wrong with it?”

“You can put your foot on it till kingdom comes,” said Mr. Palgrove. “But nothing happens.”

“Oh, well, Ted, you can’t expect everything for twenty pounds. After all, here we are, in a real car, on Sunday afternoon going out of town the same as everybody else.”

More grinding and crashing sounds.

“Ah,” said Ted, flushed with triumph. “That was a better change.”

“You do drive something beautiful,” said Dorothy admiringly.

Emboldened by feminine appreciation, Mr. Palgrove attempted a dash across Hammersmith Broadway, and was severely spoken to by a policeman.

“Well, I never,” said Dorothy, as they proceeded towards Hammersmith Bridge in a chastened fashion. “I don’t know what the police are coming to. You’d think they’d be a bit more civil spoken seeing the way they’ve been shown up lately.”

“Anyway, I didn’t want to go along this road,” said Edward sadly. “I wanted to go down the Great West Road and do a bust.”

“And be caught in a trap as likely as not,” said Dorothy. “That’s what happened to the master the other day. Five pounds and costs.”

“The police aren’t so dusty after all,” said Edward generously. “They pitch into the rich all right. No favour. It makes me mad to think of these swells who can walk into a place and buy a couple of Rolls-Royces without turning a hair. There’s no sense in it. I’m as good as they are.”

“And the jewellery,” said Dorothy, sighing. “Those shops in Bond Street. Diamonds and pearls and I don’t know what! And me with a string of Woolworth pearls.”

She brooded sadly upon the subject. Edward was able once more to give his full attention to his driving. They managed to get through Richmond without mishap. The altercation with the policeman had shaken Edward’s nerve. He now took the line of least resistance, following blindly behind any car in front whenever a choice of thoroughfares presented itself.

In this way he presently found himself following a shady country lane which many an experienced motorist would have given his soul to find.

“Rather clever turning off the way I did,” said Edward, taking all the credit to himself.

“Sweetly pretty, I call it,” said Miss Pratt. “And I do declare, there’s a man with fruit to sell.”

Sure enough, at a convenient corner, was a small wicker table with baskets of fruit on it, and the legend eat more fruit displayed on a banner.

“How much?” said Edward apprehensively when frenzied pulling of the hand brake had produced the desired result.

“Lovely strawberries,” said the man in charge.

He was an unprepossessing-looking individual with a leer.

“Just the thing for the lady. Ripe fruit, fresh picked. Cherries too. Genuine English. Have a basket of cherries, lady?”

“They do look nice ones,” said Dorothy.

“Lovely, that’s what they are,” said the man hoarsely. “Bring you luck, lady, that basket will.” He at last condescended to reply to Edward. “Two shillings, sir, and dirt cheap. You’d say so if you knew what was inside the basket.”

“They look awfully nice,” said Dorothy.

Edward sighed and paid over two shillings. His mind was obsessed by calculation. Tea later, petrol—this Sunday motoring business wasn’t what you’d call cheap. That was the worst of taking girls out! They always wanted everything they saw.

“Thank you, sir,” said the unprepossessing-looking one. “You’ve got more than your money’s worth in that basket of cherries.”

Edward shoved his foot savagely down and the Baby Austin leaped at the cherry vendor after the manner of an infuriated Alsatian.

“Sorry,” said Edward. “I forgot she was in gear.”

“You ought to be careful, dear,” said Dorothy. “You might have hurt him.”

Edward did not reply. Another half mile brought them to an ideal spot by the banks of a stream. The Austin was left by the side of the road and Edward and Dorothy sat affectionately upon the river bank and munched cherries. A Sunday paper lay unheeded at their feet.

“What’s the news?” said Edward at last, stretching himself flat on his back and tilting his hat to shade his eyes.

Dorothy glanced over the headlines.

“The Woeful Wife. Extraordinary story. Twenty-eight people drowned last week. Reported death of Airman. Startling Jewel Robbery. Ruby Necklace worth fifty thousand pounds missing. Oh, Ted! Fifty thousand pounds. Just fancy!” She went on reading. “The necklace is composed of twenty-one stones set in platinum and was sent by registered post from Paris. On arrival, the packet was found to contain a few pebbles and the jewels were missing.”

“Pinched in the post,” said Edward. “The posts in France are awful, I believe.”

“I’d like to see a necklace like that,” said Dorothy. “All glowing like blood—pigeon’s blood, that’s what they call the colour. I wonder what it would feel like to have a thing like that hanging round your neck.”

“Well, you’re never likely to know, my girl,” said Edward facetiously.

Dorothy tossed her head.

“Why not, I should like to know. It’s amazing the way girls can get on in the world. I might go on the stage.”

“Girls that behave themselves don’t get anywhere,” said Edward discouragingly.

Dorothy opened her mouth to reply, checked herself, and murmured, “Pass me the cherries.”

“I’ve been eating more than you have,” she remarked. “I’ll divide up what’s left and—why, whatever’s this at the bottom of the basket?”

She drew it out as she spoke—a long glittering chain of blood-red stones.

They both stared at it in amazement.

“In the basket, did you say?” said Edward at last.

Dorothy nodded.

“Right at the bottom—under the fruit.”

Again they stared at each other.

“How did it get there, do you think?”

“I can’t imagine. It’s odd, Ted, just after reading that bit in the paper—about the rubies.”

Edward laughed.

“You don’t imagine you’re holding fifty thousand pounds in your hand, do you?”

“I just said it was odd. Rubies set in platinum. Platinum is that sort of dull silvery stuff—like this. Don’t they sparkle and aren’t they a lovely colour? I wonder how many of them there are?” She counted. “I say, Ted, there are twenty-one exactly.”

“No!”

“Yes. The same number as the paper said. Oh, Ted, you don’t think—”

“It could be.” But he spoke irresolutely. “There’s some sort of way you can tell—scratching them on glass.”

“That’s diamonds. But you know, Ted, that was a very odd-looking man—the man with the fruit—a nasty-looking man. And he was funny about it—said we’d got more than our money’s worth in the basket.”

“Yes, but look here, Dorothy, what would he want to hand us over fifty thousand pounds for?”

Miss Pratt shook her head, discouraged.

“It doesn’t seem to make sense,” she admitted. “Unless the police were after him.”

“The police?” Edward paled slightly.

“Yes. It goes on to say in the paper—‘the police have a clue.’ ”

Cold shivers ran down Edward’s spine.

“I don’t like this, Dorothy. Supposing the police get after us.”

Dorothy stared at him with her mouth open.

“But we haven’t done anything, Ted. We found it in the basket.”

“And that’ll sound a silly sort of story to tell! It isn’t likely.”

“It isn’t very,” admitted Dorothy. “Oh, Ted, do you really think it is it? It’s like a fairy story!”

“I don’t think it sounds like a fairy story,” said Edward. “It sounds to me more like the kind of story where the hero goes to Dartmoor unjustly accused for fourteen years.”

But Dorothy was not listening. She had clasped the necklace round her neck and was judging the effect in a small mirror taken from her handbag.

“The same as a duchess might wear,” she murmured ecstatically.

“I won’t believe it,” said Edward violently. “They’re imitation. They must be imitation.”

“Yes, dear,” said Dorothy, still intent on her reflection in the mirror. “Very likely.”

“Anything else would be too much of a—a coincidence.”

“Pigeon’s blood,” murmured Dorothy.

“It’s absurd. That’s what I say. Absurd. Look here, Dorothy, are you listening to what I say, or are you not?”

Dorothy put away the mirror. She turned to him, one hand on the rubies round her neck.

“How do I look?” she asked.

Edward stared at her, his grievance forgotten. He had never seen Dorothy quite like this. There was a triumph about her, a kind of regal beauty that was completely new to him. The belief that she had jewels round her neck worth fifty thousand pounds had made of Dorothy Pratt a new woman. She looked insolently serene, a kind of Cleopatra and Semiramis and Zenobia rolled into one.

“You look—you look—stunning,” said Edward humbly.

Dorothy laughed, and her laugh, too, was entirely different.

“Look here,” said Edward. “We’ve got to do something. We must take them to a police station or something.”

“Nonsense,” said Dorothy. “You said yourself just now that they wouldn’t believe you. You’ll probably be sent to prison for stealing them.”

“But—but what else can we do?”

“Keep them,” said the new Dorothy Pratt.

Edward stared at her.

“Keep them? You’re mad.”

“We found them, didn’t we? Why should we think they’re valuable. We’ll keep them and I shall wear them.”

“And the police will pinch you.”

Dorothy considered this for a minute or two.

“All right,” she said. “We’ll sell them. And you can buy a Rolls Royce, or two Rolls-Royces, and I’ll buy a diamond head-thing and some rings.”

Still Edward stared. Dorothy showed impatience.

“You’ve got your chance now—it’s up to you to take it. We didn’t steal the thing—I wouldn’t hold with that. It’s come to us and it’s probably the only chance we’ll ever have of getting all the things we want. Haven’t you got any spunk at all, Edward Palgrove?”

Edward found his voice.

“Sell it, you say? That wouldn’t be so jolly easy. Any jeweller would want to know where I got the blooming thing.”

“You don’t take it to a jeweller. Don’t you ever read detective stories, Ted? You take it to a ‘fence,’ of course.”

“And how should I know any fences? I’ve been brought up respectable.”

“Men ought to know everything,” said Dorothy. “That’s what they’re for.”

He looked at her. She was serene and unyielding.

“I wouldn’t have believed it of you,” he said weakly.

“I thought you had more spirit.”

There was a pause. Then Dorothy rose to her feet.

“Well,” she said lightly. “We’d best be getting home.”

“Wearing that thing round your neck?”

Dorothy removed the necklace, looked at it reverently and dropped it into her handbag.

“Look here,” said Edward. “You give that to me.”

“No.”

“Yes, you do. I’ve been brought up honest, my girl.”

“Well, you can go on being honest. You need have nothing to do with it.”

“Oh, hand it over,” said Edward recklessly. “I’ll do it. I’ll find a fence. As you say, it’s the only chance we shall ever have. We came by it honest—bought it for two shillings. It’s no more than what gentlemen do in antique shops every day of their life and are proud of it.”

“That’s it!” said Dorothy. “Oh, Edward, you’re splendid!”

She handed over the necklace and he dropped it into his pocket. He felt worked up, exalted, the very devil of a fellow! In this mood he started the Austin. They were both too excited to remember tea. They drove back to London in silence. Once at a crossroads, a policeman stepped towards the car, and Edward’s heart missed a beat. By a miracle, they reached home without mishap.

Edward’s last words to Dorothy were imbued with the adventurous spirit.

“We’ll go through with this. Fifty thousand pounds! It’s worth it!”

He dreamt that night of broad arrows and Dartmoor, and rose early, haggard and unrefreshed. He had to set about finding a fence—and how to do it he had not the remotest idea!

His work at the office was slovenly and brought down upon him two sharp rebukes before lunch.

How did one find a “fence?” Whitechapel, he fancied, was the correct neighbourhood—or was it Stepney?

On his return to the office a call came through for him on the telephone. Dorothy’s voice spoke—tragic and tearful.

“Is that you, Ted? I’m using the telephone, but she may come in any minute, and I’ll have to stop. Ted, you haven’t done anything, have you?”

Edward replied in the negative.

“Well, look here, Ted, you mustn’t. I’ve been lying awake all night. It’s been awful. Thinking of how it says in the Bible you mustn’t steal. I must have been mad yesterday—I really must. You won’t do anything, will you, Ted, dear?”

Did a feeling of relief steal over Mr. Palgrove? Possibly it did—but he wasn’t going to admit any such thing.

“When I say I’m going through with a thing, I go through with it,” he said in a voice such as might belong to a strong superman with eyes of steel.

“Oh, but, Ted, dear, you mustn’t. Oh, Lord, she’s coming. Look here, Ted, she’s going out to dinner tonight. I can slip out and meet you. Don’t do anything till you’ve seen me. Eight o’clock. Wait for me round the corner.” Her voice changed to a seraphic murmur. “Yes, ma’am, I think it was a wrong number. It was Bloomsbury 0234 they wanted.”

As Edward left the office at six o’clock, a huge headline caught his eye.

JEWEL ROBBERY. LATEST DEVELOPMENTS

Hurriedly he extended a penny. Safely ensconced in the Tube, having dexterously managed to gain a seat, he eagerly perused the printed sheet. He found what he sought easily enough.

A suppressed whistle escaped him.

“Well—I’m—”

And then another adjacent paragraph caught his eye. He read it through and let the paper slip to the floor unheeded.

Precisely at eight o’clock, he was waiting at the rendezvous. A breathless Dorothy, looking pale but pretty, came hurrying along to join him.

“You haven’t done anything, Ted?”

“I haven’t done anything.” He took the ruby chain from his pocket. “You can put it on.”

“But, Ted—”

“The police have got the rubies all right—and the man who pinched them. And now read this!”

He thrust a newspaper paragraph under her nose. Dorothy read:

NEW ADVERTISING STUNT

A clever new advertising dodge is being adopted by the All-English Fivepenny Fair who intend to challenge the famous Woolworths. Baskets of fruit were sold yesterday and will be on sale every Sunday. Out of every fifty baskets, one will contain an imitation necklace in different coloured stones. These necklaces are really wonderful value for the money. Great excitement and merriment was caused by them yesterday and eat more fruit will have a great vogue next Sunday. We congratulate the Fivepenny Fair on their resource and wish them all good luck in their campaign of Buy British Goods.

“Well—” said Dorothy.

And after a pause: “Well!”

“Yes,” said Edward. “I felt the same.”

A passing man thrust a paper into his hand.

“Take one, brother,” he said.

“The price of a virtuous woman is far above rubies.”

“There!” said Edward. “I hope that cheers you up.”

“I don’t know,” said Dorothy doubtfully. “I don’t exactly want to look like a good woman.”

“You don’t,” said Edward. “That’s why the man gave me that paper. With those rubies round your neck you don’t look one little bit like a good woman.”

Dorothy laughed.

“You’re rather a dear, Ted,” she said. “Come on, let’s go to the pictures.”

About the Author

AGATHA CHRISTIE is the most widely published author of all time, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her books have sold more than a billion copies in English and another billion in a hundred foreign languages. She died in 1976.

www.AgathaChristie.com

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The Agatha Christie Collection

The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

The Seven Dials Mystery

The Mysterious Mr. Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

Parker Pyne Investigates

Why Didn’t They Ask Evans?

Murder Is Easy

The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

The Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories

Crooked House

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

The Pale Horse

Star Over Bethlehem: Poems and Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

The Harlequin Tea Set and Other Stories

The Hercule Poirot Mysteries

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

The Big Four

The Mystery of the Blue Train

Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirot’s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labors of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

The Under Dog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGinty’s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Man’s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Clocks

Third Girl

Hallowe’en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Curtain: Poirot’s Last Case

The Miss Marple Mysteries

The Murder at the Vicarage

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 from Paddington

The Mirror Crack’d from Side to Side

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertram’s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Complete Short Stories

The Tommy and Tuppence Mysteries

The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

Memoirs

An Autobiography

Come, Tell Me How You Live

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

AGATHA CHRISTIE® THE GOLDEN BALL AND OTHER STORIES™ are registered trademarks of Agatha Christie Limited in the UK and elsewhere. All rights reserved.

“A Fruitful Sunday” was previously published as part of The Golden Ball and Other Stories short story collection, copyright © 1971 Agatha Christie Limited. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, 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 e-books.

EPub Edition NOVEMBER 2013 ISBN: 9780062302755

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