The Mystery of the Blue Jar by A. Christie I Jack Hartington surveyed his topp

The Mystery of the Blue Jar by A. Christie
I
Jack Hartington surveyed his topped drive ruefully. With a sigh he drew out his club and addressed himself firmly to the ball. He swung back –and them stopped , petrified , as a shrill cry broke the silence of the summer’s morning. “”, it called. “Help! !” It was a woman’s voice , and it died away at the end into a sort of gurgling sigh. Jack ran in the direction of the sound .It had come from somewhere quite near at hand. This particular part of the course was quite wild country, and there were few houses about. In fact, there was only one near at hand , a small picturesque cottage. It was towards this cottage that he ran.
There was a girl standing in the garden, and for a moment Jack jumped to the natural conclusion that it was she who had uttered the cry for help. But he quickly changed his mind.
She had a little basket in her hand , half full of weeds, and had evidently just straightened herself up from weeding a wide border of pansies. Her eyes, Jack noticed, were just like pansies themselves, velvety and soft and dark, and more violet than blue. The girl was looking at Jack with an expression midway between annoyance and surprise. “I beg your pardon”, said the young man. ”But did you cry out just now?” “I! No indeed” Her surprise was so genuine that Jack felt confused. Her voice was very soft and pretty with a slight foreign accent.
“But you must have heard it,” he exclaimed. ”It came from somewhere just near here.” She stared at him. ”I heard nothing at all.” ”It came from somewhere close at hand,” he insisted.
She was looking at him suspiciously now. “What did it say?” she asked. ”- help! !” ”- help! ,” repeated the girl. “Somebody has played a trick on you, Monsieur.
Who could be murdered here?” Jack looked about him with a confused idea of discovering a dead body upon a garden path. Yet he was still perfectly sure that the cry he had heard was real
and not a product of his imagination. He looked up at the cottage windows. Everything seemed perfectly still and peaceful.
“Do you want to search our house?” asked the girl drily. She was so clearly skeptical that Jack’s confusion grew deeper than ever. He turned away.
“I’m sorry, “ he said. “It must have come from higher up in the woods” For some time he hunted through the woods, but could find no sign of anything unusual having occurred. Yes he was as positive as ever that he had really heard the cry. Was he absolutely certain that he had heard the cry? But now he was not nearly so positive as he had been. Was it some bird’s cry in the distance
that he had taken for a woman’s voice?
But he rejected the suggestion angrily .It was a woman’s voice and he had heard it. He remembered looking at his watch just before the cry had come. As nearly as possible it must have been five and twenty minutes past seven when he had beard the call. That might be a fact useful to the police if-if anything should be discovered.

II. Going home that evening, he looked through the evening papers anxiously to see if there were
Any mention of a crime having been committed. But there was nothing, and he hardly knew whether to be relieved or disappointed.
The following morning was wet – so wet that even the most ardent golfer might have his enthusiasm damped.
Jack rose at the last possible moment, ate his breakfast, ran for the train and again eagerly looked through the papers. Still no mention of any tragic discovery having been made. The evening papers told the same tale.
"Queer," said Jack to himself, "but there it is. Probably some s having a game together up in the woods."
He was out early the following morning. As he passed the cottage, he noted out of the tail of his eye that the girl was out in the garden again weeding. Evidently a habit of hers. He did a particularly good shot, and hoped that she had noticed it.
"Just five and twenty past seven," he murmured. "I wonder –"
The words were frozen on his lips. him came the same cry which had so startled him before. A woman's voice, in distress.
" – help! !"
Jack raced back. The pansy girl was standing by the gate. She looked startled, and Jack ran up to her triumphantly, crying out: "You heard it this time, anyway."
Her eyes were wide with some emotion and he noticed that she shrank back from him as he approached, and even glanced back at the house, as though she was about to run for shelter.
She shook her head, staring at him.
"I heard nothing at all," she said wonderingly.
It was as though she had struck him a blow between the eyes. Her sincerity was so evident that he could not disbelieve her. Yet he couldn't have imagined it – he couldn't – he – couldn't –…
He heard her voice speaking gently – almost with sympathy. "You have had the shell-shock', yes?"
In a flash he understood her look of fear, her glance back at the house. She thought that he suffered from delusions...
And then, like a douche of cold water, came the horrible thought, was she right? Did he suffer from delusions?
In horror of the thought he turned and stumbled away without saying a word. The girl watched him go, sighed, shook her head, and bent down to her weeding again.
Jack tried to reason matters out with himself.
"If I hear the thing again at twenty-five minutes past seven," he said to himself, "it's clear that I've got hold of a hallucination of some sort. But I won't hear it."
He was nervous all that day, and went to bed early determined to put the matter to the proof the following morning.
As was perhaps natural in such a case, he remained awake half the night, and finally overslept himself. It was twenty past seven by the time he was clear of the hotel and running towards the links. He realised that he would not be able to get to the fatal spot by twenty-five past, but surely, if the voice were a hallucination pure and simple, he would hear it anywhere. He ran on, his eyes fixed on the hands of his watch.
Twenty-five past. From far off came the echo of a woman's voice, calling. The words could not be distinguished, but he was convinced that it was the same cry he had heard before, and that it came from the same spot, somewhere in the neighbourhood of the cottage.
Strangely enough, that fact reassured him. It might, after all, be a hoax'. Unlikely as it seemed, the girl herself might be playing a trick on him.
The girl was in the garden as usual. She looked up this morning, and when he raised his cap to her, said good morning rather shyly... She looked, he thought, lovelier than ever.
"Nice day, isn't it?" Jack called out cheerily.
"Yes, indeed, it is lovely."
"Good for the garden, I expect?"
The girl smiled a little.
"Alas, no! For my flowers the rain is needed. See, they are all dried up. Monsieur is much better today, I can see."
Her encouraging tone annoyed Jack intensely.
"I'm perfectly well," he said irritably.
"That is good then," returned the girl quickly and soothingly.
Jack had the irritating feeling that she didn't believe him.
He played a few more holes and hurried back to breakfast.

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The Mystery of the Blue Jar by A. Christie I Jack Hartington surveyed his topped drive ruefully. With a sigh he drew out his club and addressed himself firmly to the ball. He swung back –and them stopped , petrified , as a shrill cry broke the silence of the summer’s morning. “”, it called. “Help! !” It was a woman’s voice , and it died away at the end into a sort of gurgling sigh. Jack ran in the direction of the sound .It had come from somewhere quite near at hand. This particular part of the course was quite wild country, and there were few houses about. In fact, there was only one near at hand , a small picturesque cottage. It was towards this cottage that he ran. There was a girl standing in the garden, and for a moment Jack jumped to the natural conclusion that it was she who had uttered the cry for help. But he quickly changed his mind. She had a little basket in her hand , half full of weeds, and had evidently just straightened herself up from weeding a wide border of pansies. Her eyes, Jack noticed, were just like pansies themselves, velvety and soft and dark, and more violet than blue. The girl was looking at Jack with an expression midway between annoyance and surprise. “I beg your pardon”, said the young man. ”But did you cry out just now?” “I! No indeed” Her surprise was so genuine that Jack felt confused. Her voice was very soft and pretty with a slight foreign accent. “But you must have heard it,” he exclaimed. ”It came from somewhere just near here.” She stared at him. ”I heard nothing at all.” ”It came from somewhere close at hand,” he insisted. She was looking at him suspiciously now. “What did it say?” she asked. ”- help! !” ”- help! ,” repeated the girl. “Somebody has played a trick on you, Monsieur. Who could be murdered here?” Jack looked about him with a confused idea of discovering a dead body upon a garden path. Yet he was still perfectly sure that the cry he had heard was real and not a product of his imagination. He looked up at the cottage windows. Everything seemed perfectly still and peaceful. “Do you want to search our house?” asked the girl drily. She was so clearly skeptical that Jack’s confusion grew deeper than ever. He turned away. “I’m sorry, “ he said. “It must have come from higher up in the woods” For some time he hunted through the woods, but could find no sign of anything unusual having occurred. Yes he was as positive as ever that he had really heard the cry. Was he absolutely certain that he had heard the cry? But now he was not nearly so positive as he had been. Was it some bird’s cry in the distance that he had taken for a woman’s voice? But he rejected the suggestion angrily .It was a woman’s voice and he had heard it. He remembered looking at his watch just before the cry had come. As nearly as possible it must have been five and twenty minutes past seven when he had beard the call. That might be a fact useful to the police if-if anything should be discovered. II. Going home that evening, he looked through the evening papers anxiously to see if there were Any mention of a crime having been committed. But there was nothing, and he hardly knew whether to be relieved or disappointed. The following morning was wet – so wet that even the most ardent golfer might have his enthusiasm damped. Jack rose at the last possible moment, ate his breakfast, ran for the train and again eagerly looked through the papers. Still no mention of any tragic discovery having been made. The evening papers told the same tale. "Queer," said Jack to himself, "but there it is. Probably some s having a game together up in the woods." He was out early the following morning. As he passed the cottage, he noted out of the tail of his eye that the girl was out in the garden again weeding. Evidently a habit of hers. He did a particularly good shot, and hoped that she had noticed it. "Just five and twenty past seven," he murmured. "I wonder –" The words were frozen on his lips. him came the same cry which had so startled him before. A woman's voice, in distress. " – help! !" Jack raced back. The pansy girl was standing by the gate. She looked startled, and Jack ran up to her triumphantly, crying out: "You heard it this time, anyway." Her eyes were wide with some emotion and he noticed that she shrank back from him as he approached, and even glanced back at the house, as though she was about to run for shelter. She shook her head, staring at him. "I heard nothing at all," she said wonderingly. It was as though she had struck him a blow between the eyes. Her sincerity was so evident that he could not disbelieve her. Yet he couldn't have imagined it – he couldn't – he – couldn't –… He heard her voice speaking gently – almost with sympathy. "You have had the shell-shock', yes?" In a flash he understood her look of fear, her glance back at the house. She thought that he suffered from delusions... And then, like a douche of cold water, came the horrible thought, was she right? Did he suffer from delusions? In horror of the thought he turned and stumbled away without saying a word. The girl watched him go, sighed, shook her head, and bent down to her weeding again. Jack tried to reason matters out with himself. "If I hear the thing again at twenty-five minutes past seven," he said to himself, "it's clear that I've got hold of a hallucination of some sort. But I won't hear it." He was nervous all that day, and went to bed early determined to put the matter to the proof the following morning. As was perhaps natural in such a case, he remained awake half the night, and finally overslept himself. It was twenty past seven by the time he was clear of the hotel and running towards the links. He realised that he would not be able to get to the fatal spot by twenty-five past, but surely, if the voice were a hallucination pure and simple, he would hear it anywhere. He ran on, his eyes fixed on the hands of his watch. Twenty-five past. From far off came the echo of a woman's voice, calling. The words could not be distinguished, but he was convinced that it was the same cry he had heard before, and that it came from the same spot, somewhere in the neighbourhood of the cottage. Strangely enough, that fact reassured him. It might, after all, be a hoax'. Unlikely as it seemed, the girl herself might be playing a trick on him. The girl was in the garden as usual. She looked up this morning, and when he raised his cap to her, said good morning rather shyly... She looked, he thought, lovelier than ever. "Nice day, isn't it?" Jack called out cheerily. "Yes, indeed, it is lovely." "Good for the garden, I expect?" The girl smiled a little. "Alas, no! For my flowers the rain is needed. See, they are all dried up. Monsieur is much better today, I can see." Her encouraging tone annoyed Jack intensely. "I'm perfectly well," he said irritably. "That is good then," returned the girl quickly and soothingly. Jack had the irritating feeling that she didn't believe him. He played a few more holes and hurried back to breakfast.

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