The Listerdale Mystery_ A Short

Contents
TheListerdaleMystery
AbouttheAuthor
TheAgathaChristieCollection
Copyright
AboutthePublisher
THELISTERDALEMYSTERY
Mrs.St.Vincentwasaddingupfigures.Onceortwiceshesighed,andherhandstoletoherachingforehead.Shehadalwaysdislikedarithmetic.Itwasunfortunatethatnowadaysherlifeshouldseemtobecomposedentirelyofoneparticularkindofsum,theceaselessaddingtogetherofsmallnecessaryitemsofexpendituremakingatotalthatneverfailedtosurpriseandalarmher.
Surelyitcouldn’tcometothat!Shewentbackoverthefigures.Shehadmadeatriflingerrorinthepence,butotherwisethefigureswerecorrect.
Mrs.St.Vincentsighedagain.Herheadachebynowwasverybadindeed.ShelookedupasthedooropenedandherdaughterBarbaracameintotheroom.BarbaraSt.Vincentwasaveryprettygirl,shehadhermother’sdelicatefeatures,andthesameproudturnofthehead,buthereyesweredarkinsteadofblue,andshehadadifferentmouth,asulkyredmouthnotwithoutattraction.
“Oh!Mother,”shecried.“Stilljugglingwiththosehorridoldaccounts?Throwthemallintothefire.”
“Wemustknowwhereweare,”saidMrs.St.Vincentuncertainly.
Thegirlshruggedhershoulders.
“We’realwaysinthesameboat,”shesaiddrily.“Damnedhardup.Downtothelastpennyasusual.”
Mrs.St.Vincentsighed.
“Iwish—”shebegan,andthenstopped.
“Imustfindsomethingtodo,”saidBarbarainhardtones.“Andfinditquickly.Afterall,Ihavetakenthatshorthandandtypingcourse.SohaveaboutonemillionothergirlsfromallIcansee!‘Whatexperience?’‘None,but—’‘Oh!thankyou,goodmorning.We’llletyouknow.’Buttheyneverdo!Imustfindsomeotherkindofajob—anyjob.”
“Notyet,dear,”pleadedhermother.“Waitalittlelonger.”
Barbarawenttothewindowandstoodlookingoutwithunseeingeyesthattooknonoteofthedingylineofhousesopposite.
“Sometimes,”shesaidslowly,“I’msorryCousinAmytookmewithhertoEgyptlastwinter.Oh!IknowIhadfun—abouttheonlyfunI’veeverhadoramlikelytohaveinmylife.Ididenjoymyself—enjoyedmyselfthoroughly.Butitwasveryunsettling.Imean—comingbacktothis.”
Shesweptahandroundtheroom.Mrs.St.Vincentfolloweditwithhereyesandwinced.Theroomwastypicalofcheapfurnishedlodgings.Adustyaspidistra,showilyornamentalfurniture,agaudywallpaperfadedinpatches.Thereweresignsthatthepersonalityofthetenantshadstruggledwiththatofthelandlady;oneortwopiecesofgoodchina,muchcrackedandmended,sothattheirsaleablevaluewasnil,apieceofembroiderythrownoverthebackofthesofa,awatercoloursketchofayounggirlinthefashionoftwentyyearsago;nearenoughstilltoMrs.St.Vincentnottobemistaken.
“Itwouldn’tmatter,”continuedBarbara,“ifwe’dneverknownanythingelse.ButtothinkofAnsteys—”
Shebrokeoff,nottrustingherselftospeakofthatdearlylovedhomewhichhadbelongedtotheSt.Vincentfamilyforcenturiesandwhichwasnowinthehandsofstrangers.
“Ifonlyfather—hadn’tspeculated—andborrowed—”
“Mydear,”saidMrs.St.Vincent,“yourfatherwasnever,inanysenseoftheword,abusinessman.”
Shesaiditwithagracefulkindoffinality,andBarbaracameoverandgaveheranaimlesssortofkiss,asshemurmured,“PooroldMums.Iwon’tsayanything.”
Mrs.St.Vincenttookupherpenagain,andbentoverherdesk.Barbarawentbacktothewindow.Presentlythegirlsaid:
“Mother.Iheardfrom—fromJimMastertonthismorning.Hewantstocomeoverandseeme.”
Mrs.St.Vincentlaiddownherpenandlookedupsharply.
“Here?”sheexclaimed.
“Well,wecan’taskhimtodinnerattheRitzverywell,”sneeredBarbara.
Hermotherlookedunhappy.Againshelookedroundtheroomwithinnatedistaste.
“You’reright,”saidBarbara.“It’sadisgustingplace.Genteelpoverty!Soundsallright—awhite-washedcottage,inthecountry,shabbychintzesofgooddesign,bowlsofroses,crownDerbyteaservicethatyouwashupyourself.That’swhatit’slikeinbooks.Inreallife,withasonstartingonthebottomrungofofficelife,itmeansLondon.Frowsylandladies,dirtychildrenonthestairs,fellowlodgerswhoalwaysseemtobehalf-castes,haddocksforbreakfaststhataren’tquite—quiteandsoon.”
“Ifonly—”beganMrs.St.Vincent.“But,really,I’mbeginningtobeafraidwecan’taffordeventhisroommuchlonger.”
“Thatmeansabed-sittingroom—horror!—foryouandme,”saidBarbara.“AndacupboardunderthetilesforRupert.AndwhenJimcomestocall,I’llreceivehiminthatdreadfulroomdownstairswithtabbiesallroundthewallsknitting,andstaringatus,andcoughingthatdreadfulkindofgulpingcoughtheyhave!”
Therewasapause.
“Barbara,”saidMrs.St.Vincentatlast.“Doyou—Imean—wouldyou—?”
Shestopped,flushingalittle.
“Youneedn’tbedelicate,Mother,”saidBarbara.“Nobodyisnowadays.MarryJim,Isupposeyoumean?Iwouldlikeashotifheaskedme.ButI’msoawfullyafraidhewon’t.”
“Oh,Barbara,dear.”
“Well,it’sonethingseeingmeouttherewithCousinAmy,moving(astheysayinnovelettes)inthebestsociety.Hedidtakeafancytome.Nowhe’llcomehereandseemeinthis!Andhe’safunnycreature,youknow,fastidiousandold-fashioned.I—Iratherlikehimforthat.ItremindsmeofAnsteysandthevillage—everythingahundredyearsbehindthetimes,butso—so—oh!Idon’tknow—sofragrant.Likelavender!”
Shelaughed,half-ashamedofhereagerness.Mrs.St.Vincentspokewithakindofearnestsimplicity.
“IshouldlikeyoutomarryJimMasterton,”shesaid.“Heis—oneofus.Heisverywelloff,also,butthatIdon’tmindaboutsomuch.”
“Ido,”saidBarbara.“I’msickofbeinghardup.”
“But,Barbara,itisn’t—”
“Onlyforthat?No.Idoreally.I—oh!Mother,can’tyouseeIdo?”
Mrs.St.Vincentlookedveryunhappy.
“Iwishhecouldseeyouinyourpropersetting,darling,”shesaidwistfully.
“Oh,well!”saidBarbara.“Whyworry?Wemightaswelltryandbecheerfulaboutthings.SorryI’vehadsuchagrouch.Cheerup,darling.”
Shebentoverhermother,kissedherforeheadlightly,andwentout.Mrs.St.Vincent,relinquishingallattemptsatfinance,satdownontheuncomfortablesofa.Herthoughtsranroundincircleslikesquirrelsinacage.
“Onemaysaywhatonelikes,appearancesdoputamanoff.Notlater—notiftheywerereallyengaged.He’dknowthenwhatasweet,deargirlsheis.Butit’ssoeasyforyoungpeopletotakethetoneoftheirsurroundings.Rupert,now,he’squitedifferentfromwhatheusedtobe.NotthatIwantmychildrentobestuckup.That’snotitabit.ButIshouldhateitifRupertgotengagedtothatdreadfulgirlinthetobacconist’s.Idaresayshemaybeaverynicegirl,really.Butshe’snotourkind.It’sallsodifficult.PoorlittleBabs.IfIcoulddoanything—anything.Butwhere’sthemoneytocomefrom?We’vesoldeverythingtogiveRuperthisstart.Wereallycan’tevenaffordthis.”
TodistractherselfMrs.St.VincentpickeduptheMorningPost,andglanceddowntheadvertisementsonthefrontpage.Mostofthemsheknewbyheart.Peoplewhowantedcapital,peoplewhohadcapitalandwereanxioustodisposeofitonnoteofhandalone,peoplewhowantedtobuyteeth(shealwayswonderedwhy),peoplewhowantedtosellfursandgownsandwhohadoptimisticideasonthesubjectofprice.
Suddenlyshestiffenedtoattention.Againandagainshereadtheprintedwords.
“Togentlepeopleonly.SmallhouseinWestminster,exquisitelyfurnished,offeredtothosewhowouldreallycareforit.Rentpurelynominal.Noagents.”
Averyordinaryadvertisement.Shehadreadmanythesameor—well,nearlythesame.Nominalrent,thatwaswherethetraplay.
Yet,sinceshewasrestlessandanxioustoescapefromherthoughtssheputonherhatstraightaway,andtookaconvenientbustotheaddressgivenintheadvertisement.
Itprovedtobethatofafirmofhouseagents.Notanewbustlingfirm—aratherdecrepit,old-fashionedplace.Rathertimidlysheproducedtheadvertisement,whichshehadtornout,andaskedforparticulars.
Thewhite-hairedoldgentlemanwhowasattendingtoherstrokedhischinthoughtfully.
“Perfectly.Yes,perfectly,madam.Thathouse,thehousementionedintheadvertisementisNo.7CheviotPlace.Youwouldlikeanorder?”
“Ishouldliketoknowtherentfirst?”saidMrs.St.Vincent.
“Ah!therent.Theexactfigureisnotsettled,butIcanassureyouthatitispurelynominal.”
“Ideasofwhatispurelynominalcanvary,”saidMrs.St.Vincent.
Theoldgentlemanpermittedhimselftochucklealittle.
“Yes,that’sanoldtrick—anoldtrick.Butyoucantakemywordforit,itisn’tsointhiscase.Twoorthreeguineasaweek,perhaps,notmore.”
Mrs.St.Vincentdecidedtohavetheorder.Not,ofcourse,thattherewasanyreallikelihoodofherbeingabletoaffordtheplace.But,afterall,shemightjustseeit.Theremustbesomegravedisadvantageattachingtoit,tobeofferedatsuchaprice.
Butherheartgavealittlethrobasshelookedupattheoutsideof7CheviotPlace.Agemofahouse.QueenAnne,andinperfectcondition!Abutleransweredthedoor,hehadgreyhairandlittlesidewhiskers,andthemeditativecalmofanarchbishop.Akindlyarchbishop,Mrs.St.Vincentthought.
Heacceptedtheorderwithabenevolentair.
“Certainly,madam.Iwillshowyouover.Thehouseisreadyforoccupation.”
Hewentbeforeher,openingdoors,announcingrooms.
“Thedrawingroom,thewhitestudy,apowderclosetthroughhere,madam.”
Itwasperfect—adream.Thefurniturealloftheperiod,eachpiecewithsignsofwear,butpolishedwithlovingcare.Thelooserugswereofbeautifuldimoldcolours.Ineachroomwerebowlsoffreshflowers.ThebackofthehouselookedovertheGreenPark.Thewholeplaceradiatedanold-worldcharm.
ThetearscameintoMrs.St.Vincent’seyes,andshefoughtthembackwithdifficulty.SohadAnsteyslooked—Ansteys….
Shewonderedwhetherthebutlerhadnoticedheremotion.Ifso,hewastoomuchtheperfectlytrainedservanttoshowit.Shelikedtheseoldservants,onefeltsafewiththem,atease.Theywerelikefriends.
“Itisabeautifulhouse,”shesaidsoftly.“Verybeautiful.Iamgladtohaveseenit.”
“Isitforyourselfalone,madam?”
“Formyselfandmysonanddaughter.ButI’mafraid—”
Shebrokeoff.Shewanteditsodreadfully—sodreadfully.
Shefeltinstinctivelythatthebutlerunderstood.Hedidnotlookather,ashesaidinadetachedimpersonalway:
“Ihappentobeaware,madam,thattheownerrequiresaboveall,suitabletenants.Therentisofnoimportancetohim.Hewantsthehousetobetenantedbysomeonewhowillreallycareforandappreciateit.”
“Ishouldappreciateit,”saidMrs.St.Vincentinalowvoice.
Sheturnedtogo.
“Thankyouforshowingmeover,”shesaidcourteously.
“Notatall,madam.”
Hestoodinthedoorway,verycorrectanduprightasshewalkedawaydownthestreet.Shethoughttoherself:“Heknows.He’ssorryforme.He’soneoftheoldlottoo.He’dlikemetohaveit—notalabourmember,orabuttonmanufacturer!We’redyingout,oursort,butwebandtogether.”
Intheendshedecidednottogobacktotheagents.Whatwasthegood?Shecouldaffordtherent—buttherewereservantstobeconsidered.Therewouldhavetobeservantsinahouselikethat.
Thenextmorningaletterlaybyherplate.Itwasfromthehouseagents.Itofferedherthetenancyof7CheviotPlaceforsixmonthsattwoguineasaweek,andwenton:“Youhave,Ipresume,takenintoconsiderationthefactthattheservantsareremainingatthelandlord’sexpense?Itisreallyauniqueoffer.”
Itwas.Sostartledwasshebyit,thatshereadtheletterout.Afireofquestionsfollowedandshedescribedhervisitofyesterday.
“SecretivelittleMums!”criedBarbara.“Isitreallysolovely?”
Rupertclearedhisthroat,andbeganajudicialcross-questioning.
“There’ssomethingbehindallthis.It’sfishyifyouaskme.Decidedlyfishy.”
“So’smyegg,”saidBarbarawrinklinghernose.“Ugh!Whyshouldtherebesomethingbehindit?That’sjustlikeyou,Rupert,alwaysmakingmysteriesoutofnothing.It’sthosedreadfuldetectivestoriesyou’realwaysreading.”
“Therent’sajoke,”saidRupert.“Inthecity,”headdedimportantly,“onegetswisetoallsortsofqueerthings.Itellyou,there’ssomethingveryfishyaboutthisbusiness.”
“Nonsense,”saidBarbara.“Housebelongstoamanwithlotsofmoney,he’sfondofit,andhewantsitlivedinbydecentpeoplewhilsthe’saway.Somethingofthatkind.Money’sprobablynoobjecttohim.”
“Whatdidyousaytheaddresswas?”askedRupertofhismother.
“SevenCheviotPlace.”
“Whew!”Hepushedbackhischair.“Isay,thisisexciting.That’sthehouseLordListerdaledisappearedfrom.”
“Areyousure?”askedMrs.St.Vincentdoubtfully.
“Positive.He’sgotalotofotherhousesalloverLondon,butthisistheonehelivedin.Hewalkedoutofitoneeveningsayinghewasgoingtohisclub,andnobodyeversawhimagain.SupposedtohavedoneabunktoEastAfricaorsomewherelikethat,butnobodyknowswhy.Dependuponit,hewasmurderedinthathouse.Yousaythere’salotofpanelling?”
“Ye-es,”saidMrs.St.Vincentfaintly:“but—”
Rupertgavehernotime.Hewentonwithimmenseenthusiasm.
“Panelling!Thereyouare.Suretobeasecretrecesssomewhere.Body’sbeenstuffedinthereandhasbeenthereeversince.Perhapsitwasembalmedfirst.”
“Rupert,dear,don’ttalknonsense,”saidhismother.
“Don’tbeadouble-dyedidiot,”saidBarbara.“You’vebeentakingthatperoxideblondetothepicturestoomuch.”
Rupertrosewithdignity—suchdignityashislankyandawkwardageallowed,anddeliveredafinalultimatum.
“Youtakethathouse,Mums.I’llferretoutthemystery.YouseeifIdon’t.”
Rupertdepartedhurriedly,infearofbeinglateattheoffice.
Theeyesofthetwowomenmet.
“Couldwe,Mother?”murmuredBarbaratremulously.“Oh!ifwecould.”
“Theservants,”saidMrs.St.Vincentpathetically,“wouldeat,youknow.Imean,ofcourse,onewouldwantthemto—butthat’sthedrawback.Onecansoeasily—justdowithoutthings—whenit’sonlyoneself.”
ShelookedpiteouslyatBarbara,andthegirlnodded.
“Wemustthinkitover,”saidthemother.
Butinrealityhermindwasmadeup.Shehadseenthesparkleinthegirl’seyes.Shethoughttoherself:“JimMastertonmustseeherinpropersurroundings.Thisisachance—awonderfulchance.Imusttakeit.”
Shesatdownandwrotetotheagentsacceptingtheiroffer.
“Quentin,wheredidtheliliescomefrom?Ireallycan’tbuyexpensiveflowers.”
“TheyweresentupfromKing’sCheviot,madam.Ithasalwaysbeenthecustomhere.”
Thebutlerwithdrew.Mrs.St.Vincentheavedasighofrelief.WhatwouldshedowithoutQuentin?Hemadeeverythingsoeasy.Shethoughttoherself,“It’stoogoodtolast.Ishallwakeupsoon,IknowIshall,andfindit’sbeenalladream.I’msohappyhere—twomonthsalready,andit’spassedlikeaflash.”
Lifeindeedhadbeenastonishinglypleasant.Quentin,thebutler,haddisplayedhimselftheautocratof7CheviotPlace.“Ifyouwillleaveeverythingtome,madam,”hehadsaidrespectfully.“Youwillfinditthebestway.”
Eachweek,hebroughtherthehousekeepingbooks,theirtotalsastonishinglylow.Therewereonlytwootherservants,acookandahousemaid.Theywerepleasantinmanner,andefficientintheirduties,butitwasQuentinwhoranthehouse.Gameandpoultryappearedonthetablesometimes,causingMrs.St.Vincentsolicitude.Quentinreassuredher.SentupfromLordListerdale’scountryseat,King’sCheviot,orfromhisYorkshiremoor.“Ithasalwaysbeenthecustom,madam.”
PrivatelyMrs.St.VincentdoubtedwhethertheabsentLordListerdalewouldagreewiththosewords.ShewasinclinedtosuspectQuentinofusurpinghismaster’sauthority.Itwasclearthathehadtakenafancytothem,andthatinhiseyesnothingwastoogoodforthem.
HercuriosityarousedbyRupert’sdeclaration,Mrs.St.VincenthadmakeatentativereferencetoLordListerdalewhenshenextinterviewedthehouseagent.Thewhite-hairedoldgentlemanhadrespondedimmediately.
Yes,LordListerdalewasinEastAfrica,hadbeenthereforthelasteighteenmonths.
“Ourclientisratheraneccentricman,”hehadsaid,smilingbroadly.“HeleftLondoninamostunconventionalmanner,asyoumayperhapsremember?Notawordtoanyone.Thenewspapersgotholdofit.TherewereactuallyinquiriesonfootatScotlandYard.LuckilynewswasreceivedfromLordListerdalehimselffromEastAfrica.Heinvestedhiscousin,ColonelCarfax,withpowerofattorney.ItisthelatterwhoconductsallLordListerdale’saffairs.Yes,rathereccentric,Ifear.Hehasalwaysbeenagreattravellerinthewilds—itisquiteonthecardsthathemaynotreturnforyearstoEngland,thoughheisgettingoninyears.”
“Surelyheisnotsoveryold,”saidMrs.St.Vincent,withasuddenmemoryofabluff,beardedface,ratherlikeanElizabethansailor,whichshehadoncenoticedinanillustratedmagazine.
“Middle-aged,”saidthewhite-hairedgentleman.“Fifty-three,accordingtoDebrett.”
ThisconversationMrs.St.VincenthadretailedtoRupertwiththeintentionofrebukingthatyounggentleman.
Rupert,however,wasundismayed.
“Itlooksfishierthanevertome,”hehaddeclared.“Who’sthisColonelCarfax?ProbablycomesintothetitleifanythinghappenstoListerdale.TheletterfromEastAfricawasprobablyforged.Inthreeyears,orwhateveritis,thisCarfaxwillpresumedeath,andtakethetitle.Meantime,he’sgotallthehandlingoftheestate.Veryfishy,Icallit.”
Hehadcondescendedgraciouslytoapprovethehouse.Inhisleisuremomentshewasinclinedtotapthepanellingandmakeelaboratemeasurementsforthepossiblelocationofasecretroom,butlittlebylittlehisinterestinthemysteryofLordListerdaleabated.Hewasalsolessenthusiasticonthesubjectofthetobacconist’sdaughter.Atmospheretells.
ToBarbarathehousehadbroughtgreatsatisfaction.JimMastertonhadcomehome,andwasafrequentvisitor.HeandMrs.St.Vincentgotonsplendidlytogether,andhesaidsomethingtoBarbaraonedaythatstartledher.
“Thishouseisawonderfulsettingforyourmother,youknow.”
“ForMother?”
“Yes.Itwasmadeforher!Shebelongstoitinanextraordinaryway.Youknowthere’ssomethingqueeraboutthishousealtogether,somethinguncannyandhaunting.”
“Don’tgetlikeRupert,”Barbaraimploredhim.“HeisconvincedthatthewickedColonelCarfaxmurderedLordListerdaleandhidhisbodyunderthefloor.”
Mastertonlaughed.
“IadmireRupert’sdetectivezeal.No,Ididn’tmeananythingofthatkind.Butthere’ssomethingintheair,someatmospherethatonedoesn’tquiteunderstand.”
TheyhadbeenthreemonthsinCheviotPlacewhenBarbaracametohermotherwitharadiantface.
“JimandI—we’reengaged.Yes—lastnight.Oh,Mother!Itallseemslikeafairytalecometrue.”
“Oh,mydear!I’msoglad—soglad.”
Motheranddaughterclaspedeachotherclose.
“YouknowJim’salmostasmuchinlovewithyouasheiswithme,”saidBarbaraatlast,withamischievouslaugh.
Mrs.St.Vincentblushedveryprettily.
“Heis,”persistedthegirl.“Youthoughtthishousewouldmakesuchabeautifulsettingforme,andallthetimeit’sreallyasettingforyou.RupertandIdon’tquitebelonghere.Youdo.”
“Don’ttalknonsense,darling.”
“It’snotnonsense.There’saflavourofenchantedcastleaboutit,withyouasanenchantedprincessandQuentinas—as—oh!abenevolentmagician.”
Mrs.St.Vincentlaughedandadmittedthelastitem.
Rupertreceivedthenewsofhissister’sengagementverycalmly.
“Ithoughttherewassomethingofthekindinthewind,”heobservedsapiently.
Heandhismotherwerediningalonetogether;BarbarawasoutwithJim.
Quentinplacedtheportinfrontofhim,andwithdrewnoiselessly.
“That’sarumoldbird,”saidRupert,noddingtowardsthecloseddoor.“There’ssomethingoddabouthim,youknow,something—”
“Notfishy?”interruptedMrs.St.Vincent,withafaintsmile.
“Why,Mother,howdidyouknowwhatIwasgoingtosay?”demandedRupertinallseriousness.
“It’sratherawordofyours,darling.Youthinkeverythingisfishy.IsupposeyouhaveanideathatitwasQuentinwhodidawaywithLordListerdaleandputhimunderthefloor?”
“Behindthepanelling,”correctedRupert.“Youalwaysgetthingsalittlebitwrong,Mother.No,I’veinquiredaboutthat.QuentinwasdownatKing’sCheviotatthetime.”
Mrs.St.Vincentsmiledathim,assherosefromtableandwentuptothedrawingroom.InsomewaysRupertwasalongtimegrowingup.
YetasuddenwondersweptoverherforthefirsttimeastoLordListerdale’sreasonsforleavingEnglandsoabruptly.Theremustbesomethingbehindit,toaccountforthatsuddendecision.ShewasstillthinkingthematteroverwhenQuentincameinwiththecoffeetray,andshespokeoutimpulsively.
“YouhavebeenwithLordListerdalealongtime,haven’tyou,Quentin?”
“Yes,madam;sinceIwasaladoftwenty-one.ThatwasinthelateLord’stime.Istartedasthirdfootman.”
“YoumustknowLordListerdaleverywell.Whatkindofamanishe?”
Thebutlerturnedthetrayalittle,sothatshecouldhelpherselftosugarmoreconveniently,asherepliedinevenunemotionaltones:
“LordListerdalewasaveryselfishgentleman,madam:withnoconsiderationforothers.”
Heremovedthetrayandboreitfromtheroom.Mrs.St.Vincentsatwithhercoffeecupinherhand,andapuzzledfrownonherface.Somethingstruckherasoddinthespeechapartfromtheviewsitexpressed.Inanotherminuteitflashedhometoher.
Quentinhadusedtheword“was”not“is.”Butthen,hemustthink—mustbelieve—Shepulledherselfup.ShewasasbadasRupert!Butaverydefiniteuneasinessassailedher.Afterwardsshedatedherfirstsuspicionsfromthatmoment.
WithBarbara’shappinessandfutureassured,shehadtimetothinkherownthoughts,andagainstherwill,theybegantocentreroundthemysteryofLordListerdale.Whatwastherealstory?WhateveritwasQuentinknewsomethingaboutit.Thosehadbeenoddwordsofhis—“averyselfishgentleman—noconsiderationforothers.”Whatlaybehindthem?Hehadspokenasajudgemightspeak,detachedlyandimpartially.
WasQuentininvolvedinLordListerdale’sdisappearance?Hadhetakenanactivepartinanytragedytheremighthavebeen?Afterall,ridiculousasRupert’sassumptionhadseemedatthetime,thatsingleletterwithitspowerofattorneycomingfromEastAfricawas—well,opentosuspicion.
Buttryasshewould,shecouldnotbelieveanyrealevilofQuentin.Quentin,shetoldherselfoverandoveragain,wasgood—sheusedthewordassimplyasachildmighthavedone.Quentinwasgood.Butheknewsomething!
Sheneverspokewithhimagainofhismaster.Thesubjectwasapparentlyforgotten.RupertandBarbarahadotherthingstothinkof,andtherewerenofurtherdiscussions.
ItwastowardstheendofAugustthathervaguesurmisescrystallizedintorealities.Ruperthadgoneforafortnight’sholidaywithafriendwhohadamotorcycleandtrailer.ItwassometendaysafterhisdeparturethatMrs.St.Vincentwasstartledtoseehimrushintotheroomwhereshesatwriting.
“Rupert!”sheexclaimed.
“Iknow,Mother.Youdidn’texpecttoseemeforanotherthreedays.Butsomething’shappened.Anderson—mypal,youknow—didn’tmuchcarewherehewent,soIsuggestedhavingalookinatKing’sCheviot—”
“King’sCheviot?Butwhy—?”
“Youknowperfectlywell,Mother,thatI’vealwaysscentedsomethingfishyaboutthingshere.Well,Ihadalookattheoldplace—it’slet,youknow—nothingthere.NotthatIactuallyexpectedtofindanything—Iwasjustnosinground,sotospeak.”
Yes,shethought.Rupertwasverylikeadogatthismoment.Huntingincirclesforsomethingvagueandundefined,ledbyinstinct,busyandhappy.
“Itwaswhenwewerepassingthroughavillageabouteightorninemilesawaythatithappened—thatIsawhim,Imean.”
“Sawwhom?”
“Quentin—justgoingintoalittlecottage.Somethingfishyhere,Isaidtomyself,andwestoppedthebus,andIwentback.Irappedonthedoorandhehimselfopenedit.”
“ButIdon’tunderstand.Quentinhasn’tbeenaway—”
“I’mcomingtothat,Mother.Ifyou’donlylisten,andnotinterrupt.ItwasQuentin,anditwasn’tQuentin,ifyouknowwhatImean.”
Mrs.St.Vincentclearlydidnotknow,soheelucidatedmattersfurther.
“ItwasQuentinallright,butitwasn’tourQuentin.Itwastherealman.”
“Rupert!”
“Youlisten.Iwastakeninmyselfatfirst,andsaid:‘ItisQuentin,isn’tit?’AndtheoldJohnnysaid:‘Quiteright,sir,thatismyname.WhatcanIdoforyou?’AndthenIsawthatitwasn’tourman,thoughitwaspreciouslikehim,voiceandall.Iaskedafewquestions,anditallcameout.Theoldchaphadn’tanideaofanythingfishybeingon.He’dbeenbutlertoLordListerdaleallright,andwasretiredonapensionandgiventhiscottagejustaboutthetimethatLordListerdalewassupposedtohavegoneofftoAfrica.Youseewherethatleadsus.Thisman’sanimpostor—he’splayingthepartofQuentinforpurposesofhisown.Mytheoryisthathecameuptotownthatevening,pretendingtobethebutlerfromKing’sCheviot,gotaninterviewwithLordListerdale,killedhimandhidhisbodybehindthepanelling.It’sanoldhouse,there’ssuretobeasecretrecess—”
“Oh,don’tlet’sgointoallthatagain,”interruptedMrs.St.Vincentwildly.“Ican’tbearit.Whyshouldhe—that’swhatIwanttoknow—why?Ifhedidsuchathing—whichIdon’tbelieveforoneminute,mindyou—whatwasthereasonforitall?”
“You’reright,”saidRupert.“Motive—that’simportant.NowI’vemadeinquiries.LordListerdalehadalotofhouseproperty.InthelasttwodaysI’vediscoveredthatpracticallyeveryoneofthesehousesofhishasbeenletinthelasteighteenmonthstopeoplelikeourselvesforamerelynominalrent—andwiththeprovisothattheservantsshouldremain.AndineverycaseQuentinhimself—themancallinghimselfQuentin,Imean—hasbeenthereforpartofthetimeasbutler.Thatlooksasthoughthereweresomething—jewels,orpapers—secretedinoneofLordListerdale’shouses,andthegangdoesn’tknowwhich.I’massumingagang,butofcoursethisfellowQuentinmaybeinitsingle-handed.There’sa—”
Mrs.St.Vincentinterruptedhimwithacertainamountofdetermination:
“Rupert!Dostoptalkingforoneminute.You’remakingmyheadspin.Anyway,whatyouaresayingisnonsense—aboutgangsandhiddenpapers.”
“There’sanothertheory,”admittedRupert.“ThisQuentinmaybesomeonethatLordListerdalehasinjured.TherealbutlertoldmealongstoryaboutamancalledSamuelLowe—anunder-gardenerhewas,andaboutthesameheightandbuildasQuentinhimself.He’dgotagrudgeagainstListerdale—”
Mrs.St.Vincentstarted.
“Withnoconsiderationforothers.”Thewordscamebacktohermindintheirpassionless,measuredaccents.Inadequatewords,butwhatmighttheynotstandfor?
InherabsorptionshehardlylistenedtoRupert.Hemadearapidexplanationofsomethingthatshedidnottakein,andwenthurriedlyfromtheroom.
Thenshewokeup.WherehadRupertgone?Whatwashegoingtodo?Shehadnotcaughthislastwords.Perhapshewasgoingforthepolice.Inthatcase…
Sheroseabruptlyandrangthebell.Withhisusualpromptness,Quentinansweredit.
“Yourang,madam?”
“Yes.Comein,please,andshutthedoor.”
Thebutlerobeyed,andMrs.St.Vincentwassilentamomentwhilstshestudiedhimwithearnesteyes.
Shethought:“He’sbeenkindtome—nobodyknowshowkind.Thechildrenwouldn’tunderstand.ThiswildstoryofRupert’smaybeallnonsense—ontheotherhand,theremay—yes,theremay—besomethinginit.Whyshouldonejudge?Onecan’tknow.Therightsandwrongsofit,Imean…AndI’dstakemylife—yes,Iwould!—onhisbeingagoodman.”
Flushedandtremulous,shespoke.
“Quentin,Mr.Ruperthasjustgotback.HehasbeendowntoKing’sCheviot—toavillagenearthere—”
Shestopped,noticingthequickstarthewasnotabletoconceal.
“Hehas—seensomeone,”shewentoninmeasuredaccents.
Shethoughttoherself:“There—he’swarned.Atanyrate,he’swarned.”
Afterthatfirstquickstart,Quentinhadresumedhisunruffleddemeanour,buthiseyeswerefixedonherface,watchfulandkeen,withsomethinginthemshehadnotseentherebefore.Theywere,forthefirsttime,theeyesofamanandnotofaservant.
Hehesitatedforaminute,thensaidinavoicewhichalsohadsubtlychanged:
“Whydoyoutellmethis,Mrs.St.Vincent?”
Beforeshecouldanswer,thedoorflewopenandRupertstrodeintotheroom.Withhimwasadignifiedmiddle-agedmanwithlittlesidewhiskersandtheairofabenevolentarchbishop.Quentin!
“Hereheis,”saidRupert.“TherealQuentin.Ihadhimoutsideinthetaxi.Now,Quentin,lookatthismanandtellme—isheSamuelLowe?”
ItwasforRupertatriumphantmoment.Butitwasshort-lived,almostatoncehescentedsomethingwrong.ForwhiletherealQuentinwaslookingabashedandhighlyuncomfortablethesecondQuentinwassmiling,abroadsmileofundisguisedenjoyment.
Heslappedhisembarrassedduplicateontheback.
“It’sallright,Quentin.Gottoletthecatoutofthebagsometime,Isuppose.Youcantell’emwhoIam.”
Thedignifiedstrangerdrewhimselfup.
“This,sir,”heannounced,inareproachfultone,“ismymaster,LordListerdale,sir.”
Thenextminutebeheldmanythings.First,thecompletecollapseofthecocksureRupert.Beforeheknewwhatwashappening,hismouthstillopenfromtheshockofthediscovery,hefoundhimselfbeinggentlymanoeuvredtowardsthedoor,afriendlyvoicethatwas,andyetwasnot,familiarinhisear.
“It’squiteallright,myboy.Nobonesbroken.ButIwantawordwithyourmother.Verygoodworkofyours,toferretmeoutlikethis.”
Hewasoutsideonthelandinggazingattheshutdoor.TherealQuentinwasstandingbyhisside,agentlestreamofexplanationflowingfromhislips.InsidetheroomLordListerdalewasconfrontingMrs.St.Vincent.
“Letmeexplain—ifIcan!I’vebeenaselfishdevilallmylife—thefactcamehometomeoneday.IthoughtI’dtryalittlealtruismforachange,andbeingafantastickindoffool,Istartedmycareerfantastically.I’dsentsubscriptionstooddthings,butIfelttheneedofdoingsomething—well,somethingpersonal.I’vebeensorryalwaysfortheclassthatcan’tbeg,thatmustsufferinsilence—poorgentlefolk.Ihavealotofhouseproperty.Iconceivedtheideaofleasingthesehousestopeoplewho—well,neededandappreciatedthem.Youngcoupleswiththeirwaytomake,widowswithsonsanddaughtersstartingintheworld.Quentinhasbeenmorethanbutlertome,he’safriend.WithhisconsentandassistanceIborrowedhispersonality.I’vealwayshadatalentforacting.Theideacametomeonmywaytotheclubonenight,andIwentstraightofftotalkitoverwithQuentin.WhenIfoundtheyweremakingafussaboutmydisappearance,IarrangedthatalettershouldcomefrommeinEastAfrica.Init,Igavefullinstructionstomycousin,MauriceCarfax.And—well,that’sthelongandshortofit.”
Hebrokeoffratherlamely,withanappealingglanceatMrs.St.Vincent.Shestoodverystraight,andhereyesmethissteadily.
“Itwasakindplan,”shesaid.“Averyunusualone,andonethatdoesyoucredit.Iam—mostgrateful.But—ofcourse,youunderstandthatwecannotstay?”
“Iexpectedthat,”hesaid.“Yourpridewon’tletyouacceptwhatyou’dprobablystyle‘charity.’”
“Isn’tthatwhatitis?”sheaskedsteadily.
“No,”heanswered.“BecauseIasksomethinginexchange.”
“Something?”
“Everything.”Hisvoicerangout,thevoiceofoneaccustomedtodominate.
“WhenIwastwenty-three,”hewenton,“ImarriedthegirlIloved.Shediedayearlater.SincethenIhavebeenverylonely.IhavewishedverymuchIcouldfindacertainlady—theladyofmydreams….”
“AmIthat?”sheasked,verylow.“Iamsoold—sofaded.”
Helaughed.
“Old?Youareyoungerthaneitherofyourchildren.NowIamold,ifyoulike.”
Butherlaughrangoutinturn.Asoftrippleofamusement.
“You?Youareaboystill.Aboywholovestodressup.”
Sheheldoutherhandsandhecaughttheminhis.
AbouttheAuthor
AGATHACHRISTIEisthemostwidelypublishedauthorofalltime,outsoldonlybytheBibleandShakespeare.HerbookshavesoldmorethanabillioncopiesinEnglishandanotherbillioninahundredforeignlanguages.Shediedin1976.
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EPubEditionOCTOBER2013ISBN:9780062302274
10987654321
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TableofContents
Contents
TheListerdaleMystery
AbouttheAuthor
TheAgathaChristieCollection
Copyright
AboutthePublisher