Detectives and Young Adventurers: The Complete Short Stories. Agatha Christie

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СКАЧАТЬ the doorway of the house a white-capped maid-servant was standing, almost speechless with indignation.

      ‘Did you ever see the likes of that now, Father,’ she burst out, as Tommy ascended the steps. ‘That fellow comes here, asks for the young lady, rushes upstairs without how or by your leave. She lets out a screech like a wild cat – and what wonder, poor pretty dear, and straightaway he comes rushing down again, with the white face on him, like one who’s seen a ghost. What will be the meaning of it all?’

      ‘Who are you talking with at the front door, Ellen?’ demanded a sharp voice from the interior of the hall.

      ‘Here’s Missus,’ said Ellen, somewhat unnecessarily.

      She drew back, and Tommy found himself confronting a grey-haired, middle-aged woman, with frosty blue eyes imperfectly concealed by pince-nez, and a spare figure clad in black with bugle trimming.

      ‘Mrs Honeycott?’ said Tommy. ‘I came here to see Miss Glen.’

      ‘Mrs Honeycott gave him a sharp glance, then went on to Tuppence and took in every detail of her appearance.

      ‘Oh, you did, did you?’ she said. ‘Well, you’d better come inside.’

      She led the way into the hall and along it into a room at the back of the house, facing on the garden. It was a fair-sized room, but looked smaller than it was, owing to the large amount of chairs and tables crowded into it. A big fire burned in the grate, and a chintz-covered sofa stood at one side of it. The wallpaper was a small grey stripe with a festoon of roses round the top. Quantities of engravings and oil paintings covered the walls.

      It was a room almost impossible to associate with the expensive personality of Miss Gilda Glen.

      ‘Sit down,’ said Mrs Honeycott. ‘To begin with, you’ll excuse me if I say I don’t hold with the Roman Catholic religion. Never did I think to see a Roman Catholic priest in my house. But if Gilda’s gone over to the Scarlet Woman, it’s only what’s to be expected in a life like hers – and I dare say it might be worse. She mightn’t have any religion at all. I should think more of Roman Catholics if their priests were married – I always speak my mind. And to think of those convents – quantities of beautiful young girls shut up there, and no one knowing what becomes of them – well, it won’t bear thinking about.’

      Mrs Honeycott came to a full stop, and drew a deep breath.

      Without entering upon a defence of the celibacy of the priesthood or the other controversial points touched upon, Tommy went straight to the point.

      ‘I understand, Mrs Honeycott, that Miss Glen is in this house.’

      ‘She is. Mind you, I don’t approve. Marriage is marriage and your husband’s your husband. As you make your bed, so you must lie on it.’

      ‘I don’t quite understand –’ began Tommy, bewildered.

      ‘I thought as much. That’s the reason I brought you in here. You can go up to Gilda after I’ve spoken my mind. She came to me – after all these years, think of it! – and asked me to help her. Wanted me to see this man and persuade him to agree to a divorce. I told her straight out I’d have nothing whatever to do with it. Divorce is sinful. But I couldn’t refuse my own sister shelter in my house, could I now?’

      ‘Your sister?’ exclaimed Tommy.

      ‘Yes, Gilda’s my sister. Didn’t she tell you?’

      Tommy stared at her openmouthed. The thing seemed fantastically impossible. Then he remembered that the angelic beauty of Gilda Glen had been in evidence for many years. He had been taken to see her act as quite a small boy. Yes, it was possible after all. But what a piquant contrast. So it was from this lower middle-class respectability that Gilda Glen had sprung. How well she had guarded her secret!

      ‘I am not yet quite clear,’ he said. ‘Your sister is married?’

      ‘Ran away to be married as a girl of seventeen,’ said Mrs Honeycott succinctly. ‘Some common fellow far below her in station. And our father a reverend. It was a disgrace. Then she left her husband and went on the stage. Play-acting! I’ve never been inside a theatre in my life. I hold no truck with wickedness. Now, after all these years, she wants to divorce the man. Means to marry some big wig, I suppose. But her husband’s standing firm – not to be bullied and not to be bribed – I admire him for it.’

      ‘What is his name?’ asked Tommy suddenly.

      ‘That’s an extraordinary thing now, but I can’t remember! It’s nearly twenty years ago, you know, since I heard it. My father forbade it to be mentioned. And I’ve refused to discuss the matter with Gilda. She knows what I think, and that’s enough for her.’

      ‘It wasn’t Reilly, was it?’

      ‘Might have been. I really can’t say. It’s gone clean out of my head.’

      ‘The man I mean was here just now.’

      ‘That man! I thought he was an escaped lunatic. I’d been in the kitchen giving orders to Ellen. I’d just got back into this room, and was wondering whether Gilda had come in yet (she has a latchkey), when I heard her. She hesitated a minute or two in the hall and then went straight upstairs. About three minutes later all this tremendous rat-tatting began. I went out into the hall, and just saw a man rushing upstairs. Then there was a sort of cry upstairs, and presently down he came again and rushed out like a madman. Pretty goings on.’

      Tommy rose.

      ‘Mrs Honeycott, let us go upstairs at once. I am afraid –’

      ‘What of?’

      ‘Afraid that you have no red wet paint in the house.’

      Mrs Honeycott stared at him.

      ‘Of course I haven’t.’

      ‘That is what I feared,’ said Tommy gravely. ‘Please let us go to your sister’s room at once.’

      Momentarily silenced, Mrs Honeycott led the way. They caught a glimpse of Ellen in the hall, backing hastily into one of the rooms.

      Mrs Honeycott opened the first door at the top of the stairs. Tommy and Tuppence entered close behind her.

      Suddenly she gave a gasp and fell back.

      A motionless figure in black and ermine lay stretched on the sofa. The face was untouched, a beautiful soulless face like a mature child asleep. The wound was on the side of the head, a heavy blow with some blunt instrument had crushed in the skull. Blood was dripping slowly on to the floor, but the wound itself had long ceased to bleed . . .

      Tommy examined the prostrate figure, his face very white.

      ‘So,’ he said at last, ‘he didn’t strangle her after all.’

      ‘What do you mean? Who?’ cried Mrs Honeycott. ‘Is she dead?’

      ‘Oh, yes, Mrs Honeycott, she’s dead. Murdered. The question is – by whom? Not that it is much of a question. Funny – for all his ranting words, I didn’t think the fellow had got it in him.’

      He СКАЧАТЬ