At Bertram’s Hotel. Агата Кристи

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СКАЧАТЬ said Lady Selina, rather indistinctly, owing to muffin. ‘And I thought as I was up, I might as well go and see that man in Harley Street about my arthritis. You know who I mean.’

      Although Harley Street contained several hundreds of fashionable practitioners for all and every ailment, Luscombe did know whom she meant.

      ‘Do you any good?’ he asked.

      ‘I rather think he did,’ said Lady Selina grudgingly. ‘Extraordinary fellow. Took me by the neck when I wasn’t expecting it, and wrung it like a chicken.’ She moved her neck gingerly.

      ‘Hurt you?’

      ‘It must have done, twisting it like that, but really I hadn’t time to know.’ She continued to move her neck gingerly. ‘Feels all right. Can look over my right shoulder for the first time in years.’

      She put this to a practical test and exclaimed, ‘Why I do believe that’s old Jane Marple. Thought she was dead years ago. Looks a hundred.’

      Colonel Luscombe threw a glance in the direction of Jane Marple thus resurrected, but without much interest: Bertram’s always had a sprinkling of what he called fluffy old pussies.

      Lady Selina was continuing.

      ‘Only place in London you can still get muffins. Real muffins. Do you know when I went to America last year they had something called muffins on the breakfast menu. Not real muffins at all. Kind of teacake with raisins in them. I mean, why call them muffins?’

      She pushed in the last buttery morsel and looked round vaguely. Henry materialized immediately. Not quickly or hurriedly. It seemed that, just suddenly, he was there.

      ‘Anything further I can get you, my lady? Cake of any kind?’

      ‘Cake?’ Lady Selina thought about it, was doubtful.

      ‘We are serving very good seed cake, my lady. I can recommend it.’

      ‘Seed cake? I haven’t eaten seed cake for years. It is real seed cake?’

      ‘Oh, yes, my lady. The cook has had the recipe for years. You’ll enjoy it, I’m sure.’

      Henry gave a glance at one of his retinue, and the lad departed in search of seed cake.

      ‘I suppose you’ve been at Newbury, Derek?’

      ‘Yes. Darned cold, I didn’t wait for the last two races. Disastrous day. That filly of Harry’s was no good at all.’

      ‘Didn’t think she would be. What about Swanhilda?’

      ‘Finished fourth.’ Luscombe rose. ‘Got to see about my room.’

      He walked across the lounge to the reception desk. As he went he noted the tables and their occupants. Astonishing number of people having tea here. Quite like old days. Tea as a meal had rather gone out of fashion since the war. But evidently not at Bertram’s. Who were all these people? Two Canons and the Dean of Chislehampton. Yes, and another pair of gaitered legs over in the corner, a Bishop, no less! Mere Vicars were scarce. ‘Have to be at least a Canon to afford Bertram’s,’ he thought. The rank and file of the clergy certainly couldn’t, poor devils. As far as that went, he wondered how on earth people like old Selina Hazy could. She’d only got twopence or so a year to bless herself with. And there was old Lady Berry, and Mrs Posselthwaite from Somerset, and Sybil Kerr—all poor as church mice.

      Still thinking about this he arrived at the desk and was pleasantly greeted by Miss Gorringe the receptionist. Miss Gorringe was an old friend. She knew every one of the clientele and, like Royalty, never forgot a face. She looked frumpy but respectable. Frizzled yellowish hair (old-fashioned tongs, it suggested), black silk dress, a high bosom on which reposed a large gold locket and a cameo brooch.

      ‘Number fourteen,’ said Miss Gorringe. ‘I think you had fourteen last time, Colonel Luscombe, and liked it. It’s quiet.’

      ‘How you always manage to remember these things, I can’t imagine, Miss Gorringe.’

      ‘We like to make our old friends comfortable.’

      ‘Takes me back a long way, coming in here. Nothing seems to have changed.’

      He broke off as Mr Humfries came out from an inner sanctum to greet him.

      Mr Humfries was often taken by the uninitiated to be Mr Bertram in person. Who the actual Mr Bertram was, or indeed, if there ever had been a Mr Bertram was now lost in the mists of antiquity. Bertram’s had existed since about 1840, but nobody had taken any interest in tracing its past history. It was just there, solid, in fact. When addressed as Mr Bertram, Mr Humfries never corrected the impression. If they wanted him to be Mr Bertram he would be Mr Bertram. Colonel Luscombe knew his name, though he didn’t know if Humfries was the manager or the owner. He rather fancied the latter.

      Mr Humfries was a man of about fifty. He had very good manners, and the presence of a Junior Minister. He could, at any moment, be all things to all people. He could talk racing shop, cricket, foreign politics, tell anecdotes of Royalty, give Motor Show information, knew the most interesting plays on at present—advise on places Americans ought really to see in England however short their stay. He had knowledgeable information about where it would suit persons of all incomes and tastes to dine. With all this, he did not make himself too cheap. He was not on tap all the time. Miss Gorringe had all the same facts at her fingertips and could retail them efficiently. At brief intervals Mr Humfries, like the sun, made his appearance above the horizon and flattered someone by his personal attention.

      This time it was Colonel Luscombe who was so honoured. They exchanged a few racing platitudes, but Colonel Luscombe was absorbed by his problem. And here was the man who could give him the answer.

      ‘Tell me, Humfries, how do all these old dears manage to come and stay here?’

      ‘Oh you’ve been wondering about that?’ Mr Humfries seemed amused. ‘Well, the answer’s simple. They couldn’t afford it. Unless—’

      He paused.

      ‘Unless you make special prices for them? Is that it?’

      ‘More or less. They don’t know, usually, that they are special prices, or if they do realize it, they think it’s because they’re old customers.’

      ‘And it isn’t just that?’

      ‘Well, Colonel Luscombe, I am running a hotel. I couldn’t afford actually to lose money.’

      ‘But how can that pay you?’

      ‘It’s a question of atmosphere … Strangers coming to this country (Americans, in particular, because they are the ones who have the money) have their own rather queer ideas of what England is like. I’m not talking, you understand, of the rich business tycoons who are always crossing the Atlantic. They usually go to the Savoy or the Dorchester. They want modern décor, American food, all the things that will make them feel at home. But there are a lot of people who come abroad at rare intervals and who expect this country to be—well, I won’t go back as far as Dickens, but they’ve read Cranford and Henry James, and they don’t want to find this country just the same as their own! СКАЧАТЬ