Sleeping Murder. Агата Кристи

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ we have a gentleman in the house,’ she seemed to be saying, ‘who knows? A nursery may be needed.’

      Gwenda blushed. She looked round the room. A nursery? Yes, it would be a nice nursery. She began furnishing it in her mind. A big dolls’ house there against the wall. And low cupboards with toys in them. A fire burning cheerfully in the grate and a tall guard round it with things airing on the rail. But not this hideous mustard wall. No, she would have a gay wallpaper. Something bright and cheerful. Little bunches of poppies alternating with bunches of cornflowers … Yes, that would be lovely. She’d try and find a wallpaper like that. She felt sure she had seen one somewhere.

      One didn’t need much furniture in the room. There were two built-in cupboards, but one of them, a corner one, was locked and the key lost. Indeed the whole thing had been painted over, so that it could not have been opened for many years. She must get the men to open it up before they left. As it was, she hadn’t got room for all her clothes.

      She felt more at home every day in Hillside. Hearing a throat being ponderously cleared and a short dry cough through the open window, she hurried over her breakfast. Foster, the temperamental jobbing gardener, who was not always reliable in his promises, must be here today as he had said he would be.

      Gwenda bathed, dressed, put on a tweed skirt and a sweater and hurried out into the garden. Foster was at work outside the drawing-room window. Gwenda’s first action had been to get a path made down through the rockery at this point. Foster had been recalcitrant, pointing out that the forsythia would have to go and the weigela, and them there lilacs, but Gwenda had been adamant, and he was now almost enthusiastic about his task.

      He greeted her with a chuckle.

      ‘Looks like you’re going back to old times, miss.’ (He persisted in calling Gwenda ‘miss’.)

      ‘Old times? How?’

      Foster tapped with his spade.

      ‘I come on the old steps—see, that’s where they went—just as you want ’em now. Then someone planted them over and covered them up.’

      ‘It was very stupid of them,’ said Gwenda. ‘You want a vista down to the lawn and the sea from the drawing-room window.’

      Foster was somewhat hazy about a vista—but he gave a cautious and grudging assent.

      ‘I don’t say, mind you, that it won’t be an improvement … Gives you a view—and them shrubs made it dark in the drawing-room. Still they was growing a treat—never seen a healthier lot of forsythia. Lilacs isn’t much, but them wiglers costs money—and mind you—they’re too old to replant.’

      ‘Oh, I know. But this is much, much nicer.’

      ‘Well.’ Foster scratched his head. ‘Maybe it is.’

      ‘It’s right,’ said Gwenda, nodding her head. She asked suddenly, ‘Who lived here before the Hengraves? They weren’t here very long, were they?’

      ‘Matter of six years or so. Didn’t belong. Afore them? The Miss Elworthys. Very churchy folk. Low church. Missions to the heathen. Once had a black clergyman staying here, they did. Four of ’em there was, and their brother—but he didn’t get much of a look-in with all those women. Before them—now let me see, it was Mrs Findeyson—ah! she was the real gentry, she was. She belonged. Was living here afore I was born.’

      ‘Did she die here?’ asked Gwenda.

      ‘Died out in Egypt or some such place. But they brought her home. She’s buried up to churchyard. She planted that magnolia and those labiurnams. And those pittispores. Fond of shrubs, she was.’

      Foster continued: ‘Weren’t none of those new houses built up along the hill then. Countrified, it was. No cinema then. And none of them new shops. Or that there parade on the front.’ His tone held the disapproval of the aged for all innovations. ‘Changes,’ he said with a snort. ‘Nothing but changes.’

      ‘I suppose things are bound to change,’ said Gwenda. ‘And after all there are lots of improvements nowadays, aren’t there?’

      ‘So they say. I ain’t noticed them. Changes!’ He gestured towards the macrocarpa hedge on the left through which the gleam of a building showed. ‘Used to be the cottage hospital, that used,’ he said. ‘Nice place and handy. Then they goes and builds a great place near to a mile out of town. Twenty minutes’ walk if you want to get there on a visiting day—or threepence on the bus.’ He gestured once more towards the hedge … ‘It’s a girls’ school now. Moved in ten years ago. Changes all the time. People takes a house nowadays and lives in it ten or twelve years and then off they goes. Restless. What’s the good of that? You can’t do any proper planting unless you can look well ahead.’

      Gwenda looked affectionately at the magnolia.

      ‘Like Mrs Findeyson,’ she said.

      ‘Ah. She was the proper kind. Come here as a bride, she did. Brought up her children and married them, buried her husband, had her grandchildren down in the summers, and took off in the end when she was nigh on eighty.’

      Foster’s tone held warm approval.

      Gwenda went back into the house smiling a little.

      She interviewed the workmen, and then returned to the drawing-room where she sat down at the desk and wrote some letters. Amongst the correspondence that remained to be answered was a letter from some cousins of Giles who lived in London. Any time she wanted to come to London they begged her to come and stay with them at their house in Chelsea.

      Raymond West was a well-known (rather than popular) novelist and his wife Joan, Gwenda knew, was a painter. It would be fun to go and stay with them, though probably they would think she was a most terrible Philistine. Neither Giles nor I are a bit highbrow, reflected Gwenda.

      A sonorous gong boomed pontifically from the hall. Surrounded by a great deal of carved and tortured black wood, the gong had been one of Giles’s aunt’s prized possessions. Mrs Cocker herself appeared to derive distinct pleasure from sounding it and always gave full measure. Gwenda put her hands to her ears and got up.

      She walked quickly across the drawing-room to the wall by the far window and then brought herself up short with an exclamation of annoyance. It was the third time she’d done that. She always seemed to expect to be able to walk through solid wall into the dining-room next door.

      She went back across the room and out into the front hall and then round the angle of the drawing-room wall and so along to the dining-room. It was a long way round, and it would be annoying in winter, for the front hall was draughty and the only central heating was in the drawing-room and dining-room and two bedrooms upstairs.

      I don’t see, thought Gwenda to herself as she sat down at the charming Sheraton dining table which she had just bought at vast expanse in lieu of Aunt Lavender’s massive square mahogany one, I don’t see why I shouldn’t have a doorway made through from the drawing-room to the dining-room. I’ll talk to Mr Sims about it when he comes this afternoon.

      Mr Sims was the builder and decorator, a persuasive middle-aged man with a husky voice and a little notebook which he always held at the ready, to jot down any expensive idea that might occur to his patrons.

      Mr Sims, when consulted, was keenly appreciative.

      ‘Simplest СКАЧАТЬ