Collins Chillers. Агата Кристи

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СКАЧАТЬ words from within, and the words attracted his attention immediately.

      ‘It’s a fair lump of money, it is.’

      Mrs Dinsmead’s voice answered. It was too faint in tone for Mortimer to hear the words, but Dinsmead replied:

      ‘Nigh on £60,000, the lawyer said.’

      Mortimer had no intention of eavesdropping, but he retraced his steps very thoughtfully. The mention of money seemed to crystallize the situation. Somewhere or other there was a question of £60,000—it made the thing clearer—and uglier.

      Magdalen came out of the house, but her father’s voice called her almost immediately, and she went in again. Presently Dinsmead himself joined his guest.

      ‘Rare good morning,’ he said genially. ‘I hope your car will be none the worse.’

      ‘Wants to find out when I’m going,’ thought Mortimer to himself.

      Aloud he thanked Mr Dinsmead once more for his timely hospitality.

      ‘Not at all, not at all,’ said the other.

      Magdalen and Charlotte came together out of the house, and strolled arm in arm to a rustic seat some little distance away. The dark head and the golden one made a pleasant contrast together, and on an impulse Mortimer said:

      ‘Your daughters are very unalike, Mr Dinsmead.’

      The other who was just lighting his pipe gave a sharp jerk of the wrist, and dropped the match.

      ‘Do you think so?’ he asked. ‘Yes, well, I suppose they are.’

      Mortimer had a flash of intuition.

      ‘But of course they are not both your daughters,’ he said smoothly.

      He saw Dinsmead look at him, hesitate for a moment, and then make up his mind.

      ‘That’s very clever of you, sir,’ he said. ‘No, one of them is a foundling, we took her in as a baby and we have brought her up as our own. She herself has not the least idea of the truth, but she’ll have to know soon.’ He sighed.

      ‘A question of inheritance?’ suggested Mortimer quietly.

      The other flashed a suspicious look at him.

      Then he seemed to decide that frankness was best; his manner became almost aggressively frank and open.

      ‘It’s odd that you should say that, sir.’

      ‘A case of telepathy, eh?’ said Mortimer, and smiled.

      ‘It is like this, sir. We took her in to oblige the mother—for a consideration, as at the time I was just starting in the building trade. A few months ago I noticed an advertisement in the papers, and it seemed to me that the child in question must be our Magdalen. I went to see the lawyers, and there has been a lot of talk one way and another. They were suspicious—naturally, as you might say, but everything is cleared up now. I am taking the girl herself to London next week, she doesn’t know anything about it so far. Her father, it seems, was one of these rich Jewish gentlemen. He only learnt of the child’s existence a few months before his death. He set agents on to try and trace her, and left all his money to her when she should be found.’

      Mortimer listened with close attention. He had no reason to doubt Mr Dinsmead’s story. It explained Magdalen’s dark beauty; explained too, perhaps, her aloof manner. Nevertheless, though the story itself might be true, something lay behind it undivulged.

      But Mortimer had no intention of rousing the other’s suspicions. Instead, he must go out of his way to allay them.

      ‘A very interesting story, Mr Dinsmead,’ he said. ‘I congratulate Miss Magdalen. An heiress and a beauty, she has a great time ahead of her.’

      ‘She has that,’ agreed her father warmly, ‘and she’s a rare good girl too, Mr Cleveland.’

      There was every evidence of hearty warmth in his manner.

      ‘Well,’ said Mortimer, ‘I must be pushing along now, I suppose. I have got to thank you once more, Mr Dinsmead, for your singularly well-timed hospitality.’

      Accompanied by his host, he went into the house to bid farewell to Mrs Dinsmead. She was standing by the window with her back to them, and did not hear them enter. At her husband’s jovial: ‘Here’s Mr Cleveland come to say goodbye,’ she started nervously and swung round, dropping something which she held in her hand. Mortimer picked it up for her. It was a miniature of Charlotte done in the style of some twenty-five years ago. Mortimer repeated to her the thanks he had already proffered to her husband. He noticed again her look of fear and the furtive glances that she shot at him from beneath her eyelids.

      The two girls were not in evidence, but it was not part of Mortimer’s policy to seem anxious to see them; also he had his own idea, which was shortly to prove correct.

      He had gone about half a mile from the house on his way down to where he had left the car the night before, when the bushes on the side of the path were thrust aside, and Magdalen came out on the track ahead of him.

      ‘I had to see you,’ she said.

      ‘I expected you,’ said Mortimer. ‘It was you who wrote S.O.S. on the table in my room last night, wasn’t it?’

      Magdalen nodded.

      ‘Why?’ asked Mortimer gently.

      The girl turned aside and began pulling off leaves from a bush.

      ‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘honestly, I don’t know.’

      ‘Tell me,’ said Mortimer.

      Magdalen drew a deep breath.

      ‘I am a practical person,’ she said, ‘not the kind of person who imagines things or fancies them. You, I know, believe in ghosts and spirits. I don’t, and when I tell you that there is something very wrong in that house,’ she pointed up the hill, ‘I mean that there is something tangibly wrong; it’s not just an echo of the past. It has been coming on ever since we’ve been there. Every day it grows worse, Father is different, Mother is different, Charlotte is different.’

      Mortimer interposed. ‘Is Johnnie different?’ he asked.

      Magdalen looked at him, a dawning appreciation in her eyes. ‘No,’ she said, ‘now I come to think of it, Johnnie is not different. He is the only one who’s—who’s untouched by it all. He was untouched last night at tea.’

      ‘And you?’ asked Mortimer.

      ‘I was afraid—horribly afraid, just like a child—without knowing what it was I was afraid of. And father was—queer, there’s no other word for it, queer. He talked about miracles and then I prayed—actually prayed for a miracle, and you knocked on the door.’

      She stopped abruptly, staring at him.

      ‘I seem mad to you, I suppose,’ she said defiantly.

      ‘No,’ said Mortimer, ‘on СКАЧАТЬ