Crooked House by Agatha Christie
"Oh no," she said. "It isn't a rotten idea
at all. It's the only thing that might be any
good. Your father, Charles, knows exactly
what's been going on in my mind. He
knows better than you do."
With sudden almost despairing vehemence, she drove one clenched hand into
the palm of the other.
"I've got to have the truth. I've got to
know."
"Because of us? But, dearest --"
"Not only because of us, Charles. I've
got to know for my own peace of mind.
You see, Charles, I didn't tell you last night
-- but the truth is -- I'm afraid."
"Afraid?"
"Yes -- afraid -- afraid -- afraid. The
police think, your father thinks, everybody
thinks -- that it was Brenda."
"The probabilities --"
"Oh yes, it's quite probable. It's possible.
But when I say, 'Brenda probably did it'
I'm quite conscious that it's only wishful
thinking. Because, you see, I don't really
think so." ^
"You don't think so?" I said slowly.
"I don't know. You've heard about it all
from the outside as I wanted you to. Now
I'll show it to you from the inside. I simply
don't feel that Brenda is that kind of a
person ? she's not the sort of person, I
a feel, who would ever do anything that might
involve her in any danger. She's far too
careful of herself."
"How about this young man? Laurence
Brown."
"Laurence is a complete rabbit. He
wouldn't have the guts." ^
"I wonder."
"Yes, we don't really know, do we? I
mean, people are capable of surprising one
frightfully. One gets an idea of them into
one's head, and sometimes it's absolutely
wrong. Not always ? but sometimes. But
all the same, Brenda ?" she shook her
head ? "she's always acted so completely
in character. She's what I call the harem
type. Likes sitting about and eating sweets
and having nice clothes and jewellery and
reading cheap novels and going to the
cinema. And it's a queer thing to say, when
one remembers that he was eighty five, but
I really think she was rather thrilled by
grandfather. He had a power, you know. I
should imagine he could make a woman
feel ? oh ? rather like a queen ? the
Sultan's favourite! I think -- I've always
thought -- that he made Brenda feel as
though she were an exciting romantic
person. He's been clever with women all
his life -- and that kind of thing is a sort
of art -- you don't lose the knack of it, however old you are."
p I left the problem of Brenda for the
(homent and harked back to a phrase of
Sophia's which had disturbed me.
"Why did you say," I asked, "that you were afraid?" a
Sophia shivered a little and pressed her
hands together.
I? "Because it's true," she said in a low
voice. "It's very important, Charles, that I
should make you understand this. You see, we're a very queer family . . . There's a
lot of ruthlessness in us -- and -- different
kinds of ruthlessness. That's what's so
disturbing. The different kinds."
She must have seen incomprehension in
my face. She went on, speaking energetically.
"I'll try and make what I mean clear.
Grandfather, for instance. Once when he
was telling us about his boyhood in Smyrna, he mentioned, quite casually, that he had
stabbed two men. It was some kind of a
brawl -- there had been some unforgivable
insult -- I don't know -- but it was just a
thing that had happened quite naturally.
He'd really practically forgotten about it.
But it was, somehow, such a queer thing
to hear about, quite casually, in England."
I nodded.
"That's one kind of ruthlessness," went
on Sophia, "and then there was my grandmother.
I only just remember her, but I've
heard a good deal about her. I think she
might have had the ruthlessness that comes
from having no imagination whatever. All
those foxhunting forbears -- and the old
Generals, the shoot 'em down type. Full of
rectitude and arrogance, and not a bit afraid
of taking responsibility in matters of life
and death."
"Isn't that a bit far fetched?"
"Yes, I daresay -- but I'm always rather
afraid of that type. It's full of rectitude but
it is ruthless. And then there's my own
mother -- she's an actress -- she's a darling, but she's got absolutely no sense of proportion.
She's one of those unconscious egoists
who can only see things in relation as to
how it affects them. That's rather frightening, sometimes, you know. And there's
Clemency, Uncle Roger's wife. She's a
scientist -- she's doing some kind of very
important research -- she's ruthless too, in
a kind of coldblooded impersonal way.
Uncle Roger's the exact opposite -- he's
the kindest and most lovable person in the
world, but he's got a really terrific temper.
Things make his blood boil and then he
hardly knows what he's doing. And there's
father--"
She made a long pause.
"Father," she said slowly, "is almost too
well controlled. You never know what he's
thinking. He never shows any emotion at
all. It's probably a kind of unconscious self
defence against mother's absolute orgies of
emotion, but sometimes -- it worries me a
I little."
"My dear child," I said, "you're working
yourself up unnecessarily. What it comes
to in the end is that everybody, perhaps, is
B capable of murder."
"I suppose that's true. Even me."
"Not you!"
"Oh yes, Charles, you can't make me an
exception. I suppose I could murder someone
. . ." She was silent a moment or two,
then added, "But if so, it would have to be
for something really worth while!"
| I laughed then. I couldn't help it. And
Sophia smiled.
"Perhaps I'm a fool," she said, "but
we've got to find out the truth about
grandfather's death. We've got to. If only
it was Brenda ..."
I felt suddenly rather sorry for Brenda
Leonides.
jsaa
^t<
Five
Along the path towards us came a tall figure
walking briskly. It had on a battered old
felt hat, a shapeless skirt 5 and a rather
cumbersome jersey.
"Aunt Edith," said Sophia.
The figure paused once or twice, stooping
to the flower borders, then it advanced
upon us. I rose to my feet.
"This is Charles Hayward, Aunt Edith.
My aunt. Miss de Haviland."
Edith de Haviland was a woman of about
seventy. She had a mass of untidy grey
hair, a weather beaten face and a sh
rewd
and piercing glance.
"How d'ye do?" she said. "I've heard
about you. Back from the East. How's your
father?"
Rather surprised, I said he was very well.
"Knew him when he was a boy," said
Miss de Haviland. "Knew his mother very
well. You look rather like her. Have you
come to help us -- or the other thing?"
"I hope to help," I said rather uncomfortably.
She nodded.
"We could do with some help. Place
swarming with policemen. Pop out at you
all over the place. Don't like some of the
types. A boy who's been to a decent school
oughtn't to go into the police. Saw Moyra
Kinoul's boy the other day holding up the
traffic at Marble Arch. Makes you feel you
don't know where you are!"
She turned to Sophia:
"Nannie's asking for you, Sophia. Fish."
"Bother," said Sophia. "I'll go and
telephone about it." T
She walked briskly towards the house.
Miss de Haviland turned and walked slowly
in the same direction. I fell into step beside
her.
"Don't know what we'd all do without
Nannies," said Miss de Haviland. "Nearly
everybody's got an old Nannie. They come
back and wash and iron and cook and do
housework. Faithful. Chose this one myself
-- years ago."
She stooped and pulled viciously at an
entangling twining bit of green.
"Hateful stuff-- bindweed! Worst weed
there is! Choking, entangling -- and you
can't get at it properly, runs along underground."
With her heel she ground the handful of
greenstuff viciously underfoot.
"This is a bad business, Charles Hayward,"
she said. She was looking towards
the house. "What do the police think about
it? Suppose I mustn't ask you that. Seems
odd to think of Aristide being poisoned.
For that matter it seems odd to think of
him being dead. I never liked him -- never!
But I can't get used to the idea of his being
dead . . . Makes the house seem so --
empty."
I said nothing. For all her curt way of
speech, Edith de Haviland seemed in a
reminiscent mood.
"Was thinking this morning -- I've lived
here a long time. Over forty years. Came
here when my sister died. He asked me to.
Seven children -- and the youngest only a
year old ... Couldn't leave 'em to be
brought up by a dago, could I? An
impossible marriage, of course. I always felt
Marcia must have been -- well -- bewitched.
Ugly common little foreigner! He
gave me a free hand -- I will say that.
Nurses, governesses, schools. And proper
wholesome nursery food ? not those queer
spiced rice dishes he used to eat."
"And you've been here ever since?" I
murmured.
"Yes. Queer in a way ... I could have
left, I suppose, when the children grew up
and married ... I suppose, really, I'd got
interested in the garden. And then there
was Philip. If a man marries an actress he
can't expect to have any home life. Don't
know why actresses have children. As soon
as a baby's born they rush off and play in
Repertory in Edinburgh or somewhere as
remote as possible. Philip did the sensible
thing ? moved in here with his books."
"What does Philip Leonides do?" ^
"Writes books. Can't think why. Nobody ?
wants to read them. All about obscure
historical details. You've never even heard
of them, have you?"
I admitted it.
"Too much money, that's what he's had,"
said Miss de Haviland. "Most people have
to stop being cranks and earn a living."
"Don't his books pay?"
"Of course not. He's supposed to be a
great authority on certain periods and all
that. But he doesn't have to make his books
pay ? Aristide settled something like a I
hundred thousand pounds -- something
quite fantastic -- on him! To avoid death
duties! Aristide made them all financially
independent. Roger runs Associated Catering
-- Sophia has a very handsome allowance.
The children's money is in trust for
them."
"So no one gains particularly by his
death?"
She threw me a strange glance.
"Yes, they do. They all get more money.
But they could probably have had it, if they
asked for it, anyway."
"Have you any idea who poisoned him, Miss de Haviland?"
She replied characteristically: fer
"No, indeed I haven't. It's upset me very
much! Not nice to think one has a Borgia
sort of person loose about the house. I
suppose the police will fasten on poor
Brenda."
"You don't think they'll be right in doing
so?"
"I simply can't tell. She's always seemed
to me a singularly stupid and commonplace
young woman -- rather conventional. Not
my idea of a poisoner. Still, after all, if a
young woman of twenty four marries a man
close on eighty, it's fairly obvious that she's
marrying him for his money. In the normal
course of events she could have expected
to become a rich widow fairly soon. But
Aristide was a singularly tough old man.
His diabetes wasn't getting any worse. He
really looked like living to be a hundred. I
suppose she got tired of waiting . . ." "In that case," I said, and stopped.
"In that case," said Miss de Haviland . briskly, "it will be more or less all right.
Annoying publicity, of course. But after all,
she isn't one of the family."
"You've no other ideas?" I asked.
"What other ideas should I have?"
I wondered. I had a suspicion that there
might be more going on under the battered
felt hat than I knew. |
Behind the jerky, almost disconnected
utterance, there was, I thought, a very
shrewd brain at work. Just for a moment I
even wondered whether Miss de Haviland
had poisoned Aristide Leonides herself.
. . .
It did not seem an impossible idea. At
the back of my mind was the way she had
ground the bindweed into the soil with her
heel with a kind of vindictive thoroughness.
I remembered the word Sophia had used.
Ruthlessness. |
I stole a sideways glance at Edith de
Haviland.
Given good and sufficient reason. . . .
But what exactly would seem to Edith de
Haviland good and sufficient reason?
To answer that, I should have to know
her better.
m
h
Six
The front door was open. We passed through
it into a rather surprisingly spacious hall.
It was furnished with restraint ? wellpolished
dark oak and gleaming brass
. At
the back, where the staircase would normally
appear, was a white panelled wall with a
door in it.
"My brother-in-law's part of the house,"
said Miss de Haviland. "The ground floor
is Philip and Magda's."
We went through a doorway on the left
into a large drawing room. It had pale blue
panelled walls, furniture covered in heavy
brocade, and on every available table and
on the walls were hung photographs and
pictures of actors, dancers and stage scenes
and designs. A Degas of ballet dancers hung
over the mantelpiece. There were masses of
flowers, enormous brown chrysanthemums
and great vases of carnations.
"I suppose," said Miss de Haviland,
"that you want to see Philip?"
Did I want to see Philip? I had no idea.
All I had wanted to do was to see Sophia.
That I had done. She had given emphatic
encouragement to the Old Man's plan ?
but she had now receded from the scene
and was presumably somewhere telephoning
about fish, having given me no indication
of how to proceed. Was I to approach Philip
Leonides as a young man anxious to marry
his daughter, or as a casual friend who had
dropped in (surely not at such a moment!)
or as an associate of the police?
Miss de Haviland gave me no time to
consider her question. It was, indeed, not
a question at all, but more an assertion.
I Miss de Haviland, I judged, was more
inclined to assert than to question.
"We'll go to the library," she said. ^
She led me out of the drawing room,
along a corridor and in through another
door.
It was a big room, full of books. The
books did not confine themselves to the
bookcases that reached up to the ceiling.
They were on chairs and tables and even
on the floor. And yet there was no sense of
disarray about them.
The room was cold. There was some
smell absent in it that I was conscious of
having expected. It smelt of the mustiness
of old books and just a little of beeswax. In
a second or two I realised what I missed.
It was the scent of tobacco. Philip Leonides
was not a smoker.
He got up from behind his table as we
entered -- a tall man aged somewhere
around fifty, an extraordinarily handsome
man. Everyone had laid so much emphasis
on the ugliness of Aristide Leonides, that
for some reason I expected his son to be
ugly too. Certainly I was not prepared for
this perfection of feature -- the straight
nose, the flawless line of jaw, the fair hair
touched with grey that swept back from a
well shaped forehead.
"This is Charles Hayward, Philip," said
Edith de Haviland.
"Ah, how do you do?"
I could not tell if he had ever heard of
me. The hand he gave me was cold. His
face was quite incurious. It made me rather
nervous. He stood there, patient and uninterested.
"Where are those awful policemen?"
demanded Miss de Haviland. "Have they
been in here?"
"I believe Chief Inspector --" (he glanced
down at a card on the desk) "er -- Taverner
is coming to talk to me presently."
"Where is he now?"
"I've no idea. Aunt Edith. Upstairs, I
suppose."
"With Brenda?"
"I really don't know."
Looking at Philip Leonides, it seemed
quite impossible that a murder could have
been committed anywhere in his vicinity.
"Is Magda up yet?"
"I don't know. She's not usually up
before eleven."
"That sounds like her," said Edith de
Haviland.
What sounded like Mrs. Philip Leonides
was a high voice talking very rapidly and
approaching very fast. The door behind me
burst open and a woman came in. I don't
know how she managed to give the impression
of its being three women rather than
one who entered.
She was smoking a cigarette in a long- holder and was wearing a peach satin.
negligee which she was holding up with one
hand. A cascade of Titian hair rippled down- her back. Her face had that almost shocking- air of nudity that a woman's has nowadays- when it is not made up at all. Her eyes
were blue and enormous and she was talking
very rapidly in a husky rather attractive
voice with a very clear enunciation.
"Darling, I can't stand it ? I simply
can't stand it ? just think of the notices
? it isn't in the papers yet, but of course
it will be ? and I simply can't make up
my mind what I ought to wear at the
inquest ? very very subdued? ? not black
though, perhaps dark purple ? and I |
simply haven't got a coupon left ? I've lost .
the address of that dreadful man who sells
them to me ? you know, the garage
somewhere near Shaftesbury Avenue ? and s
if I went up there in the car the police
would follow me, and they might ask the
most awkward questions, mightn't they? I |
mean, what could one say? How calm you
are, Philip! How can you be so calm? Don't
you realise we can leave this awful house
now. Freedom ? freedom! Oh, how unkind
? the poor old Sweetie ? of course we'd
never have left him while he was alive. He
really did dote on us, didn't he ? in spite
of all the trouble that woman upstairs tried
to make between us. I'm quite sure that if
we had gone away and left him to her, he'd
at all. It's the only thing that might be any
good. Your father, Charles, knows exactly
what's been going on in my mind. He
knows better than you do."
With sudden almost despairing vehemence, she drove one clenched hand into
the palm of the other.
"I've got to have the truth. I've got to
know."
"Because of us? But, dearest --"
"Not only because of us, Charles. I've
got to know for my own peace of mind.
You see, Charles, I didn't tell you last night
-- but the truth is -- I'm afraid."
"Afraid?"
"Yes -- afraid -- afraid -- afraid. The
police think, your father thinks, everybody
thinks -- that it was Brenda."
"The probabilities --"
"Oh yes, it's quite probable. It's possible.
But when I say, 'Brenda probably did it'
I'm quite conscious that it's only wishful
thinking. Because, you see, I don't really
think so." ^
"You don't think so?" I said slowly.
"I don't know. You've heard about it all
from the outside as I wanted you to. Now
I'll show it to you from the inside. I simply
don't feel that Brenda is that kind of a
person ? she's not the sort of person, I
a feel, who would ever do anything that might
involve her in any danger. She's far too
careful of herself."
"How about this young man? Laurence
Brown."
"Laurence is a complete rabbit. He
wouldn't have the guts." ^
"I wonder."
"Yes, we don't really know, do we? I
mean, people are capable of surprising one
frightfully. One gets an idea of them into
one's head, and sometimes it's absolutely
wrong. Not always ? but sometimes. But
all the same, Brenda ?" she shook her
head ? "she's always acted so completely
in character. She's what I call the harem
type. Likes sitting about and eating sweets
and having nice clothes and jewellery and
reading cheap novels and going to the
cinema. And it's a queer thing to say, when
one remembers that he was eighty five, but
I really think she was rather thrilled by
grandfather. He had a power, you know. I
should imagine he could make a woman
feel ? oh ? rather like a queen ? the
Sultan's favourite! I think -- I've always
thought -- that he made Brenda feel as
though she were an exciting romantic
person. He's been clever with women all
his life -- and that kind of thing is a sort
of art -- you don't lose the knack of it, however old you are."
p I left the problem of Brenda for the
(homent and harked back to a phrase of
Sophia's which had disturbed me.
"Why did you say," I asked, "that you were afraid?" a
Sophia shivered a little and pressed her
hands together.
I? "Because it's true," she said in a low
voice. "It's very important, Charles, that I
should make you understand this. You see, we're a very queer family . . . There's a
lot of ruthlessness in us -- and -- different
kinds of ruthlessness. That's what's so
disturbing. The different kinds."
She must have seen incomprehension in
my face. She went on, speaking energetically.
"I'll try and make what I mean clear.
Grandfather, for instance. Once when he
was telling us about his boyhood in Smyrna, he mentioned, quite casually, that he had
stabbed two men. It was some kind of a
brawl -- there had been some unforgivable
insult -- I don't know -- but it was just a
thing that had happened quite naturally.
He'd really practically forgotten about it.
But it was, somehow, such a queer thing
to hear about, quite casually, in England."
I nodded.
"That's one kind of ruthlessness," went
on Sophia, "and then there was my grandmother.
I only just remember her, but I've
heard a good deal about her. I think she
might have had the ruthlessness that comes
from having no imagination whatever. All
those foxhunting forbears -- and the old
Generals, the shoot 'em down type. Full of
rectitude and arrogance, and not a bit afraid
of taking responsibility in matters of life
and death."
"Isn't that a bit far fetched?"
"Yes, I daresay -- but I'm always rather
afraid of that type. It's full of rectitude but
it is ruthless. And then there's my own
mother -- she's an actress -- she's a darling, but she's got absolutely no sense of proportion.
She's one of those unconscious egoists
who can only see things in relation as to
how it affects them. That's rather frightening, sometimes, you know. And there's
Clemency, Uncle Roger's wife. She's a
scientist -- she's doing some kind of very
important research -- she's ruthless too, in
a kind of coldblooded impersonal way.
Uncle Roger's the exact opposite -- he's
the kindest and most lovable person in the
world, but he's got a really terrific temper.
Things make his blood boil and then he
hardly knows what he's doing. And there's
father--"
She made a long pause.
"Father," she said slowly, "is almost too
well controlled. You never know what he's
thinking. He never shows any emotion at
all. It's probably a kind of unconscious self
defence against mother's absolute orgies of
emotion, but sometimes -- it worries me a
I little."
"My dear child," I said, "you're working
yourself up unnecessarily. What it comes
to in the end is that everybody, perhaps, is
B capable of murder."
"I suppose that's true. Even me."
"Not you!"
"Oh yes, Charles, you can't make me an
exception. I suppose I could murder someone
. . ." She was silent a moment or two,
then added, "But if so, it would have to be
for something really worth while!"
| I laughed then. I couldn't help it. And
Sophia smiled.
"Perhaps I'm a fool," she said, "but
we've got to find out the truth about
grandfather's death. We've got to. If only
it was Brenda ..."
I felt suddenly rather sorry for Brenda
Leonides.
jsaa
^t<
Five
Along the path towards us came a tall figure
walking briskly. It had on a battered old
felt hat, a shapeless skirt 5 and a rather
cumbersome jersey.
"Aunt Edith," said Sophia.
The figure paused once or twice, stooping
to the flower borders, then it advanced
upon us. I rose to my feet.
"This is Charles Hayward, Aunt Edith.
My aunt. Miss de Haviland."
Edith de Haviland was a woman of about
seventy. She had a mass of untidy grey
hair, a weather beaten face and a sh
and piercing glance.
"How d'ye do?" she said. "I've heard
about you. Back from the East. How's your
father?"
Rather surprised, I said he was very well.
"Knew him when he was a boy," said
Miss de Haviland. "Knew his mother very
well. You look rather like her. Have you
come to help us -- or the other thing?"
"I hope to help," I said rather uncomfortably.
She nodded.
"We could do with some help. Place
swarming with policemen. Pop out at you
all over the place. Don't like some of the
types. A boy who's been to a decent school
oughtn't to go into the police. Saw Moyra
Kinoul's boy the other day holding up the
traffic at Marble Arch. Makes you feel you
don't know where you are!"
She turned to Sophia:
"Nannie's asking for you, Sophia. Fish."
"Bother," said Sophia. "I'll go and
telephone about it." T
She walked briskly towards the house.
Miss de Haviland turned and walked slowly
in the same direction. I fell into step beside
her.
"Don't know what we'd all do without
Nannies," said Miss de Haviland. "Nearly
everybody's got an old Nannie. They come
back and wash and iron and cook and do
housework. Faithful. Chose this one myself
-- years ago."
She stooped and pulled viciously at an
entangling twining bit of green.
"Hateful stuff-- bindweed! Worst weed
there is! Choking, entangling -- and you
can't get at it properly, runs along underground."
With her heel she ground the handful of
greenstuff viciously underfoot.
"This is a bad business, Charles Hayward,"
she said. She was looking towards
the house. "What do the police think about
it? Suppose I mustn't ask you that. Seems
odd to think of Aristide being poisoned.
For that matter it seems odd to think of
him being dead. I never liked him -- never!
But I can't get used to the idea of his being
dead . . . Makes the house seem so --
empty."
I said nothing. For all her curt way of
speech, Edith de Haviland seemed in a
reminiscent mood.
"Was thinking this morning -- I've lived
here a long time. Over forty years. Came
here when my sister died. He asked me to.
Seven children -- and the youngest only a
year old ... Couldn't leave 'em to be
brought up by a dago, could I? An
impossible marriage, of course. I always felt
Marcia must have been -- well -- bewitched.
Ugly common little foreigner! He
gave me a free hand -- I will say that.
Nurses, governesses, schools. And proper
wholesome nursery food ? not those queer
spiced rice dishes he used to eat."
"And you've been here ever since?" I
murmured.
"Yes. Queer in a way ... I could have
left, I suppose, when the children grew up
and married ... I suppose, really, I'd got
interested in the garden. And then there
was Philip. If a man marries an actress he
can't expect to have any home life. Don't
know why actresses have children. As soon
as a baby's born they rush off and play in
Repertory in Edinburgh or somewhere as
remote as possible. Philip did the sensible
thing ? moved in here with his books."
"What does Philip Leonides do?" ^
"Writes books. Can't think why. Nobody ?
wants to read them. All about obscure
historical details. You've never even heard
of them, have you?"
I admitted it.
"Too much money, that's what he's had,"
said Miss de Haviland. "Most people have
to stop being cranks and earn a living."
"Don't his books pay?"
"Of course not. He's supposed to be a
great authority on certain periods and all
that. But he doesn't have to make his books
pay ? Aristide settled something like a I
hundred thousand pounds -- something
quite fantastic -- on him! To avoid death
duties! Aristide made them all financially
independent. Roger runs Associated Catering
-- Sophia has a very handsome allowance.
The children's money is in trust for
them."
"So no one gains particularly by his
death?"
She threw me a strange glance.
"Yes, they do. They all get more money.
But they could probably have had it, if they
asked for it, anyway."
"Have you any idea who poisoned him, Miss de Haviland?"
She replied characteristically: fer
"No, indeed I haven't. It's upset me very
much! Not nice to think one has a Borgia
sort of person loose about the house. I
suppose the police will fasten on poor
Brenda."
"You don't think they'll be right in doing
so?"
"I simply can't tell. She's always seemed
to me a singularly stupid and commonplace
young woman -- rather conventional. Not
my idea of a poisoner. Still, after all, if a
young woman of twenty four marries a man
close on eighty, it's fairly obvious that she's
marrying him for his money. In the normal
course of events she could have expected
to become a rich widow fairly soon. But
Aristide was a singularly tough old man.
His diabetes wasn't getting any worse. He
really looked like living to be a hundred. I
suppose she got tired of waiting . . ." "In that case," I said, and stopped.
"In that case," said Miss de Haviland . briskly, "it will be more or less all right.
Annoying publicity, of course. But after all,
she isn't one of the family."
"You've no other ideas?" I asked.
"What other ideas should I have?"
I wondered. I had a suspicion that there
might be more going on under the battered
felt hat than I knew. |
Behind the jerky, almost disconnected
utterance, there was, I thought, a very
shrewd brain at work. Just for a moment I
even wondered whether Miss de Haviland
had poisoned Aristide Leonides herself.
. . .
It did not seem an impossible idea. At
the back of my mind was the way she had
ground the bindweed into the soil with her
heel with a kind of vindictive thoroughness.
I remembered the word Sophia had used.
Ruthlessness. |
I stole a sideways glance at Edith de
Haviland.
Given good and sufficient reason. . . .
But what exactly would seem to Edith de
Haviland good and sufficient reason?
To answer that, I should have to know
her better.
m
h
Six
The front door was open. We passed through
it into a rather surprisingly spacious hall.
It was furnished with restraint ? wellpolished
dark oak and gleaming brass
the back, where the staircase would normally
appear, was a white panelled wall with a
door in it.
"My brother-in-law's part of the house,"
said Miss de Haviland. "The ground floor
is Philip and Magda's."
We went through a doorway on the left
into a large drawing room. It had pale blue
panelled walls, furniture covered in heavy
brocade, and on every available table and
on the walls were hung photographs and
pictures of actors, dancers and stage scenes
and designs. A Degas of ballet dancers hung
over the mantelpiece. There were masses of
flowers, enormous brown chrysanthemums
and great vases of carnations.
"I suppose," said Miss de Haviland,
"that you want to see Philip?"
Did I want to see Philip? I had no idea.
All I had wanted to do was to see Sophia.
That I had done. She had given emphatic
encouragement to the Old Man's plan ?
but she had now receded from the scene
and was presumably somewhere telephoning
about fish, having given me no indication
of how to proceed. Was I to approach Philip
Leonides as a young man anxious to marry
his daughter, or as a casual friend who had
dropped in (surely not at such a moment!)
or as an associate of the police?
Miss de Haviland gave me no time to
consider her question. It was, indeed, not
a question at all, but more an assertion.
I Miss de Haviland, I judged, was more
inclined to assert than to question.
"We'll go to the library," she said. ^
She led me out of the drawing room,
along a corridor and in through another
door.
It was a big room, full of books. The
books did not confine themselves to the
bookcases that reached up to the ceiling.
They were on chairs and tables and even
on the floor. And yet there was no sense of
disarray about them.
The room was cold. There was some
smell absent in it that I was conscious of
having expected. It smelt of the mustiness
of old books and just a little of beeswax. In
a second or two I realised what I missed.
It was the scent of tobacco. Philip Leonides
was not a smoker.
He got up from behind his table as we
entered -- a tall man aged somewhere
around fifty, an extraordinarily handsome
man. Everyone had laid so much emphasis
on the ugliness of Aristide Leonides, that
for some reason I expected his son to be
ugly too. Certainly I was not prepared for
this perfection of feature -- the straight
nose, the flawless line of jaw, the fair hair
touched with grey that swept back from a
well shaped forehead.
"This is Charles Hayward, Philip," said
Edith de Haviland.
"Ah, how do you do?"
I could not tell if he had ever heard of
me. The hand he gave me was cold. His
face was quite incurious. It made me rather
nervous. He stood there, patient and uninterested.
"Where are those awful policemen?"
demanded Miss de Haviland. "Have they
been in here?"
"I believe Chief Inspector --" (he glanced
down at a card on the desk) "er -- Taverner
is coming to talk to me presently."
"Where is he now?"
"I've no idea. Aunt Edith. Upstairs, I
suppose."
"With Brenda?"
"I really don't know."
Looking at Philip Leonides, it seemed
quite impossible that a murder could have
been committed anywhere in his vicinity.
"Is Magda up yet?"
"I don't know. She's not usually up
before eleven."
"That sounds like her," said Edith de
Haviland.
What sounded like Mrs. Philip Leonides
was a high voice talking very rapidly and
approaching very fast. The door behind me
burst open and a woman came in. I don't
know how she managed to give the impression
of its being three women rather than
one who entered.
She was smoking a cigarette in a long- holder and was wearing a peach satin.
negligee which she was holding up with one
hand. A cascade of Titian hair rippled down- her back. Her face had that almost shocking- air of nudity that a woman's has nowadays- when it is not made up at all. Her eyes
were blue and enormous and she was talking
very rapidly in a husky rather attractive
voice with a very clear enunciation.
"Darling, I can't stand it ? I simply
can't stand it ? just think of the notices
? it isn't in the papers yet, but of course
it will be ? and I simply can't make up
my mind what I ought to wear at the
inquest ? very very subdued? ? not black
though, perhaps dark purple ? and I |
simply haven't got a coupon left ? I've lost .
the address of that dreadful man who sells
them to me ? you know, the garage
somewhere near Shaftesbury Avenue ? and s
if I went up there in the car the police
would follow me, and they might ask the
most awkward questions, mightn't they? I |
mean, what could one say? How calm you
are, Philip! How can you be so calm? Don't
you realise we can leave this awful house
now. Freedom ? freedom! Oh, how unkind
? the poor old Sweetie ? of course we'd
never have left him while he was alive. He
really did dote on us, didn't he ? in spite
of all the trouble that woman upstairs tried
to make between us. I'm quite sure that if
we had gone away and left him to her, he'd