Читать книгу Crooked House - Агата Кристи, Agatha Christie, Detection Club The - Страница 7

It was over two years before I returned to England. They were not easy years. I wrote to Sophia and heard from her fairly frequently. Her letters, like mine, were not love letters. They were letters written to each other by close friends—they dealt with ideas and thoughts and with comments on the daily trend of life. Yet I know that as far as I was concerned, and I believed as far as Sophia was concerned too, our feelings for each other grew and strengthened.

I returned to England on a soft grey day in September. The leaves on the trees were golden in the evening light. There were playful gusts of wind. From the airfield I sent a telegram to Sophia.

‘Just arrived back. Will you dine this evening Mario’s nine o’clock Charles.’

A couple of hours later I was sitting reading the Times; and scanning the Births, Marriages and Deaths column my eye was caught by the name Leonides:

On Sept. 19th, at Three Gables, Swinly Dean, Aristide Leonides, beloved husband of Brenda Leonides, in his eighty-eighth year. Deeply regretted.

There was another announcement immediately below:

LEONIDES—Suddenly, at his residence, Three Gables, Swinly Dean, Aristide Leonides. Deeply mourned by his loving children and grandchildren. Flowers to St Eldred’s Church, Swinly Dean.

I found the two announcements rather curious. There seemed to have been some faulty staff work resulting in overlapping. But my main preoccupation was Sophia. I hastily sent her a second telegram:

‘Just seen news of your grandfather’s death. Very sorry. Let me know when I can see you. Charles.’

A telegram from Sophia reached me at six o’clock at my father’s house. It said:

‘Will be at Mario’s nine o’clock. Sophia.’

The thought of meeting Sophia again made me both nervous and excited. The time crept by with maddening slowness. I was at Mario’s waiting twenty minutes too early. Sophia herself was only five minutes late.

It is always a shock to meet again someone whom you have not seen for a long time but who has been very much present in your mind during that period. When at last Sophia came through the swing doors our meeting seemed completely unreal. She was wearing black, and that, in some curious way, startled me! Most other women were wearing black, but I got it into my head that it was definitely mourning—and it surprised me that Sophia should be the kind of person who did wear black—even for a near relative.

We had cocktails—then went and found our table. We talked rather fast and feverishly—asking after old friends of the Cairo days. It was artificial conversation, but it tided us over the first awkwardness. I expressed commiseration for her grandfather’s death and Sophia said quietly that it had been ‘very sudden’. Then we started off again reminiscing. I began to feel, uneasily, that something was the matter—something, I mean, other than the first natural awkwardness of meeting again. There was something wrong, definitely wrong, with Sophia herself. Was she, perhaps, going to tell me that she had found some other man whom she cared for more than she did for me? That her feeling for me had been ‘all a mistake’?

Somehow I didn’t think it was that—I didn’t know what it was. Meanwhile we continued our artificial talk.

Then, quite suddenly, as the waiter placed coffee on the table and retired bowing, everything swung into focus. Here were Sophia and I sitting together as so often before at a small table in a restaurant. The years of our separation might never have been.

‘Sophia,’ I said.

And immediately she said, ‘Charles!’

I drew a deep breath of relief.

‘Thank goodness that’s over,’ I said. ‘What’s been the matter with us?’

‘Probably my fault. I was stupid.’

‘But it’s all right now?’

‘Yes, it’s all right now.’

We smiled at each other.

‘Darling!’ I said. And then: ‘How soon will you marry me?’

Her smile died. The something, whatever it was, was back.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure, Charles, that I can ever marry you.’

‘But, Sophia! Why not? Is it because you feel I’m a stranger? Do you want time to get used to me again? Is there someone else? No—’ I broke off. ‘I’m a fool. It’s none of those things.’

‘No, it isn’t.’ She shook her head. I waited. She said in a low voice:

‘It’s my grandfather’s death.’

‘Your grandfather’s death? But why? What earthly difference can that make? You don’t mean—surely you can’t imagine—is it money? Hasn’t he left any? But surely, dearest—’

‘It isn’t money.’ She gave a fleeting smile. ‘I think you’d be quite willing to “take me in my shift”, as the old saying goes. And grandfather never lost any money in his life.’

‘Then what is it?’

‘It’s just his death—you see, I think, Charles, that he didn’t just—die. I think he may have been—killed …’

I stared at her.

‘But—what a fantastic idea. What made you think of it?’

‘I didn’t think of it. The doctor was queer to begin with. He wouldn’t sign a certificate. They’re going to have a post-mortem. It’s quite clear that they suspect something is wrong.’

I didn’t dispute that with her. Sophia had plenty of brains; any conclusions she had drawn could be relied upon.

Instead I said earnestly:

‘Their suspicions may be quite unjustified. But putting that aside, supposing that they are justified, how does that affect you and me?’

‘It might under certain circumstances. You’re in the Diplomatic Service. They’re rather particular about wives. No—please don’t say all the things that you’re bursting to say. You’re bound to say them—and I believe you really think them—and theoretically I quite agree with them. But I’m proud—I’m devilishly proud. I want our marriage to be a good thing for everyone—I don’t want to represent one-half of a sacrifice for love! And, as I say, it may be all right …’

‘You mean the doctor—may have made a mistake?’

‘Even if he hasn’t made a mistake, it won’t matter—so long as the right person killed him.’

‘What do you mean, Sophia?’

‘It was a beastly thing to say. But, after all, one might as well be honest.’

She forestalled my next words.

‘No, Charles, I’m not going to say any more. I’ve probably said too much already. But I was determined to come and meet you tonight—to see you myself and make you understand. We can’t settle anything until this is cleared up.’

‘At least tell me about it.’

She shook her head.

‘I don’t want to.’

‘But—Sophia—’

‘No, Charles. I don’t want you to see us from my angle. I want you to see us unbiased from the outside point of view.’

‘And how am I to do that?’

She looked at me, a queer light in her brilliant blue eyes.

‘You’ll get that from your father,’ she said.

I had told Sophia in Cairo that my father was Assistant Commissioner of Scotland Yard. He still held that office. At her words, I felt a cold weight settling down on me.

‘It’s as bad as that, then?’

‘I think so. Do you see a man sitting at a table by the door all alone—rather a nice-looking stolid ex-Army type?’

‘Yes.’

‘He was on Swinly Dean platform this evening when I got into the train.’

‘You mean he’s followed you here?’

‘Yes. I think we’re all—how does one put it?—under observation. They more or less hinted that we’d all better not leave the house. But I was determined to see you.’ Her small square chin shot out pugnaciously. ‘I got out of the bathroom window and shinned down the water-pipe.’

‘Darling!’

‘But the police are very efficient. And of course there was the telegram I sent you. Well—never mind—we’re here—together … But from now on, we’ve both got to play a lone hand.’

She paused and then added:

‘Unfortunately—there’s no doubt—about our loving each other.’

‘No doubt at all,’ I said. ‘And don’t say unfortunately. You and I have survived a world war, we’ve had plenty of near escapes from sudden death—and I don’t see why the sudden death of just one old man—how old was he, by the way?’

‘Eighty-seven.’

‘Of course. It was in the Times. If you ask me, he just died of old age, and any self-respecting GP would accept the fact.’

‘If you’d known my grandfather,’ said Sophia, ‘you’d have been surprised at his dying of anything!’