Читать книгу Black Coffee - Агата Кристи, Agatha Christie, Detection Club The - Страница 7

Sir Claud Amory’s house, Abbot’s Cleve, stood just on the outskirts of the small town—or rather overgrown village—of Market Cleve, about twenty-five miles south-east of London. The house itself, a large but architecturally nondescript Victorian mansion, was set amid an attractive few acres of gently undulating countryside, here and there heavily wooded. The gravel drive, from the gatehouse up to the front door of Abbot’s Cleve, twisted its way through trees and dense shrubbery. A terrace ran along the back of the house, with a lawn sloping down to a somewhat neglected formal garden.

On the Friday evening two days after his telephone conversation with Hercule Poirot, Sir Claud sat in his study, a small but comfortably furnished room on the ground floor of the house, on the east side. Outside, the light was beginning to fade. Sir Claud’s butler, Tredwell, a tall, lugubrious-looking individual with an impeccably correct manner, had sounded the gong for dinner two or three minutes earlier, and no doubt the family was now assembling in the dining-room on the other side of the hall.

Sir Claud drummed on the desk with his fingers, his habit when forcing himself to a quick decision. A man in his fifties, of medium height and build, with greying hair brushed straight back from a high forehead, and eyes of a piercingly cold blue, he now wore an expression in which anxiety was mixed with puzzlement.

There was a discreet knock on the study door, and Tredwell appeared in the doorway. ‘Excuse me, Sir Claud. I wondered if perhaps you had not heard the gong—’

‘Yes, yes, Tredwell, that’s all right. Would you tell them I shall be in very shortly? Say I’m caught on the phone. In fact, I am about to make a quick phone call. You may as well begin serving.’

Tredwell withdrew silently, and Sir Claud, taking a deep breath, pulled the telephone towards himself. Extracting a small address-book from a drawer of his desk, he consulted it briefly and then picked up the receiver. He listened for a moment and then spoke.

‘This is Market Cleve three-one-four. I want you to get me a London number.’ He gave the number, then sat back, waiting. The fingers of his right hand began to drum nervously on the desk.

Several minutes later, Sir Claud Amory joined the dinner-party, taking his place at the head of the table around which the six others were already seated. On Sir Claud’s right sat his niece, Barbara Amory, with Richard, her cousin and the only son of Sir Claud, next to her. On Richard Amory’s right was a house-guest, Dr Carelli, an Italian. Continuing round, at the opposite end of the table to Sir Claud, sat Caroline Amory, his sister. A middle-aged spinster, she had run Sir Claud’s house for him ever since his wife died some years earlier. Edward Raynor, Sir Claud’s secretary, sat on Miss Amory’s right, with Lucia, Richard Amory’s wife, between him and the head of the household.

Dinner, on this occasion, was not at all festive. Caroline Amory made several attempts at small-talk with Dr Carelli, who answered her politely enough without offering much in the way of conversation himself. When she turned to address a remark to Edward Raynor, that normally polite and socially suave young man gave a nervous start, mumbled an apology and looked embarrassed. Sir Claud was as taciturn as he normally was at meal-times, or perhaps even more so. Richard Amory cast an occasional anxious glance across the table at his wife, Lucia. Barbara Amory alone seemed in good spirits, and made spasmodic light conversation with her Aunt Caroline.

It was while Tredwell was serving the dessert course that Sir Claud suddenly addressed the butler, speaking loudly enough for all at the dinner-table to hear his words.

‘Tredwell,’ he said, ‘would you ring Jackson’s garage in Market Cleve, and ask them to send a car and driver to the station to meet the eight-fifty from London? A gentleman who is visiting us after dinner will be coming by that train.’

‘Very well, Sir Claud,’ replied Tredwell as he left. He was barely out of the room when Lucia, with a murmured apology, got up abruptly from the table and hurried out, almost colliding with the butler as he was about to close the door behind him.

Crossing the hall, she hurried along the corridor and proceeded to the large room at the back of the house. The library—as it was generally called—served normally as a drawing-room as well. It was a comfortable room rather than an elegant one. French windows opened from it on to the terrace, and another door led to Sir Claud’s study. On the mantelpiece, above a large open fireplace, stood an old-fashioned clock and some ornaments, as well as a vase of spills for use in lighting the fire.

The library furniture consisted of a tall bookcase with a tin box on the top of it, a desk with a telephone on it, a stool, a small table with a gramophone and records, a settee, a coffee table, an occasional table with book-ends and books on it, two upright chairs, an arm-chair, and another table on which stood a plant in a brass pot. The furniture in general was old-fashioned, but not sufficiently old or distinguished to be admired as antique.

Lucia, a beautiful young woman of twenty-five, had luxuriant dark hair which flowed to her shoulders, and brown eyes which could flash excitingly but were now smouldering with a suppressed emotion not easy to define. She hesitated in the middle of the room, then crossed to the French windows and, parting the curtains slightly, looked out at the night. Uttering a barely audible sigh, she pressed her brow to the cool glass of the window, and stood lost in thought.

Miss Amory’s voice could be heard outside in the hall, calling, ‘Lucia—Lucia—where are you?’ A moment later, Miss Amory, a somewhat fussy elderly lady a few years older than her brother, entered the room. Going across to Lucia, she took the younger woman by the arm and propelled her towards the settee.

‘There, my dear. You sit down here,’ she said, pointing to a corner of the settee. ‘You’ll be all right in a minute or two.’

As she sat, Lucia gave a wan smile of gratitude to Caroline Amory. ‘Yes, of course,’ she agreed. ‘It’s passing already, in fact.’ Though she spoke English impeccably, perhaps too impeccably, an occasional inflection betrayed that English was not her native tongue.

‘I just came over all faint, that’s all,’ she continued. ‘How ridiculous of me. I’ve never done such a thing before. I can’t imagine why it should have happened. Please go back, Aunt Caroline. I shall be quite all right here.’ She took a handkerchief from her handbag, as Caroline Amory looked on solicitously. Dabbing at her eyes with it, she then returned the handkerchief to her bag, and smiled again. ‘I shall be quite all right,’ she repeated. ‘Really, I shall.’

Miss Amory looked unconvinced. ‘You’ve really not looked well, dear, all the evening, you know,’ she remarked, anxiously studying Lucia.

‘Haven’t I?’

‘No, indeed,’ replied Miss Amory. She sat on the settee, close to Lucia. ‘Perhaps you’ve caught a little chill, dear,’ she twittered anxiously. ‘Our English summers can be rather treacherous, you know. Not at all like the hot sun in Italy, which is what you’re more used to. So delightful, Italy, I always think.’

‘Italy,’ murmured Lucia with a faraway look in her eyes, as she placed her handbag beside her on the settee. ‘Italy—’

‘I know, my child. You must miss your own country badly. It must seem such a dreadful contrast—the weather for one thing, and the different customs. And we must seem such a cold lot. Now, Italians—’

‘No, never. I never miss Italy,’ cried Lucia, with a vehemence that surprised Miss Amory. ‘Never.’

‘Oh, come now, child, there’s no disgrace in feeling a little homesick for—’

‘Never!’ Lucia repeated. ‘I hate Italy. I always hated it. It is like heaven for me to be here in England with all you kind people. Absolute heaven!’

‘It’s really very sweet of you to say that, my dear,’ said Caroline Amory, ‘though I’m sure you’re only being polite. It’s true we’ve all tried to make you feel happy and at home here, but it would be only natural for you to yearn for Italy sometimes. And then, not having any mother—’

‘Please—please—’, Lucia interrupted her, ‘do not speak of my mother.’

‘No, of course not, dear, if you’d rather I didn’t. I didn’t mean to upset you. Shall I get you some smelling-salts? I’ve got some in my room.’

‘No, thank you,’ Lucia replied. ‘Really, I’m perfectly all right now.’

‘It’s no trouble at all, you know,’ Caroline Amory persisted. ‘I’ve got some very nice smelling-salts, a lovely pink colour, and in the most charming little bottle. And very pungent. Sal ammoniac, you know. Or is it spirits of salts? I can never remember. But anyway it’s not the one you clean the bath with.’

Lucia smiled gently, but made no reply. Miss Amory had risen, and apparently could not decide whether to go in search of smelling-salts or not. She moved indecisively to the back of the settee, and rearranged the cushions. ‘Yes, I think it must be a sudden chill,’ she continued. ‘You were looking the absolute picture of health this morning. Perhaps it was the excitement of seeing this Italian friend of yours, Dr Carelli? He turned up so suddenly and unexpectedly, didn’t he? It must have given you quite a shock.’

Lucia’s husband, Richard, had entered the library while Caroline Amory was speaking. Evidently Miss Amory did not notice him, for she could not understand why her words appeared to have upset Lucia, who leaned back, closed her eyes and shivered. ‘Oh, my dear, what is it?’ asked Miss Amory. ‘Are you coming over faint again?’

Richard Amory closed the door and approached the two women. A conventionally handsome young Englishman of about thirty, with sandy hair, he was of medium height, with a somewhat thick-set, muscular figure. ‘Do go and finish your dinner, Aunt Caroline,’ he said to Miss Amory. ‘Lucia will be all right with me. I’ll look after her.’

Miss Amory still appeared irresolute. ‘Oh, it’s you, Richard. Well, perhaps I’d better go back,’ she said, taking a reluctant step or two in the direction of the door leading to the hall. ‘You know how your father does hate a disturbance of any kind. And particularly with a guest here. It’s not as though it was someone who was a close friend of the family.’

She turned back to Lucia. ‘I was just saying, dear, wasn’t I, what a very strange thing it was that Dr Carelli should turn up in the way he did, with no idea that you were living in this part of the world. You simply ran into him in the village, and invited him here. It must have been a great surprise for you, my dear, mustn’t it?’

‘It was,’ replied Lucia.

‘The world really is such a very small place, I’ve always said so,’ Miss Amory continued. ‘Your friend is a very good-looking man, Lucia.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘Foreign-looking, of course,’ Miss Amory conceded, ‘but distinctly handsome. And he speaks English very well.’

‘Yes, I suppose he does.’

Miss Amory seemed disinclined to let the topic go. ‘Did you really have no idea,’ she asked, ‘that he was in this part of the world?’

‘None whatsoever,’ replied Lucia emphatically.

Richard Amory had been watching his wife intently. Now he spoke again. ‘What a delightful surprise it must have been for you, Lucia,’ he said.

His wife looked up at him quickly, but made no reply. Miss Amory beamed. ‘Yes, indeed,’ she continued. ‘Did you know him well in Italy, my dear? Was he a great friend of yours? I suppose he must have been.’

There was a sudden bitterness in Lucia’s voice. ‘He was never a friend,’ she said.

‘Oh, I see. Merely an acquaintance. But he accepted your generous invitation to stay. I often think foreigners are inclined to be a little pushy. Oh, I don’t mean you, of course, dear—’ Miss Amory had the grace to pause and blush. ‘I mean, well, you’re half English in any case.’ She looked archly at her nephew, and continued, ‘In fact, she’s quite English now, isn’t she, Richard?’

Richard Amory did not respond to his aunt’s archness, but moved towards the door and opened it, as though in invitation to Miss Amory to return to the others.

‘Well,’ said that lady as she moved reluctantly to the door, ‘if you’re sure I can’t do anything more—’

‘No, no.’ Richard’s tone was as abrupt as his words, as he held the door open for her. With an uncertain gesture, and a last nervous smile at Lucia, Miss Amory left.

Emitting a sigh of relief, Richard shut the door after her, and came back to his wife. ‘Natter, natter, natter,’ he complained. ‘I thought she’d never go.’

‘She was only trying to be kind, Richard.’

‘Oh, I dare say she was. But she tries a damn sight too hard.’

‘I think she’s fond of me,’ murmured Lucia.

‘What? Oh, of course.’ Richard Amory’s tone was abstracted. He stood, observing his wife closely. For a few moments there was a constrained silence. Then, moving nearer to her, Richard looked down at Lucia. ‘You’re sure there’s nothing I can get you?’

Lucia looked up at him, forcing a smile. ‘Nothing, really, thank you, Richard. Do go back to the dining-room. I really am perfectly all right now.’

‘No,’ replied her husband. ‘I’ll stay with you.’

‘But I’d rather be alone.’

There was a pause. Then Richard spoke again, as he moved behind the settee. ‘Cushions all right? Would you like another one under your head?’

‘I am quite comfortable as I am,’ Lucia protested. ‘It would be nice to have some air, though. Could you open the window?’

Richard moved to the French windows and fumbled with the catch. ‘Damn!’ he exclaimed. ‘The old boy’s locked it with one of those patent catches of his. You can’t open it without the key.’

Lucia shrugged her shoulders. ‘Oh, well,’ she murmured, ‘it really doesn’t matter.’

Richard came back from the French windows, and sat in one of the chairs by the table. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. ‘Wonderful fellow, the old man. Always inventing something or other.’

‘Yes,’ replied Lucia. ‘He must have made a lot of money out of his inventions.’

‘Pots of it,’ said Richard, gloomily. ‘But it isn’t the money that appeals to him. They’re all the same, these scientists. Always on the track of something utterly impracticable that can be of no earthly interest to anyone other than themselves. Bombarding the atom, for heaven’s sake!’

‘But all the same, he is a great man, your father.’

‘I suppose he’s one of the leading scientists of the day,’ said Richard grudgingly. ‘But he can’t see any point of view except his own.’ He spoke with increasing irritation. ‘He’s treated me damned badly.’

‘I know,’ Lucia agreed. ‘He keeps you here, chained to this house, almost as though you were a prisoner. Why did he make you give up the army and come to live here?’

‘I suppose,’ said Richard, ‘that he thought I could help him in his work. But he ought to have known that I should be of no earthly use to him in that way. I simply haven’t got the brains for it.’ He moved his chair a little closer to Lucia, and leaned forward again. ‘My God, Lucia, it makes me feel pretty desperate, sometimes. There he is, rolling in money, and he spends every penny on those damned experiments of his. You’d think he’d let me have something of what will be mine some day, in any case, and allow me to get free of this place.’

Lucia sat upright. ‘Money!’ she exclaimed bitterly. ‘Everything comes round to that. Money!’

‘I’m like a fly caught in a spider’s web,’ Richard continued. ‘Helpless. Absolutely helpless.’

Lucia looked at him with an imploring eagerness. ‘Oh, Richard,’ she exclaimed. ‘So am I.’

Her husband looked at her with alarm. He was about to speak when Lucia continued, ‘So am I. Helpless. And I want to get out.’ She rose suddenly, and moved towards him, speaking excitedly. ‘Richard, for God’s sake, before it’s too late, take me away!’

‘Away?’ Richard’s voice was empty and despairing. ‘Away where?’

‘Anywhere,’ replied Lucia, with growing excitement. ‘Anywhere in the world! But away from this house. That’s the important thing, away from this house! I am afraid, Richard, I tell you I’m afraid. There are shadows—’ she looked over her shoulder as though she could see them, ‘shadows everywhere.’

Richard remained seated. ‘How can we go away without money?’ he asked. He looked up at Lucia, and continued, bitterly, ‘A man’s not much good to a woman without money, is he, Lucia? Is he?’

She backed away from him. ‘Why do you say that?’ she asked. ‘What do you mean?’

Richard continued to look at her in silence, his face tense yet curiously expressionless.

‘What’s the matter with you tonight, Richard?’ Lucia asked him. ‘You’re different, somehow—’

Richard rose from his chair. ‘Am I?’

‘Yes—what is it?’

‘Well—’ Richard began, and then stopped. ‘Nothing. It’s nothing.’

He started to turn away from her, but Lucia pulled him back and placed her hands on his shoulders. ‘Richard, my dear—’ she began. He took her hands from his shoulders. ‘Richard,’ she said again.

Putting his hands behind his back, Richard looked down at her. ‘Do you think I’m a complete fool?’ he asked. ‘Do you think I didn’t see this old friend of yours slip a note into your hand tonight?’

‘Do you mean you thought that—’

He interrupted her fiercely. ‘Why did you come out from dinner? You weren’t feeling faint. That was all a pretence. You wanted to be alone to read your precious note. You couldn’t wait. You were nearly mad with impatience because you couldn’t get rid of us. First Aunt Caroline, then me.’ His eyes were cold with hurt and anger as he looked at her.

‘Richard,’ said Lucia, ‘you’re mad. Oh, it’s absurd. You can’t think I care for Carelli! Can you? Can you, really? My dear, Richard, my dear—it’s you. It’s nobody but you. You must know that.’

Richard kept his eyes fixed on her. ‘What is in that note?’ he asked quietly.

‘Nothing—nothing at all.’

‘Then show it to me.’

‘I—I can’t,’ said Lucia. ‘I’ve destroyed it.’

A frigid smile appeared and disappeared on Richard’s face. ‘No, you haven’t,’ he said. ‘Show it to me.’

Lucia was silent for a moment. She looked at him imploringly. Then, ‘Richard,’ she asked, ‘can’t you trust me?’

‘I could take it from you by force,’ he muttered through clenched teeth, as he advanced a step towards her. ‘I’ve half a mind—’

Lucia backed away with a faint cry, her eyes still on Richard’s face as though willing him to believe her. Suddenly he turned away. ‘No,’ he said, as though to himself. ‘I suppose there are some things one can’t do.’ He turned back to face his wife. ‘But, by God, I’ll have it out with Carelli.’

Lucia caught his arm, with a cry of alarm. ‘No, Richard, you mustn’t. You mustn’t. Don’t do that, I beg you. Don’t do that.’

‘You’re afraid for your lover, are you?’ sneered Richard.

‘He’s not my lover,’ Lucia retorted, fiercely.

Richard took her by the shoulders. ‘Perhaps he isn’t—yet,’ he said. ‘Perhaps he—’

Hearing voices outside in the hall, he stopped speaking. Making an effort to control himself, he moved to the fireplace, took out a cigarette-case and lighter, and lit a cigarette. As the door from the hall opened, and the voices grew louder, Lucia moved to the chair Richard had recently vacated, and sat. Her face was white, her hands clasped together in tension.

Miss Amory entered, accompanied by her niece Barbara, an extremely modern young woman of twenty-one. Swinging her handbag, Barbara crossed the room towards her. ‘Hello, Lucia, are you all right now?’ she asked.