Читать книгу Hercule Poirot's Christmas / Рождество Эркюля Пуаро. Книга для чтения на английском языке - Агата Кристи - Страница 17

The doorbell rang about a quarter to eight.

Tressilian went to answer it. He returned to his pantry to find Horbury there, picking up the coffee-cups off the tray and looking at the mark on them.

‘Who was it?’ said Horbury.

‘Superintendent of Police – Mr Sugden – mind what you’re doing![113]’

Horbury had dropped one of the cups with a crash.

‘Look at that now,’ lamented Tressilian. ‘Eleven years I’ve had the washing up of those and never one broken, and now you come along touching things you’ve no business to touch, and look what happens!’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Tressilian. I am indeed,’ the other apologized. His face was covered with perspiration. ‘I don’t know how it happened. Did you say a Superintendent of Police had called?’

‘Yes – Mr Sugden.’

The valet passed a tongue over pale lips.

‘What – what did he want?’

‘Collecting for the Police Orphanage.’

‘Oh!’ The valet straightened his shoulders. In a more natural voice he said: ‘Did he get anything?’

‘I took up the book to old Mr Lee, and he told me to fetch the superintendent up and to put the sherry on the table.’

‘Nothing but begging, this time of year,’ said Horbury. ‘The old devil’s generous, I will say that for him, in spite of his other failings.’

Tressilian said with dignity: ‘Mr Lee has always been an open-handed gentleman[114].’

Horbury nodded. ‘It’s the best thing about him! Well, I’ll be off now.’

‘Going to the pictures?’

‘I expect so. Ta-ta, Mr Tressilian.’ He went through the door that led to the servants’ hall.

Tressilian looked up at the clock hanging on the wall. He went into the dining-room and laid the rolls in the napkins. Then, after assuring himself that everything was as it should be, he sounded the gong in the hall.

As the last note died away the police superintendent came down the stairs. Superintendent Sugden was a large handsome man. He wore a tightly buttoned blue suit and moved with a sense of his own importance.

He said affably: ‘I rather think we shall have a frost tonight. Good thing: the weather’s been very unseasonable lately.’

Tressilian said, shaking his head: ‘The damp affects my rheumatism.’

The superintendent said that the rheumatism was a painful complaint, and Tressilian let him out by the front door.

The old butler refastened the door and came back slowly into the hall. He passed his hand over his eyes and sighed. Then he straightened his back as he saw Lydia pass into the drawing-room. George Lee was just coming down the stairs.

Tressilian hovered ready. When the last guest, Magdalene, had entered the drawing-room, he made his own appearance, murmuring: ‘Dinner is served.’

In his way Tressilian was a connoisseur of ladies’ dress. He always noted and criticized the gowns of the ladies as he circled round the table, decanter in hand.

Mrs Alfred, he noted, had got on her new flowered black and white taffeta. A bold design, very striking, but she could carry it off, though many ladies couldn’t. The dress Mrs George had on was a model, he was pretty sure of that. Must have cost a pretty penny.[115] He wondered how Mr George would like paying for it! Mr George didn’t like spending money – he never had. Mrs David now: a nice lady, but didn’t have any idea of how to dress. For her figure, plain black velvet would have been the best. Figured velvet[116], and crimson at that, was a bad choice. Miss Pilar, now, it didn’t matter what she wore, with her figure and her hair she looked well in anything. A flimsy cheap little white gown it was, though. Still, Mr Lee would soon see to that! Taken to her wonderful[117], he had. Always was the same way when a gentleman was elderly. A young face could do anything with him!

‘Hock or claret?’ murmured Tressilian in a deferential whisper in Mrs George’s ear. Out of the tail of his eye[118] he noted that Walter, the footman, was handing the vegetables before the gravy again – after all he had been told!

Tressilian went round with the soufflé. It struck him, now that his interest in the ladies’ toilettes and his misgivings over Walter’s deficiencies were a thing of the past, that everyone was very silent tonight. At least, not exactly silent: Mr Harry was talking enough for twenty – no, not Mr Harry, the South African gentleman. And the others were talking too, but only, as it were, in spasms. There was something a little – queer about them.

Mr Alfred, for instance, he looked downright ill. As though he had had a shock or something. Quite dazed he looked and just turning over the food on his plate without eating it. The mistress, she was worried about him. Tressilian could see that. Kept looking down the table towards him – not noticeably, of course, just quietly. Mr George was very red in the face – gobbling his food, he was, without tasting it. He’d get a stroke one day if he wasn’t careful. Mrs George wasn’t eating. Slimming, as likely as not.[119] Miss Pilar seemed to be enjoying her food all right and talking and laughing up at the South African gentleman. Properly taken with her, he was. Didn’t seem to be anything on their minds!

Mr David? Tressilian felt worried about Mr David. Just like his mother he was, to look at. And remarkably young-looking still. But nervy; there, he’d knocked over his glass.

Tressilian whisked it away, mopped up the stream deftly. It was all over. Mr David hardly seemed to notice what he had done, just sat staring in front of him with a white face.

Thinking of white faces, funny the way Horbury had looked in the pantry just now when he’d heard a police officer had come to the house… almost as though —

Tressilian’s mind stopped with a jerk. Walter had dropped a pear off the dish he was handing. Footmen were no good nowadays! They might be stable-boys[120], the way they went on!

He went round with the port. Mr Harry seemed a bit distrait tonight. Kept looking at Mr Alfred. Never had been any love lost between those two[121], not even as boys. Mr Harry, of course, had always been his father’s favourite, and that had rankled with Mr Alfred. Mr Lee had never cared for Mr Alfred much. A pity, when Mr Alfred always seemed so devoted to his father.

There, Mrs Alfred was getting up now. She swept round the table. Very nice that design on the taffeta; that cape suited her. A very graceful lady.

He went out to the pantry, closing the dining-room door on the gentlemen with their port.

He took the coffee tray into the drawing-room. The four ladies were sitting there rather uncomfortably, he thought. They were not talking. He handed round the coffee in silence.

He went out again. As he went into his pantry he heard the dining-room door open. David Lee came out and went along the hall to the drawing-room.

Tressilian went back into his pantry. He read the riot act[122] to Walter. Walter was nearly, if not quite, impertinent! Tressilian, alone in his pantry, sat down rather wearily. He had a feeling of depression. Christmas Eve, and all this strain and tension… He didn’t like it!

With an effort he roused himself. He went to the drawing-room and collected the coffee-cups. The room was empty except for Lydia, who was standing half-concealed by the window curtain at the far end of the room. She was standing there looking out into the night.

From next door the piano sounded. Mr David was playing. But why, Tressilian asked himself, did Mr David play the Dead March? For that’s what it was. Oh, indeed things were very wrong[123].

He went slowly along the hall and back into his pantry. It was then he first heard the noise from overhead: a crashing of china, the overthrowing of furniture, a series of cracks and bumps.

‘Good gracious!’ thought Tressilian. ‘Whatever is the master doing? What’s happening up there?’

And then, clear and high, came a scream – a horrible high wailing scream that died away in a choke or gurgle.

Tressilian stood there a moment paralysed, then he ran out into the hall and up the broad staircase. Others were with him. That scream had been heard all over the house.

They raced up the stairs and round the bend, past a recess with statues gleaming white and eerie, and along the straight passage to Simeon Lee’s door. Mr Farr was there already and Mrs David. She was leaning back against the wall and he was twisting at the door handle.

‘The door’s locked,’ he was saying. ‘The door’s locked!’

Harry Lee pushed past and wrested it from him. He, too, turned and twisted at the handle. ‘Father,’ he shouted. ‘Father, let us in.’

He held up his hand and in the silence they all listened. There was no answer. No sound from inside the room.

The front door bell rang, but no one paid any attention to it.

Stephen Farr said: ‘We’ve got to break the door down. It’s the only way.’

Harry said: ‘That’s going to be a tough job. These doors are good solid stuff. Come on, Alfred.’

They heaved and strained. Finally they went and got an oak bench and used it as a battering-ram. The door gave at last. Its hinges splintered and the door sank shuddering from its frame.

For a minute they stood there huddled together looking in. What they saw was a sight that no one of them ever forgot…

There had clearly been a terrific struggle. Heavy furniture was overturned. China vases lay splintered on the floor. In the middle of the hearthrug in front of the blazing fire lay Simeon Lee in a great pool of blood… Blood was splashed all round. The place was like a shambles.

There was a long shuddering sigh, and then two voices spoke in turn. Strangely enough, the words they uttered were both quotations.

David Lee said: ‘The mills of God grind slowly[124]…’

Lydia’s voice came like a fluttering whisper: ‘Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?[125]…’