Hercule Poirot - Christie Agatha (лучшие книги без регистрации TXT) 📗
Hilda said firmly:
‘Don’t let’s start again! Lydia shall tell Pilar what we’ve decided. We can settle details later.’ She added in the hope of making a diversion, ‘I wonder where Mr Farr is, and M. Poirot?’
Alfred said:
‘We dropped Poirot in the village on our way to the inquest. He said he had an important purchase to make.’
Harry said: ‘Why didn’the go to the inquest? Surely he ought to have done!’
Lydia said:
‘Perhaps he knew it was not going to be important. Who’s that out there in the garden? Superintendent Sugden, or Mr Farr?’
The efforts of the two women were successful. The family conclave broke up.
Lydia said to Hilda privately:
‘Thank you, Hilda. It was nice of you to back me up. You know, you reallyhave been a comfort in all this.’
Hilda said thoughtfully: ‘Queer how money upsets people.’
The others had all left the room. The two women were alone.
Lydia said:
‘Yes-even Harry-although it was his suggestion! And my poor Alfred-he is so British-he doesn’t really like Lee money going to a Spanish subject.’
Hilda said, smiling:
‘Do you think we women are more unworldly?’
Lydia said with a shrug of her graceful shoulders:
‘Well, you know, it isn’t really our money-not ourown! That may make a difference.’
Hilda said thoughtfully:
‘She is a strange child-Pilar, I mean. I wonder what will become of her?’
Lydia sighed.
‘I’m glad that she will be independent. To live here, to be given a home and a dress allowance, would not, I think, be very satisfactory to her. She’s too proud and, I think, too-too alien.’
She added musingly:
‘I once brought some beautiful blue lapis home from Egypt. Out there, against the sun and the sand, it was a glorious colour-a brilliant warm blue. But when I got it home, the blue of it hardly showed any more. It was just a dull, darkish string of beads.’
Hilda said:
‘Yes, I see…’
Lydia said gently:
‘I am so glad to come to know you and David at last. I’m glad you both came here.’
Hilda sighed:
‘How often I’ve wished in the last few days that we hadn’t!’
‘I know. You must have done…But you know, Hilda, the shock hasn’t affected David nearly as badly as it might have done. I mean, he is so sensitive that it might have upset him completely. Actually, since the murder, he’s seemed ever so much better-’
Hilda looked slightly disturbed. She said:
‘So you’ve noticed that? It’s rather dreadful in a way…But oh! Lydia, it’s undoubtedly so!’
She was silent a minute recollecting words that her husband had spoken only the night before. He had said to her, eagerly, his fair hair tossed back from his forehead:
‘Hilda, you remember inTosca -when Scarpia is dead and Tosca lights the candles at his head and feet? Do you remember what she says: ‘NowI can forgive him…’ That is what I feel-about Father. I see now that all these years I couldn’t forgive him, and yet I really wanted to…But no-nowthere’s no rancour any more. It’s all wiped away. And I feel-oh, I feel as though a great load had been lifted from my back.’
She had said, striving to fight back a sudden fear:
‘Because he’s dead?’
He had answered quickly, stammering in his eagerness:
‘No, no, you don’t understand. Not becausehe is dead, but because my childish stupid hate of him is dead…’
Hilda thought of those words now.
She would have liked to repeat them to the woman at her side, but she felt instinctively that it was wiser not.
She followed Lydia out of the drawing-room into the hall.
Magdalene was there, standing by the hall table with a little parcel in her hand. She jumped when she saw them. She said:
‘Oh, this must be M Poirot’s important purchase. I saw him put it down here just now. I wonder what it is.’
She looked from one to the other of them, giggling a little, but her eyes were sharp and anxious, belying the affected gaiety of her words.
Lydia’s eyebrows rose. She said:
‘I must go and wash before lunch.’
Magdalene said, still with that affectation of childishness, but unable to keep the desperate note out of her voice:
‘I must justpeep!’
She unrolled the piece of paper and gave a sharp exclamation. She stared at the thing in her hand.
Lydia stopped and Hilda too. Both women stared.
Magdalene said in a puzzled voice:
‘It’s a false moustache. But-but-why?’
Hilda said doubtfully:
‘Disguise? But-’
Lydia finished the sentence for her.
‘But M. Poirot has a very fine moustache of his own!’
Magdalene was wrapping the parcel up again. She said:
‘I don’t understand. It’s-it’smad. Why does M. Poirot buy a false moustache?’
When Pilar left the drawing-room she walked slowly along the hall. Stephen Farr was coming in through the garden door. He said:
‘Well? Is the family conclave over? Has the will been read?’
Pilar said, her breath coming fast:
‘I have got nothing-nothing at all! It was a will made many years ago. My grandfather left money to my mother, but because she is dead it does not go to me but goes back tothem.’
Stephen said:
‘That seems rather hard lines.’
Pilar said:
‘If that old man had lived, he would have made another will. He would have left money tome -a lot of money! Perhaps in time he would have left meall the money!’
Stephen said, smiling:
‘That wouldn’t have been very fair either, would it?’
‘Why not? He would have liked me best, that is all.’
Stephen said:
‘What a greedy child you are. A real little gold-digger.’
Pilar said soberly:
‘The world is very cruel to women. They must do what they can for themselves-while they are young. When they are old and ugly no one will help them.’
Stephen said slowly:
‘That’s more true than I like to think. But it isn’tquite true. Alfred Lee, for instance, was genuinely fond of his father in spite of the old man being thoroughly trying and exacting.’
Pilar’s chin went up.
‘Alfred,’ she said, ‘is rather a fool.’
Stephen laughed.
Then he said:
‘Well, don’t worry, lovely Pilar. The Lees are bound to look after you, you know.’
Pilar said disconsolately:
‘It will not be very amusing, that.’
Stephen said slowly:
‘No, I’m afraid it won’t. I can’t see you living here, Pilar. Would you like to come to South Africa?’
Pilar nodded.
Stephen said:
‘There’s sun there, and space. There’s hard work too. Are you good at work, Pilar?’
Pilar said doubtfully:
‘I do not know.’
He said:
‘You’d rather sit on a balcony and eat sweets all day long? And grow enormously fat and have three double chins?’
Pilar laughed and Stephen said:
‘That’s better. I’ve made you laugh.’
Pilar said:
‘I thought I should laugh this Christmas! In books I have read that an English Christmas is very gay, that one eats burning raisins and there is a plum pudding all in flames, and something that is called a Yule log.’
Stephen said:
‘Ah, but you must have a Christmas uncomplicated by murder. Come in here a minute. Lydia took me in here yesterday. It’s her store-room.’
He led her into a small room little bigger than a cupboard.
‘Look, Pilar, boxes and boxes of crackers, and preserved fruits and oranges and dates and nuts. And here-’
‘Oh!’ Pilar clasped her hands. ‘They are pretty, these gold and silver balls.’
‘Those were to hang on a tree, with presents for the servants. And here are little snowmen all glittering with frost to put on the dinner table. And here are balloons of every colour all ready to blow up!’
‘Oh!’ Pilar’s eyes shone. ‘Oh! can we blow one up? Lydia would not mind. I do love balloons.’
Stephen said: ‘Baby! Here, which will you have?’
Pilar said: ‘I will have a red one.’
They selected their balloons and blew, their cheeks distended. Pilar stopped blowing to laugh, and her balloon went down again.
She said:
‘You look so funny-blowing-with your cheeks puffed out.’
Her laugh rang out. Then she fell to, blowing industriously. They tied up their balloons carefully and began to play with them, patting them upwards, sending them to and fro.
Pilar said:
‘Out in the hall there would be more room.’
They were sending the balloons to each other, and laughing, when Poirot came along the hall. He regarded them indulgently.
‘So you playles jeux d’enfants? It is pretty, that!’
Pilar said breathlessly:
‘Mine is the red one. It is bigger than his. Much bigger. If we took it outside it would go right up in the sky.’
‘Let’s send them up and wish,’ said Stephen.
‘Oh, yes, that is a good idea.’
Pilar ran to the garden door, Stephen followed. Poirot came behind, still looking indulgent.
‘I will wish for a great deal of money,’ announced Pilar.
She stood on tiptoe, holding the string of the balloon. It tugged gently as a puff of wind came. Pilar let go and it floated along, taken by the breeze.
Stephen laughed.
‘You mustn’t tell your wish.’
‘No? Why not?’
‘Because it doesn’t come true. Now, I’m going to wish.’
He released his balloon. But he was not so lucky. It floated sideways, caught on a holly bush and expired with a bang.
Pilar ran to it.
She announced tragically:
‘It is gone…’
Then, as she stirred the little limp wisp of rubber with her toe, she said:
‘So that was what I picked up in Grandfather’s room. He, too, had had a balloon, only his was a pink one.’
Poirot gave a sharp exclamation. Pilar turned inquiringly.
Poirot said:
‘It is nothing. I stabbed-no stubbed-the toe.’
He wheeled round and looked at the house.
He said:
‘So many windows! A house, mademoiselle, has its eyes-and its ears. It is indeed regrettable that the English are so fond of open windows.’
Lydia came out on the terrace. She said:
‘Lunch is just ready. Pilar, my dear, everything has been settled quite satisfactorily. Alfred will explain the exact details to you after lunch. Shall we come in?’
