After the Funeral - Agatha Christie [70]
Miss Gilchrist had been quite upset by that and had said sharply that dear Mrs. Lansquenet always painted from Nature.
“But I bet she cheated,” said Susan to Poirot when Miss Gilchrist had gone out of the room. “In fact I know she did, though I won’t upset the old pussy by saying so.”
“And how do you know?”
Poirot watched the strong confident line of Susan’s chin.
“She will always be sure, this one,” he thought. “And perhaps sometimes, she will be too sure….”
Susan was going on.
“I’ll tell you, but don’t pass it on to the Gilchrist. One picture is of Polflexan, the cove and lighthouse and the pier—the usual aspect that all amateur artists sit down and sketch. But the pier was blown up in the war, and since Aunt Cora’s sketch was done a couple of years ago, it can’t very well be from Nature, can it? But the postcards they sell there still show the pier as it used to be. There was one in her bedroom drawer. So Aunt Cora started her ‘rough sketch’ down there, I expect, and then finished it surreptitiously later at home from a postcard! It’s funny, isn’t it, the way people get caught out?”
“Yes, it is, as you say, funny.” He paused, and then thought that the opening was a good one.
“You do not remember me, Madame,” he said, “but I remember you. This is not the first time that I have seen you.”
She stared at him. Poirot nodded with great gusto.
“Yes, yes, it is so. I was inside an automobile, well wrapped up and from the window I saw you. You were talking to one of the mechanics in the garage. You do not notice me—it is natural— I am inside the car—an elderly muffled-up foreigner! But I noticed you, for you are young and agreeable to look at and you stand there in the sun. So when I arrive here, I say to myself, ‘Tiens! What a coincidence!’”
“A garage? Where? When was this?”
“Oh, a little time ago—a week—no, more. For the moment,” said Poirot disingenuously and with a full recollection of the King’s Arms garage in his mind, “I cannot remember where. I travel so much all over this country.”
“Looking for a suitable house to buy for your refugees?”
“Yes. There is so much to take into consideration, you see. Price—neighbourhood—suitability for conversion.”
“I suppose you’ll have to pull the house about a lot? Lots of horrible partitions.”
“In the bedrooms, yes, certainly. But most of the ground floor rooms we shall not touch.” He paused before going on. “Does it sadden you, Madame, that this old family mansion of yours should go this way—to strangers?”
“Of course not.” Susan looked amused. “I think it’s an excellent idea. It’s an impossible place for anybody to think of living in as it is. And I’ve nothing to be sentimental about. It’s not my old home. My mother and father lived in London. We just came here for Christmas sometimes. Actually I’ve always thought it quite hideous—an almost indecent temple to wealth.”
“The altars are different now. There is the building in, and the concealed lighting and the expensive simplicity. But wealth still has its temples, Madame. I understand—I am not, I hope, indiscreet—that you yourself are planning such an edifice? Everything de luxe—and no expense spared.”
Susan laughed.
“Hardly a temple—it’s just a place of business.”
“Perhaps the name does not matter… But it will cost much money—that is true, is it not?”
“Everything’s wickedly expensive nowadays. But the initial outlay will be worthwhile, I think.”
“Tell me something about these plans of yours. It amazes me to find a beautiful young woman so practical, so competent. In my young days—a long time ago, I admit—beautiful women thought only of their pleasures, of cosmetics—of la toilette.”
“Women still think a great deal about their faces—that’s where I come in.”
“Tell me.”
And she had told him. Told him with a wealth of detail and with a great deal of unconscious self-revelation. He appreciated her business acumen, her boldness of planning and her grasp of