After the Funeral - Agatha Christie [75]
“Now, ladies,” said George. “What about a sporting decision? Why not toss for it? Or cut the cards? All quite in keeping with the period of the table.”
Susan smiled pleasantly.
“Rosamund and I will talk about it tomorrow,” she said.
She seemed, as usual, quite sure of herself. George looked with some interest from her face to that of Rosamund. Rosamund’s face had a vague, rather faraway expression.
“Which one will you back, Aunt Helen?” he asked. “An even money chance, I’d say. Susan has determination, but Rosamund is so wonderfully single-minded.”
“Or perhaps not hummingbirds,” said Rosamund. “One of those big Chinese vases would make a lovely lamp, with a gold shade.”
Miss Gilchrist hurried into placating speech.
“This house is full of so many beautiful things,” she said. “That green table would look wonderful in your new establishment, I’m sure, Mrs. Banks. I’ve never seen one like it. It must be worth a lot of money.”
“It will be deducted from my share of the estate, of course,” said Susan.
“I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean—” Miss Gilchrist was covered with confusion.
“It may be deducted from our share of the estate,” Michael pointed out. “With the wax flowers thrown in.”
“They look so right on that table,” Miss Gilchrist murmured. “Really artistic. Sweetly pretty.”
But nobody was paying any attention to Miss Gilchrist’s well-meant trivialities.
Greg said, speaking again in that high nervous voice:
“Susan wants that table.”
There was a momentary stir of unease, as though, by his words, Greg had set a different musical key.
Helen said quickly:
“And what do you really want, George? Leaving out the Spode service.”
George grinned and the tension relaxed.
“Rather a shame to bait old Timothy,” he said. “But he really is quite unbelievable. He’s had his own way in everything so long that he’s become quite pathological about it.”
“You have to humour an invalid, Mr. Crossfield,” said Miss Gilchrist.
“Ruddy old hypochondriac, that’s what he is,” said George.
“Of course he is,” Susan agreed. “I don’t believe there’s anything whatever the matter with him, do you, Rosamund?”
“What?”
“Anything the matter with Uncle Timothy.”
“No—no, I shouldn’t think so.” Rosamund was vague. She apologized. “I’m sorry. I was thinking about what lighting would be right for the table.”
“You see?” said George. “A woman of one idea. Your wife’s a dangerous woman, Michael. I hope you realize it.”
“I realize it,” said Michael rather grimly.
George went on with every appearance of enjoyment.
“The Battle of the Table! To be fought tomorrow—politely—but with grim determination. We ought all to take sides. I back Rosamund who looks so sweet and yielding and isn’t. Husbands, presumably back their own wives. Miss Gilchrist? On Susan’s side, obviously.”
“Oh, really, Mr. Crossfield, I wouldn’t venture to—”
“Aunt Helen?” George paid no attention to Miss Gilchrist’s flutterings. “You have the casting vote. Oh, er—I forgot. M. Pontarlier?”
“Pardon?” Hercule Poirot looked blank.
George considered explanations, but decided against it. The poor old boy hadn’t understood a word of what was going on. He said: “Just a family joke.”
“Yes, yes, I comprehend.” Poirot smiled amiably.
“So yours is the casting vote, Aunt Helen. Whose side are you on?”
Helen smiled.
“Perhaps I want it myself, George.”
She changed the subject deliberately, turning to her foreign guest.
“I’m afraid this is all very dull for you, M. Pontarlier?”
“Not at all, Madame. I consider myself privileged to be admitted to your family life—” he bowed. “I would like to say—I cannot quite express my meaning—my regret that this house had to pass out of your hands into the hands of strangers. It is without doubt—a great sorrow.”
“No, indeed, we don’t regret at all,” Susan assured him.
“You are very amiable, Madame. It will be, let me tell you, perfection here for my