After the Funeral - Agatha Christie [90]
“I do not, I trust, disturb an Ophelia,” said Poirot as he took his seat beside her. “You are, perhaps, studying the role?”
“I’ve never played in Shakespeare,” said Rosamund. “Except once in Rep. I was Jessica in The Merchant. A lousy part.”
“Yet not without pathos. ‘I am never merry when I hear sweet music.’ What a load she carried, poor Jessica, the daughter of the hated and despised Jew. What doubts of herself she must have had when she brought with her her father’s ducats when she ran away to her lover. Jessica with gold was one thing—Jessica without gold might have been another.”
Rosamund turned her head to look at him.
“I thought you’d gone,” she said with a touch of reproach. She glanced down at her wristwatch. “It’s past twelve o’clock.”
“I have missed my train,” said Poirot.
“Why?”
“You think I missed it for a reason?”
“I suppose so. You’re rather precise, aren’t you? If you wanted to catch a train, I should think you’d catch it.”
“Your judgement is admirable. Do you know, Madame, I have been sitting in the little summerhouse hoping that you would, perhaps, pay me a visit there?”
Rosamund stared at him.
“Why should I? You more or less said good-bye to us all in the library.”
“Quite so. And there was nothing—you wanted to say to me?”
“No.” Rosamund shook her head. “I had a lot I wanted to think about. Important things.”
“I see.”
“I don’t often do much thinking,” said Rosamund. “It seems a waste of time. But this is important. I think one ought to plan one’s life just as one wants it to be.”
“And that is what you are doing?”
“Well, yes… I was trying to make a decision about something.”
“About your husband?”
“In a way.”
Poirot waited a moment, then he said:
“Inspector Morton has just arrived here.” He anticipated Rosamund’s question by going on: “He is the police officer in charge of the inquiries about Mrs. Lansquenet’s death. He has come here to get statements from you all about what you were doing on the day she was murdered.”
“I see. Alibis,” said Rosamund cheerfully.
Her beautiful face relaxed into an impish glee.
“That will be hell for Michael,” she said. “He thinks I don’t really know he went off to be with that woman that day.”
“How did you know?”
“It was obvious from the way he said he was going to lunch with Oscar. So frightfully casually, you know, and his nose twitching just a tiny bit like it always does when he tells lies.”
“How devoutly thankful I am I am not married to you, Madame!”
“And then, of course, I made sure by ringing up Oscar,” continued Rosamund. “Men always tell such silly lies.”
“He is not, I fear, a very faithful husband?” Poirot hazarded.
Rosamund, however, did not reject the statement.
“No.”
“But you do not mind?”
“Well, it’s rather fun in a way,” said Rosamund. “I mean having a husband that all the other women want to snatch away from you. I should hate to be married to a man that nobody wanted—like poor Susan. Really Greg is so completely wet!”
Poirot was studying her.
“And suppose someone did succeed—in snatching your husband away from you?”
“They won’t,” said Rosamund. “Not now,” she added.
“You mean—”
“Not now that there’s Uncle Richard’s money. Michael falls for these creatures in a way—that Sorrel Dainton woman nearly got her hooks into him—wanted him for keeps—but with Michael the show will always come first. He can launch out now in a big way—put his own shows on. Do some production as well as acting. He’s ambitious, you know, and he really is good. Not like me. I adore acting—but I’m ham, though I look nice. No, I’m not worried about Michael anymore. Because it’s my money, you see.”
Her eyes met Poirot’s calmly. He thought how strange it was that both Richard Abernethie’s nieces should have fallen deeply in love with men who were incapable of returning that love. And yet Rosamund was unusually beautiful and Susan was attractive and full of sex appeal. Susan needed and clung to the illusion that Gregory loved her. Rosamund, clear-sighted, had no illusions at all, but knew what she wanted.
“The point is,” said Rosamund,