Crooked House - Agatha Christie [23]
She went on:
“Why shouldn’t a man marry again—even if he is a bit old? And he wasn’t really old at all—not in himself. I was very fond of him. I was fond of him.” She looked at me defiantly.
“I see,” I said. “I see.”
“I suppose you don’t believe that—but it’s true. I was sick of men. I wanted to have a home—I wanted someone to make a fuss of me and say nice things to me. Aristide said lovely things to me—and he could make you laugh—and he was clever. He thought up all sorts of smart ways to get round all these silly regulations. He was very, very clever. I’m not glad he’s dead. I’m sorry.”
She leaned back on the sofa. She had rather a wide mouth; it curled up sideways in a queer, sleepy smile.
“I’ve been happy here. I’ve been safe. I went to all those posh dressmakers—the ones I’d read about. I was as good as anybody. And Aristide gave me lovely things.” She stretched out a hand, looking at the ruby on it.
Just for a moment I saw the hand and arm like an outstretched cat’s claw, and heard her voice as a purr. She was still smiling to herself.
“What’s wrong with that?” she demanded. “I was nice to him. I made him happy.” She leaned forward. “Do you know how I met him?”
She went on without waiting for an answer.
“It was in the Gay Shamrock. He’d ordered scrambled eggs on toast and when I brought them to him I was crying. ‘Sit down,’ he said, ‘and tell me what’s the matter.’ ‘Oh, I couldn’t,’ I said. ‘I’d get the sack if I did a thing like that.’ ‘No, you won’t,’ he said, ‘I own this place.’ I looked at him then. Such an odd little man he was, I thought at first—but he’d got a sort of power. I told him all about it … You’ll have heard about it all from them, I expect—making out I was a regular bad lot—but I wasn’t. I was brought up very carefully. We had a shop—a very high-class shop—art needlework. I was never the sort of girl who had a lot of boy friends or made herself cheap. But Terry was different. He was Irish—and he was going overseas … He never wrote or anything—I suppose I was a fool. So there it was, you see. I was in trouble—just like some dreadful little servant girl….”
Her voice was disdainful in its snobbery.
“Aristide was wonderful. He said everything would be all right. He said he was lonely. We’d be married at once, he said. It was like a dream. And then I found out he was the great Mr. Leonides. He owned masses of shops and restaurants and night clubs. It was quite like a fairy tale, wasn’t it?”
“One kind of a fairy tale,” I said drily.
“We were married at a little church in the City—and then we went abroad.”
She looked at me with eyes that came back from a long distance.
“There wasn’t a child after all. It was all a mistake.”
She smiled, the curled-up sideways, crooked smile.
“I vowed to myself that I’d be a really good wife to him, and I was. I ordered all the kinds of food he liked, and wore the colours he fancied and I did all I could to please him. And he was happy. But we never got rid of that family of his. Always coming and sponging and living in his pocket. Old Miss de Haviland—I think she ought to have gone away when he got married. I said so. But Aristide said, ‘She’s been here so long. It’s her home now.’ The truth is he liked to have them all about and underfoot. They were beastly to me, but he never seemed to notice that or to mind about it. Roger hates me—have you seen Roger? He’s always hated me. He’s jealous. And Philip’s so stuck up he never speaks to me. And now they’re trying to pretend I murdered him—and I didn’t—I didn’t!” She leaned towards me. “Please believe I didn’t.”
I found her very pathetic. The contemptuous way the Leonides family had spoken of her, their eagerness to believe that she had committed the crime—now, at this moment, it all seemed positively inhuman conduct. She was alone, defenceless, hunted down.
“And if it’s not me, they think it’s Laurence,” she went on.
“What about Laurence?” I asked.
“I’m terribly sorry for