Crooked House - Agatha Christie [27]
“I’ve really no idea,” I said.
“You wouldn’t think, would you, that dogs were so particular. Our dogs aren’t. They eat simply anything.”
Josephine brooded on this Biblical mystery for some seconds.
“I’m sorry the play was a flop,” I said.
“Yes. Mother was terribly upset. The notices were simply frightful. When she read them, she burst into tears and cried all day and she threw her breakfast tray at Gladys, and Gladys gave notice. It was rather fun.”
“I perceive that you like drama, Josephine,” I said.
“They did a post-mortem on grandfather,” said Josephine. “To find out what he had died of. A P.M., they call it, but I think that’s rather confusing, don’t you? Because P.M. stands for Prime Minister too. And for afternoon,” she added thoughtfully.
“Are you sorry your grandfather is dead?” I asked.
“Not particularly. I didn’t like him much. He stopped me learning to be a ballet dancer.”
“Did you want to learn ballet dancing?”
“Yes, and mother was willing for me to learn, and father didn’t mind, but grandfather said I’d be no good.”
She slipped off the arm of the chair, kicked off her shoes and endeavoured to get on to what are called technically, I believe, her points.
“You have to have the proper shoes, of course,” she explained, “and even then you get frightful abscesses sometimes on the ends of your toes.” She resumed her shoes and inquired casually:
“Do you like this house?”
“I’m not quite sure,” I said.
“I suppose it will be sold now. Unless Brenda goes on living in it. And I suppose Uncle Roger and Aunt Clemency won’t be going away now.”
“Were they going away?” I asked with a faint stirring of interest.
“Yes. They were going on Tuesday. Abroad somewhere. They were going by air. Aunt Clemency bought one of those new featherweight cases.”
“I hadn’t heard they were going abroad,” I said.
“No,” said Josephine. “Nobody knew. It was a secret. They weren’t going to tell anyone until after they’d gone. They were going to leave a note behind for grandfather.”
She added:
“Not pinned to the pincushion. That’s only in very old-fashioned books and wives do it when they leave their husbands. But it would be silly now because nobody has pincushions any more.”
“Of course they don’t. Josephine, do you know why your Uncle Roger was—going away?”
She shot me a cunning sideways glance.
“I think I do. It was something to do with Uncle Roger’s office in London. I rather think—but I’m not sure—that he’d embezzled something.”
“What makes you think that?”
Josephine came nearer and breathed heavily in my face.
“The day that grandfather was poisoned Uncle Roger was shut up in his room with him ever so long. They were talking and talking. And Uncle Roger was saying that he’d never been any good, and that he’d let grandfather down—and that it wasn’t the money so much—it was the feeling he’d been unworthy of trust. He was in an awful state.”
I looked at Josephine with mixed feelings.
“Josephine,” I said, “hasn’t anybody ever told you that it’s not nice to listen at doors?”
Josephine nodded her head vigorously.
“Of course they have. But if you want to find things out, you have to listen at doors. I bet Chief-Inspector Taverner does, don’t you?”
I considered the point. Josephine went on vehemently:
“And anyway, if he doesn’t, the other one does, the one with the suede shoes. And they look in people’s desks and read all their letters, and find out all their secrets. Only they’re stupid! They don’t know where to look!”
Josephine spoke with cold superiority. I was stupid enough to let the inference escape me. The unpleasant child went on:
“Eustace and I know lots of things—but I know more than Eustace does. And I shan’t tell him. He says women can’t ever be great detectives. But I say they can. I’m going to write down everything in a notebook and then, when the police are completely baffled, I shall come forward and say, ‘I can tell you who did it.’”
“Do you read a lot of detective stories, Josephine?”
“Masses.”