Hickory Dickory Dock - Agatha Christie [11]
“Well, I don’t know—perhaps it is.” She sounded rather uncertain.
“And these others? Can you tell me something about them, perhaps? I understood this was a home for foreign students, but these seem mostly to be English.”
“Some of the foreign ones are out. Mr. Chandra Lal and Mr. Gopal Ram—they’re Indians—and Miss Reinjeer who’s Dutch—and Mr. Achmed Ali who’s Egyptian and frightfully political!”
“And those who are here? Tell me about these.”
“Well, sitting on Mrs. Hubbard’s left is Nigel Chapman. He’s studying Medieval History and Italian at London University. Then there’s Patricia Lane next to him, with the spectacles. She’s taking a diploma in Archaeology. The big red-headed boy is Len Bateson, he’s a medical and the dark girl is Valerie Hobhouse, she’s in a beauty shop. Next to her is Colin McNabb—he’s doing a post-graduate course in Psychiatry.”
There was a faint change in her voice as she described Colin. Poirot glanced keenly at her and saw that the colour had come up in her face.
He said to himself:
“So—she is in love and she cannot easily conceal the fact.”
He noticed that young McNabb never seemed to look at her across the table, being far too much taken up with his conversation with a laughing red-headed girl beside him.
“That’s Sally Finch. She’s American—over here on a Fulbright. Then there’s Genevieve Maricaud. She’s doing English, and so is René Halle who sits next to her. The small fair girl is Jean Tomlinson—she’s at St. Catherine’s too. She’s a physiotherapist. The black man is Akibombo—he comes from West Africa and he’s frightfully nice. Then there’s Elizabeth Johnston, she’s from Jamaica and she’s studying law. Next to us on my right are two Turkish students who came about a week ago. They know hardly any English.”
“Thank you. And do you all get on well together? Or do you have quarrels?”
The lightness of his tone robbed the words of seriousness.
Celia said:
“Oh, we’re all too busy really to have fights—although—”
“Although what, Miss Austin?”
“Well—Nigel—next to Mrs. Hubbard. He likes stirring people up and making them angry. And Len Bateson gets angry. He gets wild with rage sometimes. But he’s very sweet really.”
“And Colin McNabb—does he too get annoyed?”
“Oh no. Colin just raises his eyebrows and looks amused.”
“I see. And the young ladies, do you have your quarrels?”
“Oh no, we all get on very well. Genevieve has feelings sometimes. I think French people are inclined to be touchy—oh, I mean—I’m sorry—”
Celia was the picture of confusion.
“Me, I am Belgian,” said Poirot solemnly. He went on quickly, before Celia could recover control of herself: “What did you mean just now, Miss Austin, when you said that you wondered. You wondered—what?”
She crumbled her bread nervously.
“Oh that—nothing—nothing really—just, there have been some silly practical jokes lately—I thought Mrs. Hubbard—But really it was silly of me. I didn’t mean anything.”
Poirot did not press her. He turned away to Mrs. Hubbard and was presently engaged in a three-cornered conversation with her and with Nigel Chapman, who introduced the controversial challenge that crime was a form of creative art—and that the misfits of society were really the police who only entered that profession because of their secret sadism. Poirot was amused to note that the anxious-looking young woman in spectacles who sat beside him tried desperately to explain away his remarks as fast as he made them. Nigel, however, took absolutely no notice of her.
Mrs. Hubbard looked benignly amused.
“All you young people nowadays think of nothing but politics and psychology,” she said. “When I was a girl we were much more lighthearted. We danced. If you rolled back the carpet in the common room there’s quite a good floor, and you could dance to the wireless, but you never do.”
Celia laughed and said with a tinge of malice:
“But you used to dance, Nigel. I’ve danced with you myself once, though I don’t expect you remember.”
“You’ve danced with me,” said Nigel incredulously. “Where?”
“At Cambridge—in May Week.”
“Oh, May Week!” Nigel waved