Hickory Dickory Dock - Agatha Christie [22]
“Done his good deed for the day!” but otherwise controlled his tongue and waved a hand of greeting to Celia as she came in with Len’s large arm passed round her shoulders.
There was a general outburst of cheerful conversation on various topics and Celia was appealed to by one and the other.
Almost inevitably this manifestation of goodwill died away into a doubtful silence. It was then that Mr. Akibombo turned a beaming face towards Celia and, leaning across the table, said:
“They have explained me good now all that I did not understand. You very clever at steal things. Long time nobody know. Very clever.”
At this point Sally Finch, gasping out, “Akibombo, you’ll be the death of me,” had such a severe choke that she had to go out in the hall to recover. And the laughter broke out in a thoroughly natural fashion.
Colin McNabb came in late. He seemed reserved and even more uncommunicative than usual. At the close of the meal and before the others had finished he got up and said in an embarrassed mumble:
“Got to go out and see someone. Like to tell you all first. Celia and I—hope to get married next year when I’ve done my course.”
The picture of blushing misery, he received the congratulations and jeering catcalls of his friends and finally escaped, looking terribly sheepish. Celia, on the other hand, was pink and composed.
“Another good man gone west,” sighed Len Bateson.
“I’m so glad, Celia,” said Patricia. “I hope you’ll be very happy.”
“Everything in the garden is now perfect,” said Nigel. “Tomorrow we’ll bring some chianti in and drink your health. Why is our dear Jean looking so grave? Do you disapprove of marriage, Jean?”
“Of course not, Nigel.”
“I always think it’s so much better than free love, don’t you? Nicer for the children. Looks better on their passports.”
“But the mother should not be too young,” said Genevieve. “They tell one that in the physiology classes.”
“Really, dear,” said Nigel, “you’re not suggesting that Celia’s below the age of consent or anything like that, are you? She’s free, white, and twenty-one.”
“That,” said Mr. Chandra Lal, “is a most offensive remark.”
“No, no, Mr. Chandra Lal,” said Patricia. “It’s just a—a kind of idiom. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“I do not understand,” said Mr. Akibombo. “If a thing does not mean anything, why should it be said?”
Elizabeth Johnston said suddenly, raising her voice a little:
“Things are sometimes said that do not seem to mean anything but they may mean a good deal. No, it is not your American quotation I mean. I am talking of something else.” She looked round the table. “I am talking of what happened yesterday.”
Valerie said sharply:
“What’s up, Bess?”
“Oh, please,” said Celia. “I think—I really do—that by tomorrow everything will be cleared up. I really mean it. The ink on your papers, and that silly business of the rucksack. And if—if the person owns up, like I’ve done, then everything will be cleared up.”
She spoke earnestly, with a flushed face, and one or two people looked at her curiously.
Valerie said with a short laugh:
“And we’ll all live happy ever afterwards.”
Then they got up and went into the common room. There was quite a little competition to give Celia her coffee. Then the wireless was turned on, some students left to keep appointments or to work and finally the inhabitants of 24 and 26 Hickory Road got to bed.
It had been, Mrs. Hubbard reflected, as she climbed gratefully between the sheets, a long wearying day.
“But thank goodness,” she said to herself. “It’s all over now.”
Chapter Seven
Miss Lemon was seldom, if ever, unpunctual. Fog, storm, epidemic of flu, transport breakdowns—none of these things seemed to affect that remarkable woman. But this morning Miss Lemon arrived, breathless, at five minutes past ten instead of on the stroke of ten o’clock. She was profusely apologetic and for her, quite ruffled.
“I’m extremely sorry, M. Poirot—really extremely sorry. I was just about to leave the flat when my sister rang up.”
“Ah, she is in good health and spirits,