Listerdale Mystery - Agatha Christie [2]
Yet, since she was restless and anxious to escape from her thoughts she put on her hat straightaway, and took a convenient bus to the address given in the advertisement.
It proved to be that of a firm of house-agents. Not a new bustling firm–a rather decrepit, old-fashioned place. Rather timidly she produced the advertisement, which she had torn out, and asked for particulars.
The white-haired old gentleman who was attending to her stroked his chin thoughtfully.
‘Perfectly. Yes, perfectly, madam. That house, the house mentioned in the advertisement is No 7 Cheviot Place. You would like an order?’
‘I should like to know the rent first?’ said Mrs St Vincent.
‘Ah! the rent. The exact figure is not settled, but I can assure you that it is purely nominal.’
‘Ideas of what is purely nominal can vary,’ said Mrs St Vincent.
The old gentleman permitted himself to chuckle a little.
‘Yes, that’s an old trick–an old trick. But you can take my word for it, it isn’t so in this case. Two or three guineas a week, perhaps, not more.’
Mrs St Vincent decided to have the order. Not, of course, that there was any real likelihood of her being able to afford the place. But, after all, she might just see it. There must be some grave disadvantage attaching to it, to be offered at such a price.
But her heart gave a little throb as she looked up at the outside of 7 Cheviot Place. A gem of a house. Queen Anne, and in perfect condition! A butler answered the door, he had grey hair and little side-whiskers, and the meditative calm of an archbishop. A kindly archbishop, Mrs St Vincent thought.
He accepted the order with a benevolent air.
‘Certainly, madam. I will show you over. The house is ready for occupation.’
He went before her, opening doors, announcing rooms.
‘The drawing-room, the white study, a powder closet through here, madam.’
It was perfect–a dream. The furniture all of the period, each piece with signs of wear, but polished with loving care. The loose rugs were of beautiful dim old colours. In each room were bowls of fresh flowers. The back of the house looked over the Green Park. The whole place radiated an old-world charm.
The tears came into Mrs St Vincent’s eyes, and she fought them back with difficulty. So had Ansteys looked–Ansteys…
She wondered whether the butler had noticed her emotion. If so, he was too much the perfectly trained servant to show it. She liked these old servants, one felt safe with them, at ease. They were like friends.
‘It is a beautiful house,’ she said softly. ‘Very beautiful. I am glad to have seen it.’
‘Is it for yourself alone, madam?’
‘For myself and my son and daughter. But I’m afraid–’
She broke off. She wanted it so dreadfully–so dreadfully.
She felt instinctively that the butler understood. He did not look at her, as he said in a detached impersonal way:
‘I happen to be aware, madam, that the owner requires above all, suitable tenants. The rent is of no importance to him. He wants the house to be tenanted by someone who will really care for and appreciate it.’
‘I should appreciate it,’ said Mrs St Vincent in a low voice.
She turned to go.
‘Thank you for showing me over,’ she said courteously.
‘Not at all, madam.’
He stood in the doorway, very correct and upright as she walked away down the street. She thought to herself: ‘He knows. He’s sorry for me. He’s one of the old lot too. He’d like me to have it–not a labour member, or a button manufacturer! We’re dying out, our sort, but we band together.’
In the end she decided not to go back to the agents. What was the good? She could afford the rent–but there were servants to be considered. There would have to be servants in a house like that.
The next morning a letter lay by her plate. It was from the house-agents. It offered her the tenancy of 7 Cheviot Place for six months at two guineas a week, and went on: ‘You have, I presume, taken into consideration the fact that the servants are remaining at the landlord’s expense? It is really a unique offer.’
It was. So startled was she by it, that she read the letter out. A