Listerdale Mystery - Agatha Christie [5]
He and his mother were dining alone together; Barbara was out with Jim.
Quentin placed the port in front of him, and withdrew noiselessly.
‘That’s a rum old bird,’ said Rupert, nodding towards the closed door. ‘There’s something odd about him, you know, something–’
‘Not fishy?’ interrupted Mrs St Vincent, with a faint smile.
‘Why, Mother, how did you know what I was going to say?’ demanded Rupert in all seriousness.
‘It’s rather a word of yours, darling. You think everything is fishy. I suppose you have an idea that it was Quentin who did away with Lord Listerdale and put him under the floor?’
‘Behind the panelling,’ corrected Rupert. ‘You always get things a little bit wrong, Mother. No, I’ve inquired about that. Quentin was down at King’s Cheviot at the time.’
Mrs St Vincent smiled at him, as she rose from table and went up to the drawing-room. In some ways Rupert was a long time growing up.
Yet a sudden wonder swept over her for the first time as to Lord Listerdale’s reasons for leaving England so abruptly. There must be something behind it, to account for that sudden decision. She was still thinking the matter over when Quentin came in with the coffee tray, and she spoke out impulsively.
‘You have been with Lord Listerdale a long time, haven’t you, Quentin?’
‘Yes, madam; since I was a lad of twenty-one. That was in the late Lord’s time. I started as third footman.’
‘You must know Lord Listerdale very well. What kind of a man is he?’
The butler turned the tray a little, so that she could help herself to sugar more conveniently, as he replied in even unemotional tones:
‘Lord Listerdale was a very selfish gentleman, madam: with no consideration for others.’
He removed the tray and bore it from the room. Mrs St Vincent sat with her coffee cup in her hand, and a puzzled frown on her face. Something struck her as odd in the speech apart from the views it expressed. In another minute it flashed home to her.
Quentin had used the word ‘was’ not ‘is’. But then, he must think–must believe–She pulled herself up. She was as bad as Rupert! But a very definite uneasiness assailed her. Afterwards she dated her first suspicions from that moment.
With Barbara’s happiness and future assured, she had time to think her own thoughts, and against her will, they began to centre round the mystery of Lord Listerdale. What was the real story? Whatever it was Quentin knew something about it. Those had been odd words of his–‘a very selfish gentleman–no consideration for others.’ What lay behind them? He had spoken as a judge might speak, detachedly and impartially.
Was Quentin involved in Lord Listerdale’s disappearance? Had he taken an active part in any tragedy there might have been? After all, ridiculous as Rupert’s assumption had seemed at the time, that single letter with its power of attorney coming from East Africa was–well, open to suspicion.
But try as she would, she could not believe any real evil of Quentin. Quentin, she told herself over and over again, was good–she used the word as simply as a child might have done. Quentin was good. But he knew something!
She never spoke with him again of his master. The subject was apparently forgotten. Rupert and Barbara had other things to think of, and there were no further discussions.
It was towards the end of August that her vague surmises crystallized into realities. Rupert had gone for a fortnight’s holiday with a friend who had a motor-cycle and trailer. It was some ten days after his departure that Mrs St Vincent was startled to see him rush into the room where she sat writing.
‘Rupert!’ she exclaimed.
‘I know, Mother. You didn’t expect to see me for another three days. But something’s happened. Anderson–my pal, you know–didn’t much care where he went, so I suggested having a look in at King’s Cheviot–’
‘King’s Cheviot? But why–?’
‘You know perfectly well, Mother, that I’ve always scented something fishy about things here. Well, I had a look at the old place–it’s let, you know–nothing there. Not that I actually expected