Listerdale Mystery - Agatha Christie [6]
Yes, she thought. Rupert was very like a dog at this moment. Hunting in circles for something vague and undefined, led by instinct, busy and happy.
‘It was when we were passing through a village about eight or nine miles away that it happened–that I saw him, I mean.’
‘Saw whom?’
‘Quentin–just going into a little cottage. Something fishy here, I said to myself, and we stopped the bus, and I went back. I rapped on the door and he himself opened it.’
‘But I don’t understand. Quentin hasn’t been away–’
‘I’m coming to that, Mother. If you’d only listen, and not interrupt. It was Quentin, and it wasn’t Quentin, if you know what I mean.’
Mrs St Vincent clearly did not know, so he elucidated matters further.
‘It was Quentin all right, but it wasn’t our Quentin. It was the real man.’
‘Rupert!’
‘You listen. I was taken in myself at first, and said: “It is Quentin, isn’t it?” And the old johnny said: “Quite right, sir, that is my name. What can I do for you?” And then I saw that it wasn’t our man, though it was precious like him, voice and all. I asked a few questions, and it all came out. The old chap hadn’t an idea of anything fishy being on. He’d been butler to Lord Listerdale all right, and was retired on a pension and given this cottage just about the time that Lord Listerdale was supposed to have gone off to Africa. You see where that leads us. This man’s an impostor–he’s playing the part of Quentin for purposes of his own. My theory is that he came up to town that evening, pretending to be the butler from King’s Cheviot, got an interview with Lord Listerdale, killed him and hid his body behind the panelling. It’s an old house, there’s sure to be a secret recess–’
‘Oh, don’t let’s go into all that again,’ interrupted Mrs St Vincent wildly. ‘I can’t bear it. Why should he–that’s what I want to know–why? If he did such a thing–which I don’t believe for one minute, mind you–what was the reason for it all?’
‘You’re right,’ said Rupert. ‘Motive–that’s important. Now I’ve made inquiries. Lord Listerdale had a lot of house property. In the last two days I’ve discovered that practically every one of these houses of his has been let in the last eighteen months to people like ourselves for a merely nominal rent–and with the proviso that the servants should remain. And in every case Quentin himself–the man calling himself Quentin, I mean–has been there for part of the time as butler. That looks as though there were something–jewels, or papers–secreted in one of Lord Listerdale’s houses, and the gang doesn’t know which. I’m assuming a gang, but of course this fellow Quentin may be in it single-handed. There’s a–’
Mrs St Vincent interrupted him with a certain amount of determination:
‘Rupert! Do stop talking for one minute. You’re making my head spin. Anyway, what you are saying is nonsense–about gangs and hidden papers.’
‘There’s another theory,’ admitted Rupert. ‘This Quentin may be someone that Lord Listerdale has injured. The real butler told me a long story about a man called Samuel Lowe–an under-gardener he was, and about the same height and build as Quentin himself. He’d got a grudge against Listerdale–’
Mrs St Vincent started.
‘With no consideration for others.’ The words came back to her mind in their passionless, measured accents. Inadequate words, but what might they not stand for?
In her absorption she hardly listened to Rupert. He made a rapid explanation of something that she did not take in, and went hurriedly from the room.
Then she woke up. Where had Rupert gone? What was he going to do? She had not caught his last words. Perhaps he was going for the police. In that case…
She rose abruptly and rang the bell. With his usual promptness, Quentin answered it.
‘You rang, madam?’
‘Yes. Come in, please, and shut the door.’
The butler obeyed, and Mrs St Vincent was silent a moment whilst she studied him with earnest eyes.
She thought: ‘He’s been kind to me–nobody knows how kind. The children wouldn’t understand. This wild story of Rupert’s may be