Listerdale Mystery - Agatha Christie [7]
Flushed and tremulous, she spoke.
‘Quentin, Mr Rupert has just got back. He has been down to King’s Cheviot–to a village near there–’
She stopped, noticing the quick start he was not able to conceal.
‘He has–seen someone,’ she went on in measured accents.
She thought to herself: ‘There–he’s warned. At any rate, he’s warned.’
After that first quick start, Quentin had resumed his unruffled demeanour, but his eyes were fixed on her face, watchful and keen, with something in them she had not seen there before. They were, for the first time, the eyes of a man and not of a servant.
He hesitated for a minute, then said in a voice which also had subtly changed:
‘Why do you tell me this, Mrs St Vincent?’
Before she could answer, the door flew open and Rupert strode into the room. With him was a dignified middle-aged man with little side-whiskers and the air of a benevolent archbishop. Quentin!
‘Here he is,’ said Rupert. ‘The real Quentin. I had him outside in the taxi. Now, Quentin, look at this man and tell me–is he Samuel Lowe?’
It was for Rupert a triumphant moment. But it was short-lived, almost at once he scented something wrong. For while the real Quentin was looking abashed and highly uncomfortable the second Quentin was smiling, a broad smile of undisguised enjoyment.
He slapped his embarrassed duplicate on the back.
‘It’s all right, Quentin. Got to let the cat out of the bag some time, I suppose. You can tell ’em who I am.’
The dignified stranger drew himself up.
‘This, sir,’ he announced, in a reproachful tone, ‘is my master, Lord Listerdale, sir.’
III
The next minute beheld many things. First, the complete collapse of the cocksure Rupert. Before he knew what was happening, his mouth still open from the shock of the discovery, he found himself being gently manœuvred towards the door, a friendly voice that was, and yet was not, familiar in his ear.
‘It’s quite all right, my boy. No bones broken. But I want a word with your mother. Very good work of yours, to ferret me out like this.’
He was outside on the landing gazing at the shut door. The real Quentin was standing by his side, a gentle stream of explanation flowing from his lips. Inside the room Lord Listerdale was fronting Mrs St Vincent.
‘Let me explain–if I can! I’ve been a selfish devil all my life–the fact came home to me one day. I thought I’d try a little altruism for a change, and being a fantastic kind of fool, I started my career fantastically. I’d sent subscriptions to odd things, but I felt the need of doing something–well, something personal. I’ve been sorry always for the class that can’t beg, that must suffer in silence–poor gentlefolk. I have a lot of house property. I conceived the idea of leasing these houses to people who–well, needed and appreciated them. Young couples with their way to make, widows with sons and daughters starting in the world. Quentin has been more than butler to me, he’s a friend. With his consent and assistance I borrowed his personality. I’ve always had a talent for acting. The idea came to me on my way to the club one night, and I went straight off to talk it over with Quentin. When I found they were making a fuss about my disappearance, I arranged that a letter should come from me in East Africa. In it, I gave full instructions to my cousin, Maurice Carfax. And–well, that’s the long and short of it.’
He broke off rather lamely, with an appealing glance at Mrs St Vincent. She stood very straight, and her eyes met his steadily.
‘It was a kind plan,’ she said. ‘A very unusual one, and one that does you credit. I am–most grateful. But–of course, you understand that we cannot stay?’
‘I expected that,’ he said. ‘Your pride won’t let you accept what you’d probably style “charity”.’
‘Isn’t that what it is?’ she asked steadily.
‘No,’ he answered. ‘Because I ask something in exchange.’
‘Something?