Listerdale Mystery - Agatha Christie [83]
Cowan shook his head with perfect seriousness.
‘I don’t believe that would go down any,’ he informed her. ‘All the same, that sort of thing takes on, you know.’
‘No one can sing “Vissi D’Arte” as I can,’ said Nazorkoff confidently. ‘I sing it in the voice of the convent–as the good nuns taught me to sing years and years ago. In the voice of a choir boy or an angel, without feeling, without passion.’
‘I know,’ said Cowan heartily. ‘I have heard you, you are wonderful.’
‘That is art,’ said the prima donna, ‘to pay the price, to suffer, to endure, and in the end not only to have all knowledge, but also the power to go back, right back to the beginning and recapture the lost beauty of the heart of a child.’
Cowan looked at her curiously. She was staring past him with a strange, blank look in her eyes, and something about that look of hers gave him a creepy feeling. Her lips just parted, and she whispered a few words softly to herself. He only just caught them.
‘At last,’ she murmured. ‘At last–after all these years.’
II
Lady Rustonbury was both an ambitious and an artistic woman, she ran the two qualities in harness with complete success. She had the good fortune to have a husband who cared for neither ambition nor art and who therefore did not hamper her in any way. The Earl of Rustonbury was a large, square man, with an interest in horseflesh and in nothing else. He admired his wife, and was proud of her, and was glad that his great wealth enabled her to indulge all her schemes. The private theatre had been built less than a hundred years ago by his grandfather. It was Lady Rustonbury’s chief toy–she had already given an Ibsen drama in it, and a play of the ultra new school, all divorce and drugs, also a poetical fantasy with Cubist scenery. The forthcoming performance of Tosca had created widespread interest. Lady Rustonbury was entertaining a very distinguished house-party for it, and all London that counted was motoring down to attend.
Mme Nazorkoff and her company had arrived just before luncheon. The new young American tenor, Hensdale, was to sing ‘Cavaradossi’, and Roscari, the famous Italian baritone, was to be Scarpia. The expense of the production had been enormous, but nobody cared about that. Paula Nazorkoff was in the best of humours, she was charming, gracious, her most delightful and cosmopolitan self. Cowan was agreeably surprised, and prayed that this state of things might continue.
After luncheon the company went out to the theatre, and inspected the scenery and various appointments. The orchestra was under the direction of Mr Samuel Ridge, one of England’s most famous conductors. Everything seemed to be going without a hitch, and strangely enough, that fact worried Mr Cowan. He was more at home in an atmosphere of trouble, this unusual peace disturbed him.
‘Everything is going a darned sight too smoothly,’ murmured Mr Cowan to himself. ‘Madame is like a cat that has been fed on cream, it’s too good to last, something is bound to happen.’
Perhaps as the result of his long contact with the operatic world, Mr Cowan had developed the sixth sense, certainly his prognostications were justified. It was just before seven o’clock that evening when the French maid, Elise, came running to him in great distress.
‘Ah, Mr Cowan, come quickly, I beg of you come quickly.’
‘What’s the matter?’ demanded Cowan anxiously. ‘Madame got her back up about anything–ructions, eh, is that it?’
‘No, no, it is not Madame, it is Signor Roscari, he is ill, he is dying!’
‘Dying? Oh, come now.’
Cowan hurried after her as she led the way to the stricken Italian’s bedroom. The little man was lying on his bed, or rather jerking himself all over it in a series of contortions that would have been humorous had they been less grave. Paula Nazorkoff was bending over him; she greeted Cowan imperiously.
‘Ah! there you are. Our poor Roscari, he suffers horribly. Doubtless he has eaten something.’
‘I am dying,’ groaned the little man. ‘The pain–it is terrible. Ow!’
He contorted himself again, clasping