Lord Edgware Dies - Agatha Christie [44]
‘Will you come this way, please?’
The butler led the way up a broad staircase and into a long room on the first floor overlooking the river.
‘M. Hercule Poirot,’ announced the butler.
It was a beautifully-proportioned room, and had an old-world air with its carefully-shaded dim lamps. In one corner of the room was a bridge table, set near the open window, and round it sat four people. As we entered the room one of the four rose and came towards us.
‘It is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance, M. Poirot.’
I looked with some interest at Sir Montagu Corner. He had a distinctly Jewish cast of countenance, very small intelligent black eyes and a carefully-arranged toupee. He was a short man – five foot eight at most, I should say. His manner was affected to the last degree.
‘Let me introduce you. Mr and Mrs Widburn.’
‘We’ve met before,’ said Mrs Widburn brightly. ‘And Mr Ross.’
Ross was a young fellow of about twenty-two with a pleasant face and fair hair.
‘I disturb your game. A million apologies,’ said Poirot.
‘Not at all. We have not started. We were commencing to deal the cards only. Some coffee, M. Poirot?’
Poirot declined but accepted an offer of old brandy. It was brought us in immense goblets.
As we sipped it, Sir Montagu discoursed.
He spoke of Japanese prints, of Chinese lacquer, of Persian carpets, of the French Impressionists, of modern music and of the theories of Einstein.
Then he sat back and smiled at us beneficently. He had evidently thoroughly enjoyed his performance. In the dim light he looked like some genie of the mediaeval age. All around the room were exquisite examples of art and culture.
‘And now, Sir Montagu,’ said Poirot, ‘I will trespass on your kindness no longer but will come to the object of my visit.’
Sir Montagu waved a curious claw-like hand.
‘There is no hurry. Time is infinite.’
‘One always feels that in this house,’ sighed Mrs Widburn. ‘So wonderful.’
‘I would not live in London for a million pounds,’ said Sir Montagu. ‘Here one is in the old-world atmosphere of peace that – alas! – we have put behind us in these jarring days.’
A sudden impish fancy flashed over me that if someone were really to offer Sir Montagu a million pounds, old-world peace might go to the wall, but I trod down such heretical sentiments.
‘What is money, after all?’ murmured Mrs Widburn.
‘Ah!’ said Mr Widburn thoughtfully, and rattled some coins absent-mindedly in his trouser pocket.
‘Charles,’ said Mrs Widburn reproachfully.
‘Sorry,’ said Mr Widburn and stopped.
‘To speak of crime in such an atmosphere, is, I feel, unpardonable,’ began Poirot apologetically.
‘Not at all.’ Sir Montagu waved a gracious hand. ‘A crime can be a work of art. A detective can be an artist. I do not refer, of course, to the police. An inspector has been here today. A curious person. He had never heard of Benvenuto Cellini, for instance.’
‘He came about Jane Wilkinson, I suppose,’ said Mrs Widburn with instant curiosity.
‘It was fortunate for the lady that she was at your house last night,’ said Poirot.
‘So it seems,’ said Sir Montagu. ‘I asked her here knowing that she was beautiful and talented and hoping that I might be able to be of use to her. She was thinking of going into management. But it seems that I was fated to be of use to her in a very different way.’
‘Jane’s got luck,’ said Mrs Widburn. ‘She’s been dying to get rid of Edgware and here’s somebody gone and saved her the trouble. She’ll marry the young Duke of Merton now. Everyone says so. His mother’s wild about it.’
‘I was favourably impressed by her,’ said Sir Montagu graciously. ‘She made several most intelligent remarks about Greek art.’
I smiled to myself picturing Jane saying ‘Yes’ and ‘No’, ‘Really, how wonderful’, in her magical husky voice. Sir Montagu was the type of