Mrs McGinty's Dead - Agatha Christie [69]
‘—too sweet of Robin,’ he was saying. ‘We’ve been urging him to come and see the show. But of course he’s completely under that terrible woman’s thumb, isn’t he? Dancing attendance. And really Robin is brilliant, don’t you think so? Quite quite brilliant. He shouldn’t be sacrificed on a Matriarchal altar. Women can be awful, can’t they? You know what she did to poor Alex Roscoff? All over him for nearly a year and then discovered that he wasn’t a Russian émigré at all. Of course he had been telling her some very tall stories, but quite amusing, and we all knew it wasn’t true, but after all why should one care?—and then when she found out he was just a little East End tailor’s son, she dropped him, my dear. I mean, I do hate a snob, don’t you? Really Alex was thankful to get away from her. He said she could be quite frightening sometimes—a little queer in the head, he thought. Her rages! Robin dear, we’re talking about your wonderful Madre. Such a shame she couldn’t come tonight. But it’s marvellous to have Mrs Oliver. All those delicious murders.’
An elderly man with a deep bass voice grasped Mrs Oliver’s hand and held it in a hot, sticky grasp.
‘How can I ever thank you?’ he said in tones of deep melancholy. ‘You’ve saved my life—saved my life many a time.’
Then they all came out into the fresh night air and went across to the Pony’s Head, where there were more drinks and more stage conversation.
By the time Mrs Oliver and Robin were driving homeward, Mrs Oliver was quite exhausted. She leaned back and closed her eyes. Robin, on the other hand, talked without stopping.
‘—and you do think that might be an idea, don’t you?’ he finally ended.
‘What?’
Mrs Oliver jerked open her eyes.
She had been lost in a nostalgic dream of home. Walls covered with exotic birds and foliage. A deal table, her typewriter, black coffee, apples everywhere…What bliss, what glorious and solitary bliss! What a mistake for an author to emerge from her secret fastness. Authors were shy, unsociable creatures, atoning for their lack of social aptitude by inventing their own companions and conversations.
‘I’m afraid you’re tired,’ said Robin.
‘Not really. The truth is I’m not very good with people.’
‘I adore people, don’t you?’ said Robin happily.
‘No,’ said Mrs Oliver firmly.
‘But you must. Look at all the people in your books.’
‘That’s different. I think trees are much nicer than people, more restful.’
‘I need people,’ said Robin, stating an obvious fact. ‘They stimulate me.’
He drew up at the gate of Laburnums.
‘You go in,’ he said. ‘I’ll put the car away.’
Mrs Oliver extracted herself with the usual difficulty and walked up the path.
‘The door’s not locked,’ Robin called.
It wasn’t. Mrs Oliver pushed it open and entered. There were no lights on, and that struck her as rather ungracious on the hostess’s part. Or was it perhaps economy? Rich people were so often economical. There was a smell of scent in the hall, something rather exotic and expensive. For a moment Mrs Oliver wondered if she were in the right house, then she found the light switch and pressed it down.
The light sprang up in the low oak-beamed square hall. The door into the sitting-room was ajar and she caught sight of a foot and leg. Mrs Upward, after all, had not gone to bed. She must have fallen asleep in her chair, and since no lights were on, she must have been asleep a long time.
Mrs Oliver went to the door and switched on the lights in the sitting-room.
‘We’re back—’ she began and then stopped.
Her hand went up to her throat. She felt a tight knot there, a desire to scream that she could not put into operation.
Her voice came out in a whisper:
‘Robin—Robin…’
It