Murder in the Mews - Agatha Christie [47]
He recognized, too, that she had brains as well as beauty, and guessed at certain qualities of pride and temper. Her voice, when she spoke, came with a slight drawl that struck him as deliberately put on.
‘How exciting,’ she said, ‘to entertain M. Hercule Poirot! The old man arranged a little surprise for us, I suppose.’
‘So you did not know I was coming, mademoiselle?’ he said quickly.
‘I hadn’t an idea of it. As it is, I must postpone getting my autograph book until after dinner.’
The notes of a gong sounded from the hall, then the butler opened the door and announced:
‘Dinner is served.’
And then, almost before the last word, ‘served’, had been uttered, something very curious happened. The pontificial domestic figure became, just for one moment, a highly-astonished human being…
The metamorphosis was so quick and the mask of the well-trained servant was back again so soon, that anyone who had not happened to be looking would not have noticed the change. Poirot, however, had happened to be looking. He wondered.
The butler hesitated in the doorway. Though his face was again correctly expressionless, an air of tension hung about his figure.
Lady Chevenix-Gore said uncertainly:
‘Oh, dear — this is most extraordinary. Really, I — one hardly knows what to do.’
Ruth said to Poirot:
‘This singular consternation, M. Poirot, is occasioned by the fact that my father, for the first time for at least twenty years, is late for dinner.’
‘It is most extraordinary —’ wailed Lady Chevenix-Gore. ‘Gervase never —’
An elderly man of upright soldierly carriage came to her side. He laughed genially.
‘Good old Gervase! Late at last! Upon my word, we’ll rag him over this. Elusive collar-stud, d’you think? Or is Gervase immune from our common weaknesses?’
Lady Chevenix-Gore said in a low, puzzled voice:
‘But Gervase is never late.’
It was almost ludicrous, the consternation caused by this simple contretemps. And yet, to Hercule Poirot, it was not ludicrous…Behind the consternation he felt uneasiness — perhaps even apprehension. And he, too, found it strange that Gervase Chevenix-Gore should not appear to greet the guest he had summoned in such a mysterious manner.
In the meantime, it was clear that nobody knew quite what to do. An unprecedented situation had arisen with which nobody knew how to deal.
Lady Chevenix-Gore at last took the initiative, if initiative it can be called. Certainly her manner was vague in the extreme.
‘Snell,’ she said, ‘is your master —?’
She did not finish the sentence, merely looked at the butler expectantly.
Snell, who was clearly used to his mistress’s methods of seeking information, replied promptly to the unspecified question:
‘Sir Gervase came downstairs at five minutes to eight, m’lady, and went straight to the study.’
‘Oh, I see —’ Her mouth remained open, her eyes seemed far away. ‘You don’t think — I mean — he heard the gong?’
‘I think he must have done so, m’lady, the gong being immediately outside the study door. I did not, of course, know that Sir Gervase was still in the study, otherwise I should have announced to him that dinner was ready. Shall I do so now, m’lady?’
Lady Chevenix-Gore seized on the suggestion with manifest relief.
‘Oh, thank you, Snell. Yes, please do. Yes, certainly.’
She said, as the butler left the room:
‘Snell is such a treasure. I rely on him absolutely. I really don’t know what I should do without Snell.’
Somebody murmured a sympathetic assent, but nobody spoke. Hercule Poirot, watching that room full of people with suddenly sharpened attention, had an idea that one and all were in a state of tension. His eyes ran quickly over them, tabulating them roughly. Two