One, two, buckle my shoe - Agatha Christie [14]
VIII
Alistair Blunt had never loomed large in the public eye. Possibly because he was himself a very quiet and retiring man. Possibly because for many years he had functioned as a Prince Consort rather than as a King.
Rebecca Sanseverato, née Arnholt, came to London a disillusioned woman of forty-five. On either side she came of the Royalty of wealth. Her mother was an heiress of the European family of Rothersteins. Her father was the head of the great American banking house of Arnholt. Rebecca Arnholt, owing to the calamitous deaths of two brothers and a cousin in an air accident, was sole heiress to immense wealth. She married a European aristocrat with a famous name, Prince Felipe di Sanseverato. Three years later she obtained a divorce and custody of the child of the marriage, having spent two years of wretchedness with a well-bred scoundrel whose conduct was notorious. A few years later her child died.
Embittered by her sufferings, Rebecca Arnholt turned her undoubted brains to the business of finance — the aptitude for it ran in her blood. She associated herself with her father in banking.
After his death she continued to be a powerful figure in the financial world with her immense holdings. She came to London — and a junior partner of the London house was sent to Claridge’s to see her with various documents. Six months later the world was electrified to hear that Rebecca Sanseverato was marrying Alistair Blunt, a man nearly twenty years younger than herself.
There were the usual jeers — and smiles. Rebecca, her friends said, was really an incurable fool where men were concerned! First Sanseverato — now this young man. Of course he was only marrying her for her money. She was in for a second disaster! But to everyone’s surprise the marriage was a success. The people who prophesied that Alistair Blunt would spend her money on other women were wrong. He remained quietly devoted to his wife. Even after her death, ten years later, when as inheritor of her vast wealth he might have been supposed to cut loose, he did not marry again. He lived the same quiet and simple life. His genius for finance had been no less than his wife’s. His judgements and dealings were sound — his integrity above question. He dominated the vast Arnholt and Rotherstein interests by his sheer ability.
He went very little into society, had a house in Kent and one in Norfolk where he spent week-ends — not with gay parties, but with a few quiet stodgy friends. He was fond of golf and played moderately well. He was interested in his garden.
This was the man towards whom Chief Inspector Japp and Hercule Poirot were bouncing along in a somewhat elderly taxi.
The Gothic House was a well-known feature on Chelsea Embankment. Inside it was luxurious with an expensive simplicity. It was not very modern but it was eminently comfortable.
Alistair Blunt did not keep them waiting. He came to them almost at once.
‘Chief Inspector Japp?’
Japp came forward and introduced Hercule Poirot. Blunt looked at him with interest.
‘I know your name, of course, M. Poirot. And surely — somewhere — quite recently —’ he paused, frowning.
Poirot said:
‘This morning, Monsieur, in the waiting-room of ce pauvre M. Morley.’
Alistair Blunt’s brow cleared. He said:
‘Of course. I knew I had seen you somewhere.’ He turned to Japp. ‘What can I do for you? I am extremely sorry to hear about poor Morley.’
‘You were surprised, Mr Blunt?’
‘Very surprised. Of course I knew very little about him, but I should have thought him a most unlikely person to commit suicide.’
‘He seemed in good health and spirits then, this morning?’
‘I think so — yes.’ Alistair Blunt paused, then said with an almost boyish smile: ‘To tell you the truth, I’m a most awful coward about going to the dentist. And I simply hate that beastly drill thing they run into you. That’s why I really didn’t notice anything much. Not till it was over, you know, and I got up to go. But I must say Morley