Ordeal by Innocence - Agatha Christie [26]
II
“Miss Argyle? At the second desk there.”
Calgary stood for a moment watching her.
Neat, small, very quiet and efficient. She was wearing a dark blue dress, with white collar and cuffs. Her blue-black hair was coiled neatly in her neck. Her skin was dark, darker than an English skin could ever be. Her bones, too, were smaller. This was the half-caste child that Mrs. Argyle had taken as a daughter into the family.
The eyes that looked up and met his were dark, quite opaque. They were eyes that told you nothing.
Her voice was low and sympathetic.
“Can I help you?”
“You are Miss Argyle? Miss Christina Argyle?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Calgary, Arthur Calgary. You may have heard—”
“Yes. I have heard about you. My father wrote to me.”
“I would like very much to talk to you.”
She glanced up at the clock.
“The library closes in half an hour. If you could wait until then?”
“Certainly. Perhaps you would come and have a cup of tea with me somewhere?”
“Thank you.” She turned from him to a man who had come up behind him. “Yes. Can I help you?”
Arthur Calgary moved away. He wandered round, examining the contents of the shelves, observant all the time of Tina Argyle. She remained the same, calm, competent, unperturbed. The half hour passed slowly for him, but at last a bell rang and she nodded to him.
“I will meet you outside in a few minutes time.”
She did not keep him waiting. She wore no hat, merely a thick dark coat. He asked her where they should go.
“I do not know Redmyn very well,” he explained.
“There is a tea place near the Cathedral. It is not good, but for that reason it is less full than the others.”
Presently they were established at a small table, and a desiccated bored waitress had taken their order with a complete lack of enthusiasm.
“It will not be a good tea,” said Tina apologetically, “but I thought that perhaps you would like to be reasonably private.”
“That is so. I must explain my reasons for seeking you out. You see, I have met the other members of your family, including, I may say, your brother Jacko’s wife—widow. You were the only member of the family I had not met. Oh yes, and there is your married sister, of course.”
“You feel it necessary to meet us all?”
It was said quite politely—but there was a certain detachment about her voice which made Calgary a little uncomfortable.
“Hardly as a social necessity,” he agreed dryly. “And it is not mere curiosity.” (But wasn’t it?) “It is just that I wanted to express, personally, to all of you, my very deep regret that I failed to establish your brother’s innocence at the time of the trial.”
“I see….”
“If you were fond of him—Were you fond of him?”
She considered a moment; then said:
“No. I was not fond of Jacko.”
“Yet I hear from all sides that he had—great charm.”
She said clearly, but without passion:
“I distrusted and disliked him.”
“You never had—forgive me—any doubts that he had killed your mother?”
“It never occurred to me that there could be any other solution.”
The waitress brought their tea. The bread and butter was stale, the jam a curious jellyfied substance, the cakes garish and unappetizing. The tea was weak.
He sipped his and then said:
“It seems—I have been made to understand—that this information I have brought, which clears your brother of the charge of murder, may have repercussions that will not be so agreeable. It may bring fresh—anxieties to you all.”
“Because the case will have to be reopened?”
“Yes. You have already thought about that?”
“My father seems to think it is inevitable.”
“I am sorry. I am really sorry.”
“Why are you sorry, Dr. Calgary?”
“I hate to be the cause of bringing fresh trouble upon you.”
“But would you have been satisfied to remain silent?”
“You are thinking in terms of justice?”
“Yes. Weren’t you?”
“Of course. Justice seemed to me to be very important. Now—I am beginning