Parker Pyne Investigates - Agatha Christie [50]
Mr Parker Pyne enjoyed Shiraz as he had not enjoyed Teheran. The primitive character of the hotel did not appal him, nor the equally primitive character of the streets.
He found himself in the midst of a Persian holiday. The Nan Ruz festival had begun on the previous evening–the fifteen-day period in which the Persians celebrate their New Years. He wandered through the empty bazaars and passed out into the great open stretch of common on the north side of the city. All Shiraz was celebrating.
One day he walked just outside the town. He had been to the tomb of Hafiz the poet, and it was on returning that he saw, and was fascinated by, a house. A house all tiled in blue and rose and yellow, set in a green garden with water and orange trees and roses. It was, he felt, the house of a dream.
That night he was dining with the English consul and he asked about the house.
‘Fascinating place, isn’t it? It was built by a former wealthy governor of Luristan, who had made a good thing out of his official position. An Englishwoman’s got it now. You must have heard of her. Lady Esther Carr. Mad as a hatter. Gone completely native. Won’t have anything to do with anything or anyone British.’
‘Is she young?’
‘Too young to play the fool in this way. She’s about thirty.’
‘There was another Englishwoman with her, wasn’t there? A woman who died?’
‘Yes; that was about three years ago. Happened the day after I took up my post here, as a matter of fact. Barham, my predecessor, died suddenly, you know.’
‘How did she die?’ asked Mr Parker Pyne bluntly.
‘Fell from that courtyard or balcony place on the first floor. She was Lady Esther’s maid or companion, I forget which. Anyway, she was carrying the breakfast tray and stepped back over the edge. Very sad; nothing to be done; cracked her skull on the stone below.’
‘What was her name?’
‘King, I think; or was it Willis? No, that’s the missionary woman. Rather a nice-looking girl.’
‘Was Lady Esther upset?’
‘Yes–no. I don’t know. She was very queer; I couldn’t make her out. She’s a very–well, imperious creature. You can see she is somebody, if you know what I mean; she rather scared me with her commanding ways and her dark, flashing eyes.’
He laughed half-apologetically, then looked curiously at his companion. Mr Parker Pyne was apparently staring into space. The match he had just struck to light his cigarette was burning away unheeded in his hand. It burned down to his fingers and he dropped it with an ejaculation of pain. Then he saw the consul’s astonished expression and smiled.
‘I beg your pardon,’ he said.
‘Wool gathering, weren’t you?’
‘Three bags full,’ said Mr Parker Pyne enigmatically.
They talked of other matters.
That evening, by the light of a small oil lamp, Mr Parker Pyne wrote a letter. He hesitated a good deal over its composition. Yet in the end it was very simple:
Mr Parker Pyne presents his compliments to Lady Esther Carr and begs to state that he is staying at the Hotel Fars for the next three days should she wish to consult him.
He enclosed a cutting–the famous advertisement:
‘That ought to do the trick,’ said Mr Parker Pyne as he got gingerly into his rather uncomfortable bed. ‘Let me see, nearly three years; yes, it ought to do it.’
On the following day about four o’clock the answer came. It was brought by a Persian servant who knew no English.
Lady Esther Carr will be glad if Mr Parker Pyne will call upon her at nine o’clock this evening.
Mr Parker Pyne smiled.
It was the same servant who received him that evening. He was taken through the dark garden and up an outside staircase that led round to the back of the house. From there a door was opened and he passed through into the central court or balcony, which was open to the night. A big divan was placed against the wall and on it reclined a striking figure.
Lady Esther was attired