Parker Pyne Investigates - Agatha Christie [51]
‘You are Mr Parker Pyne? Sit down there.’
Her hand pointed to a heap of cushions. On the third finger there flashed a big emerald carved with the arms of her family. It was an heirloom and must be worth a small fortune, Mr Parker Pyne reflected.
He lowered himself obediently, though with a little difficulty. For a man of his figure it is not easy to sit on the ground gracefully.
A servant appeared with coffee. Mr Parker Pyne took his cup and sipped appreciatively.
His hostess had acquired the Oriental habit of infinite leisure. She did not rush into conversation. She, too, sipped her coffee with half-closed eyes. At last she spoke.
‘So you help unhappy people,’ she said. ‘At least, that is what your advertisement claims.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did you send it to me? Is it your way of–doing business on your travels?’
There was something decidedly offensive in her voice, but Mr Parker Pyne ignored it. He answered simply, ‘No. My idea in travelling is to have a complete holiday from business.’
‘Then why send it to me?’
‘Because I had reason to believe that you–are unhappy.’
There was a moment’s silence. He was very curious. How would she take that? She gave herself a minute to decide that point. Then she laughed.
‘I suppose you thought that anyone who leaves the world, who lives as I do, cut off from my race, from my country, must do so because she is unhappy! Sorrow, disappointment–you think something like that drove me into exile? Oh, well, how should you understand? There–in England–I was a fish out of water. Here I am myself. I am an Oriental at heart. I love this seclusion. I dare say you can’t understand that. To you, I must seem’–she hesitated a moment–‘mad.’
‘You’re not mad,’ said Mr Parker Pyne.
There was a good deal of quiet assurance in his voice. She looked at him curiously.
‘But they’ve been saying I am, I suppose. Fools! It takes all kinds to make a world. I’m perfectly happy.’
‘And yet you told me to come here,’ said Mr Parker Pyne.
‘I will admit I was curious to see you.’ She hesitated. ‘Besides, I never want to go back there–to England–but all the same, sometimes I like to hear what is going on in–’
‘In the world you have left?’
She acknowledged the sentence with a nod.
Mr Parker Pyne began to talk. His voice, mellow and reassuring, began quietly, then rose ever so little as he emphasized this point and that.
He talked of London, of society gossip, of famous men and women, of new restaurants and new night clubs, of race meetings and shooting parties and country-house scandals. He talked of clothes, of fashions from Paris, of little shops in unfashionable streets where marvellous bargains could be had.
He described theatres and cinemas, he gave film news, he described the building of new garden suburbs, he talked of bulbs and gardening, and he came last to a homely description of London in the evening, with the trams and buses and the hurrying crowds going homeward after the day’s work and of the little homes awaiting them, and of the whole strange intimate pattern of English family life.
It was a very remarkable performance, displaying as it did wide and unusual knowledge and a clever marshalling of the facts. Lady Esther’s head had drooped; the arrogance of her poise had been abandoned. For some time her tears had been quietly falling, and now that he had finished, she abandoned all pretence and wept openly.
Mr Parker Pyne said nothing. He sat there watching her. His face had the quiet, satisfied expression of one who has conducted an experiment and obtained the desired result.
She raised her head at last. ‘Well,’ she said bitterly, ‘are you satisfied?’
‘I think so–now.’
‘How shall I bear it; how shall I bear it? Never to leave here; never to see–anyone again!’ The cry came as though wrung out of her. She caught herself