Passenger to Frankfurt - Agatha Christie [35]
In two cases at least he didn’t need to guess. The man who sat in the tall porter’s chair by the fireplace, an elderly figure framed by the chair as a picture frame might have framed him, was a face that had been well known all over England. Indeed, it still was well known, although it was very seldom seen nowadays. A sick man, an invalid, a man who made very brief appearances, and then it was said, at physical cost to himself in pain and difficulty. Lord Altamount. A thin emaciated face, outstanding nose, grey hair which receded just a little from the forehead, and then flowed back in a thick grey mane; somewhat prominent ears that cartoonists had used in their time, and a deep piercing glance that not so much observed as probed. Probed deeply into what it was looking at. At the moment it was looking at Sir Stafford Nye. He stretched out a hand as Stafford Nye went towards him.
‘I don’t get up,’ said Lord Altamount. His voice was faint, an old man’s voice, a far-away voice. ‘My back doesn’t allow me. Just come back from Malaya, haven’t you, Stafford Nye?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was it worth your going? I expect you think it wasn’t. You’re probably right, too. Still, we have to have these excrescences in life, these ornamental trimmings to adorn the better kind of diplomatic lies. I’m glad you could come here or were brought here tonight. Mary Ann’s doing, I suppose?’
So that’s what he calls her and thinks of her as, thought Stafford Nye to himself. It was what Horsham had called her. She was in with them then, without a doubt. As for Altamount, he stood for–what did he stand for nowadays? Stafford Nye thought to himself. He stands for England. He still stands for England until he’s buried in Westminster Abbey or a country mausoleum, whatever he chooses. He has been England, and he knows England, and I should say he knows the value of every politician and government official in England pretty well, even if he’s never spoken to them.
Lord Altamount said:
‘This is our colleague, Sir James Kleek.’
Stafford Nye didn’t know Kleek. He didn’t think he’d even heard of him. A restless, fidgety type. Sharp, suspicious glances that never rested anywhere for long. He had the contained eagerness of a sporting dog awaiting the word of command. Ready to start off at a glance from his master’s eye.
But who was his master? Altamount or Robinson?
Stafford’s eye went round to the fourth man. He had risen to his feet from the chair where he had been sitting close to the door. Bushy moustache, raised eyebrows, watchful, withdrawn, managing in some way to remain familiar yet almost unrecognizable.
‘So it’s you,’ said Sir Stafford Nye, ‘how are you, Horsham?’
‘Very pleased to see you here, Sir Stafford.’
Quite a representative gathering, Stafford Nye thought, with a swift glance round.
They had set a chair for Renata not far from the fire and Lord Altamount. She had stretched out a hand–her left hand, he noticed–and he had taken it between his two hands, holding it for a minute, then dropping it. He said:
‘You took risks, child, you take too many risks.’
Looking at him, she said, ‘It was you who taught me that, and it’s the only way of life.’
Lord Altamount turned his head towards Sir Stafford Nye.
‘It wasn’t I who taught you to choose your man. You’ve got a natural genius for that.’ Looking at Stafford Nye, he said, ‘I know your great-aunt, or your great-great-aunt, is she?’
‘Great-Aunt Matilda,’ said Stafford Nye immediately.
‘Yes. That’s the one. One of the Victorian tours-de-force of the ’nineties. She must be nearly ninety herself now.’
He went on:
‘I don’t see her very often. Once or twice a year perhaps. But it strikes me every time–that sheer vitality of hers that outlives her bodily strength. They have the secret of that, those indomitable Victorians and some of the Edwardians as well.’
Sir James Kleek said, ‘Let me get you a drink, Nye? What will you have?’
‘Gin and tonic, if I may.’
The Countess