Peril at End House - Agatha Christie [73]
‘I do not make the exceptions.’
‘Think how he must be suffering.’
‘On the contrary, I prefer to think of what a joyful surprise I prepare for him. To think the loved one dead—and find her alive! It is a sensation unique—stupendous.’
‘What a pig-headed old devil you are. He’d keep the secret all right.’
‘I am not so sure.’
‘He’s the soul of honour. I’m certain of it.’
‘That makes it all the more difficult to keep a secret. Keeping a secret is an art that requires many lies magnificently told, and a great aptitude for playing the comedy and enjoying it. Could he dissemble, the Commander Challenger? If he is what you say he is, he certainly could not.’
‘Then you won’t tell him?’
‘I certainly refuse to imperil my little idea for the sake of the sentiment. It is life and death we play with, mon cher. Anyway, the suffering, it is good for the character. Many of your famous clergymen have said so—even a Bishop if I am not mistaken.’
I made no further attempt to shake his decision. His mind, I could see, was made up.
‘I shall not dress for dinner,’ he murmured. ‘I am too much the broken old man. That is my part, you understand. All my self-confidence has crashed—I am broken. I have failed. I shall eat hardly any dinner—the food untasted on the plate. That is the attitude, I think. In my own apartment I will consume some brioches and some chocolate éclairs (so called) which I had the foresight to buy at a confectioners. Et vous?’
‘Some more quinine, I think,’ I said, sadly.
‘Alas, my poor Hastings. But courage, all will be well to-morrow.’
‘Very likely. These attacks often last only twenty-four hours.’
I did not hear him return to the room. I must have been asleep.
When I awoke, he was sitting at the table writing. In front of him was a crumpled sheet of paper smoothed out. I recognized it for the paper on which he had written that list of people—A. to J.—which he had afterwards crumpled up and thrown away.
He nodded in answer to my unspoken thought.
‘Yes, my friend. I have resurrected it. I am at work upon it from a different angle. I compile a list of questions concerning each person. The questions may have no bearing on the crime—they are just things that I do not know—things that remain unexplained, and for which I seek to supply the answer from my own brain.’
‘How far have you got?’
‘I have finished. You would like to hear? You are strong enough?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I am feeling a great deal better.’
‘Ala bonne heure! Very well, I will read them to you. Some of them, no doubt, you will consider puerile.’
He cleared his throat.
‘A. Ellen.—Why did she remain in the house and not go out to see fireworks? (Unusual, as Mademoiselle’s evidence and surprise make clear.) What did she think or suspect might happen? Did she admit anyone (J. for instance) to the house? Is she speaking the truth about the secret panel? If there is such a thing why is she unable to remember where it is? (Mademoiselle seems very certain there is no such thing—and she would surely know.) If she invented it, why did she invent it? Had she read Michael Seton’s love letters or was her surprise at Mademoiselle Nick’s engagement genuine?
‘B. Her Husband.—Is he as stupid as he seems? Does he share Ellen’s knowledge, whatever it is, or does he not? Is he, in any respect, a mental case?
‘C. The Child.—Is his delight in blood a natural instinct common to his age and development, or is it morbid, and is that morbidity inherited from either parent? Has he ever shot with a toy pistol?
‘D. Who is Mr Croft?—Where does he really come from? Did he post the will as he swears he did? What motive could he have in not posting it?
‘E. Mrs Croft. Same as above.—Who are Mr and Mrs Croft? Are they in hiding for some reason—and if so, what reason? Have they any connection with the Buckley family?
‘F. Mrs Rice.—Was she really aware of the engagement between Nick and Michael Seton? Did she merely guess it, or had she actually read the letters which passed between them? (In that case she would