Taken at the Flood - Agatha Christie [37]
Lynn couldn’t imagine either. Aunt Kathie’s capacity for muddling the simplest issues amounted practically to genius.
‘But I always do say,’ finished Aunt Kathie, ‘that everything goes wrong at once. Our telephone is out of order and I’ve had to go out to a call-box, and now I’m here I hadn’t got twopence, only halfpennies — and I had to go and ask — ’
It petered out at last. Lynn hung up and went back to the drawing-room. Adela Marchmont, alert, asked: ‘Was that — ’ and paused.
Lynn said quickly: ‘Aunt Kathie.’
‘What did she want?’
‘Oh, just one of her usual muddles.’
Lynn sat down again with a book, glancing up at the clock. Yes — it had been too early. She couldn’t expect her call yet. At five minutes past eleven the telephone rang again. She went slowly out to it. This time she wouldn’t expect — it was probably Aunt Kathie again…
But no. ‘Warmsley Vale 34? Can Miss Lynn Marchmont take a personal call from London?’
Her heart missed a beat.
‘This is Miss Lynn Marchmont speaking.’
‘Hold on, please.’
She waited — confused noises — then silence. The telephone service was getting worse and worse. She waited. Finally she depressed the receiver angrily. Another woman’s voice, indifferent, cold, spoke, was uninterested. ‘Hang up, please. You’ll be called later.’
She hung up, went back towards the drawing-room, the bell rang again as she had her hand on the door. She hurried back to the telephone.
‘Hallo?’
A man’s voice said: ‘Warmsley Vale 34? Personal call from London for Miss Lynn Marchmont.’
‘Speaking.’
‘Just a minute please.’ Then, faintly, ‘Speak up, London, you’re through…’
And then, suddenly, David’s voice:
‘Lynn, is that you?’
‘David!’
‘I had to speak to you.’
‘Yes…’
‘Look here, Lynn, I think I’d better clear out — ’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Clear out of England altogether. Oh, it’s easy enough. I’ve pretended it wasn’t to Rosaleen — simply because I didn’t want to leave Warmsley Vale. But what’s the good of it all? You and I — it wouldn’t work. You’re a fine girl, Lynn — and as for me, I’m a bit of a crook, always have been. And don’t flatter yourself that I’d go straight for your sake. I might mean to — but it wouldn’t work. No, you’d better marry the plodding Rowley. He’ll never give you a day’s anxiety as long as you live. I should give you hell.’
She stood there, holding the receiver, saying nothing.
‘Lynn, are you still there?’
‘Yes, I’m here.’
‘You didn’t say anything.’
‘What is there to say?’
‘Lynn?’
‘Well…?’
Strange how clearly she could feel over all that distance, his excitement, the urgency of his mood…
He cursed softly, said explosively, ‘Oh, to hell with everything!’ and rang off.
Mrs Marchmont, coming out of the drawing-room, said, ‘Was that —?’
‘A wrong number,’ said Lynn and went quickly up the stairs.
Chapter 15
It was the custom at the Stag for guests to be called at whatever hour they named by the simple process of a loud bang on the door and the shouted information that it was ‘Eight-thirty, sir,’ or ‘Eight o’ clock’ whatever the case might be. Early tea was produced if expressly stipulated for, and was deposited with a rattle of crockery on the mat outside the door.
On this particular Wednesday morning, young Gladys went through the usual formula outside No. 5, yelling out, ‘Eight-fifteen, sir,’ and crashing down the tray with a bang that slopped the milk out of the jug. She then went on her way, calling more people and proceeding to her other duties.
It was ten o’clock before she took in the fact that No. 5’s tea was still on the mat.
She beat a few heavy raps on the door, got no reply and therupon walked in.
No. 5 was not the kind of gentleman who overslept himself, and she had just remembered that there was a convenient flat roof outside the window. It was just possible, thought Gladys, that No. 5 had done a bunk without paying his bill.
But the man registered as Enoch Arden had not done a bunk. He was lying on his face in the middle of the