Taken at the Flood - Agatha Christie [6]
But behind the workaday life was the comforting assurance of money in the background. There was never any need to stint or to save. The future was assured. Gordon Cloade, a childless widower, would see to that. He had told them all, more than once, that that was so.
His widowed sister, Adela Marchmont, had stayed on at the White House when she might, perhaps, have moved into a smaller, more labour-saving house. Lynn went to first-class schools. If the war had not come, she would have been able to take any kind of expensive training she had pleased. Cheques from Uncle Gordon flowed in with comfortable regularity to provide little luxuries.
Everything had been so settled, so secure. And then had come Gordon Cloade’s wholly unexpected marriage.
‘Of course, darling,’ Adela went on, ‘we were all flabbergasted. If there was one thing that seemed quite certain, it was that Gordon would never marry again. It wasn’t, you see, as though he hadn’t got plenty of family ties.’
Yes, thought Lynn, plenty of family. Sometimes, possibly, rather too much family?
‘He was so kind always,’ went on Mrs Marchmont. ‘Though perhaps just a weeny bit tyrannical on occasions. He never liked the habit of dining off a polished table. Always insisted on my sticking to the old-fashioned tablecloths. In fact, he sent me the most beautiful Venetian lace ones when he was in Italy.’
‘It certainly paid to fall in with his wishes,’ said Lynn dryly. She added with some curiosity, ‘How did he meet this — second wife? You never told me in your letters.’
‘Oh, my dear, on some boat or plane or other. Coming from South America to New York, I believe. After all those years! And after all those secretaries and typists and housekeepers and everything.’
Lynn smiled. Ever since she could remember, Gordon Cloade’s secretaries, housekeepers and office staff had been subjected to the closest scrutiny and suspicion.
She asked curiously, ‘She’s good-looking, I suppose?’
‘Well, dear,’ said Adela, ‘I think myself she has rather a silly face.’
‘You’re not a man, Mums!’
‘Of course,’ Mrs Marchmont went on, ‘the poor girl was blitzed and had shock from blast and was really frightfully ill and all that, and it’s my opinion she’s never really quite recovered. She’s a mass of nerves, if you know what I mean. And really, sometimes, she looks quite half-witted. I don’t feel she could ever have made much of a companion for poor Gordon.
Lynn smiled. She doubted whether Gordon Cloade had chosen to marry a woman years younger than himself for her intellectual companionship.
‘And then, dear,’ Mrs Marchmont lowered her voice, ‘I hate to say it, but of course she’s not a lady!’
‘What an expression, Mums! What does that matter nowadays?’
‘It still matters in the country, dear,’ said Adela placidly. ‘I simply mean that she isn’t exactly one of us!’
‘Poor little devil!’
‘Really, Lynn, I don’t know what you mean. We have all been most careful to be kind and polite and to welcome her amongst us for Gordon’s sake.’
‘She’s at Furrowbank, then?’ Lynn asked curiously.
‘Yes, naturally. Where else was there for her to go when she came out of the nursing home? The doctors said she must be out of London. She’s at Furrowbank with her brother.’
‘What’s he like?’ Lynn asked.
‘A dreadful young man!’ Mrs Marchmont paused, and then added with a good deal of intensity: ‘Rude.’
A momentary flicker of sympathy crossed Lynn’s mind. She thought: ‘I bet I’d be rude in his place!’
She asked: ‘What’s his name?’
‘Hunter. David Hunter. Irish, I believe. Of course they are not people one has ever heard of. She was a widow — a Mrs Underhay. One doesn’t wish to be uncharitable, but one can’t help asking oneself — what kind of a widow would be likely to be travelling about from South America in wartime? One can’t help feeling, you know, that she was just looking for a rich husband.’
‘In which case, she didn’t look in vain,’ remarked