Taken at the Flood - Agatha Christie [9]
What Jeremy Cloade thought of his marriage nobody knew, because nobody ever did know what Jeremy Cloade thought or felt. ‘A dry stick’ was what people said about Jeremy. His reputation both as a man and a lawyer was very high. Cloade, Brunskill and Cloade never touched any questionable legal business. They were not supposed to be brilliant but were considered very sound. The firm prospered and the Jeremy Cloades lived in a handsome Georgian house just off the Market Place with a big old-fashioned walled garden behind it where the pear trees in spring showed a sea of white blossom.
It was to a room overlooking the garden at the back of the house that the husband and wife went when they rose from the dinner table. Edna, the fifteen-year-old, brought in coffee, breathing excitedly and adenoidally.
Frances poured a little coffee into the cup. It was strong and hot. She said to Edna, crisply and approvingly:
‘Excellent, Edna.’
Edna went crimson with pleasure and went out marvelling nevertheless at what some people liked. Coffee, in Edna’s opinion, ought to be a pale cream colour, ever so sweet, with lots of milk!
In the room overlooking the garden, the Cloades drank their coffee, black and without sugar. They had talked in a desultory way during dinner, of acquaintances met, of Lynn’s return, of the prospects of farming in the near future, but now, alone together, they were silent.
Frances leaned back in her chair, watching her husband. He was quite oblivious of her regard. His right hand stroked his upper lip. Although Jeremy Cloade did not know it himself the gesture was a characteristic one and coincided with inner perturbation. Frances had not observed it very often. Once when Antony, their son, had been seriously ill as a child; once when waiting for a jury to consider their verdict; at the outbreak of war, waiting to hear the irrevocable words over the wireless; on the eve of Antony’s departure after embarkation leave.
Frances thought a little while before she spoke. Their married life had been happy, but never intimate in so far as the spoken word went. She had respected Jeremy’s reserves and he hers. Even when the telegram had come announcing Antony’s death on active service, they had neither of them broken down.
He had opened it, then he had looked up at her. She had said, ‘Is it —?’
He had bowed his head, then crossed and put the telegram into her outstretched hand.
They had stood there quite silently for a while. Then Jeremy had said: ‘I wish I could help you, my dear.’ And she had answered, her voice steady, her tears unshed, conscious only of the terrible emptiness and aching: ‘It’s just as bad for you.’ He had patted her shoulder: ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes…’ Then he had moved towards the door, walking a little awry, yet stiffly, suddenly an old man…saying as he did so, ‘There’s nothing to be said — nothing to be said…’
She had been grateful to him, passionately grateful, for understanding so well, and had been torn with pity for him, seeing him suddenly turn into an old man. With the loss of her boy, something had hardened in her — some ordinary common kindness had dried up. She was more efficient, more energetic than ever — people became sometimes a little afraid of her ruthless common sense…
Jeremy Cloade’s finger moved along his upper lip again — irresolutely, searching. And crisply, across the room, Frances spoke.
‘Is anything the matter, Jeremy?’
He started. His coffee cup almost slipped from his hand. He recovered himself, put it firmly down on the tray. Then he looked across at her.
‘What do you mean, Frances?’
‘I’m asking you if anything is the matter?’
‘What should be the matter?’
‘It would be foolish to guess. I would rather you told me.’
She spoke without emotion in a businesslike way.
He said unconvincingly:
‘There is nothing the matter — ’
She did not answer. She merely waited inquiringly. His denial, it seemed, she put aside as negligible. He looked at her uncertainly.
And