The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding - Agatha Christie [46]
‘I opened the door, and went through the servants’ hall, and opened the other door which gives on a passage. The back stairs lead up from there, and as I stood at the bottom of them, hesitating, I heard Mr Leverson’s voice from up above, speaking hearty and cheery-like. “No harm done, luckily,” he says. “Good night,” and I heard him move off along the passage to his own room, whistling.
‘Of course I went back to bed at once. Just something knocked over, that’s all I thought it was. I ask you, sir, was I to think Sir Reuben was murdered, with Mr Leverson saying good night and all?’
‘You are sure it was Mr Leverson’s voice you heard?’ Parsons looked at the little Belgian pityingly, and Poirot saw clearly enough that, right or wrong, Parsons’s mind was made up on this point.
‘Is there anything further you would like to ask me, sir?’
‘There is one thing,’ said Poirot, ‘do you like Mr Leverson?’
‘I – I beg your pardon, sir?’
‘It is a simple question. Do you like Mr Leverson?’
Parsons, from being startled at first, now seemed embarrassed.
‘The general opinion in the servants’ hall, sir,’ he said, and paused.
‘By all means,’ said Poirot, ‘put it that way if it pleases you.’
‘The opinion is, sir, that Mr Leverson is an open-handed young gentleman, but not, if I may say so, particularly intelligent, sir.’
‘Ah!’ said Poirot. ‘Do you know, Parsons, that without having seen him, that is also precisely my opinion of Mr Leverson.’
‘Indeed, sir.’
‘What is your opinion – I beg your pardon – the opinion of the servants’ hall of the secretary?’
‘He is a very quiet, patient gentleman, sir. Anxious to give no trouble.’
‘Vraiment,’ said Poirot.
The butler coughed.
‘Her ladyship, sir,’ he murmured, ‘is apt to be a little hasty in her judgments.’
‘Then, in the opinion of the servants’ hall, Mr Leverson committed the crime?’
‘We none of us wish to think it was Mr Leverson,’ said Parsons. ‘We – well, plainly, we didn’t think he had it in him, sir.’
‘But he has a somewhat violent temper, has he not?’ asked Poirot.
Parsons came nearer to him.
‘If you are asking me who had the most violent temper in the house –’
Poirot held up a hand.
‘Ah! But that is not the question I should ask,’ he said softly. ‘My question would be, who has the best temper?’ Parsons stared at him open-mouthed.
III
Poirot wasted no further time on him. With an amiable little bow – he was always amiable – he left the room and wandered out into the big square hall of Mon Repos. There he stood a minute or two in thought, then, at a slight sound that came to him, cocked his head on one side in the manner of a perky robin, and finally, with noiseless steps, crossed to one of the doors that led out of the hall.
He stood in the doorway, looking into the room; a small room furnished as a library. At a big desk at the farther end of it sat a thin, pale young man busily writing. He had a receding chin, and wore pince-nez.
Poirot watched him for some minutes, and then he broke the silence by giving a completely artificial and theatrical cough.
‘Ahem!’ coughed M. Hercule Poirot.
The young man at the desk stopped writing and turned his head. He did not appear unduly startled, but an expression of perplexity gathered on his face as he eyed Poirot.
The latter came forward with a little bow.
‘I have the honour of speaking to M. Trefusis, yes? Ah! My name is Poirot, Hercule Poirot. You may perhaps have heard of me.’
‘Oh – er – yes, certainly,’ said the young man.
Poirot eyed him attentively.
Owen Trefusis was about thirty-three years of age, and the detective saw at once why nobody was inclined to treat Lady Astwell’s accusation seriously. Mr Owen Trefusis was a prim, proper young man, disarmingly meek, the type of man who can be, and is, systematically bullied. One could feel quite sure that he would never display resentment.
‘Lady Astwell sent for you, of course,’ said the secretary. ‘She mentioned that she