The Hollow - Agatha Christie [39]
She was in the drawing-room, with Midge and Edward. From behind the closed door of Sir Henry’s study came the murmur of voices. Hercule Poirot, Sir Henry and Inspector Grange were in there.
Lady Angkatell sighed:
‘You know, Midge, I still feel one ought to do something about lunch. It seems, of course, quite heartless to sit down round the table as though nothing had happened. But after all, M. Poirot was asked to lunch–and he is probably hungry. And it can’t be upsetting to him that poor John Christow has been killed like it is to us. And I must say that though I really do not feel like eating myself, Henry and Edward must be extremely hungry after being out shooting all the morning.’
Edward Angkatell said: ‘Don’t worry on my account, Lucy, dear.’
‘You are always considerate, Edward. And then there is David–I noticed that he ate a great deal at dinner last night. Intellectual people always seem to need a good deal of food. Where is David, by the way?’
‘He went up to his room,’ said Midge, ‘after he had heard what had happened.’
‘Yes–well, that was rather tactful of him. I dare say it made him feel awkward. Of course, say what you like, a murder is an awkward thing–it upsets the servants and puts the general routine out–we were having ducks for lunch–fortunately they are quite nice eaten cold. What does one do about Gerda, do you think? Something on a tray? A little strong soup, perhaps?’
‘Really,’ thought Midge, ‘Lucy is inhuman!’ And then with a qualm she reflected that it was perhaps because Lucy was too human that it shocked one so! Wasn’t it the plain unvarnished truth that all catastrophes were hedged round with these little trivial wonderings and surmises? Lucy merely gave utterance to the thoughts which most people did not acknowledge. One did remember the servants, and worry about meals. And one did, even, feel hungry. She felt hungry herself at this very moment! Hungry, she thought, and at the same time, rather sick. A curious mixture.
And there was, undoubtedly, just plain awkward embarrassment in not knowing how to react to a quiet, commonplace woman whom one had referred to, only yesterday, as ‘poor Gerda’ and who was now, presumably, shortly to be standing in the dock accused of murder.
‘These things happen to other people,’ thought Midge. ‘They can’t happen to us.’
She looked across the room at Edward. ‘They oughtn’t,’ she thought, ‘to happen to people like Edward. People who are so very unviolent.’ She took comfort in looking at Edward. Edward, so quiet, so reasonable, so kind and calm.
Gudgeon entered, inclined himself confidentially and spoke in a suitably muted voice.
‘I have placed sandwiches and some coffee in the dining-room, my lady.’
‘Oh, thank you, Gudgeon!’
‘Really,’ said Lady Angkatell as Gudgeon left the room. ‘Gudgeon is wonderful: I don’t know what I should do without Gudgeon. He always knows the right thing to do. Some really substantial sandwiches are as good as lunch–and nothing heartless about them, if you know what I mean!’
‘Oh, Lucy, don’t.’
Midge suddenly felt warm tears running down her cheek. Lady Angkatell looked surprised, murmured:
‘Poor darling. It’s all been too much for you.’
Edward crossed to the sofa and sat down by Midge. He put his arm round her.
‘Don’t worry, little Midge,’ he said.
Midge buried her face on his shoulder and sobbed there comfortably. She remembered how nice Edward had been to her when her rabbit had died at Ainswick one Easter holidays.
Edward said gently: ‘It’s been a shock. Can I get her some brandy, Lucy?’
‘On the sideboard in the dining-room. I don’t think–’
She broke off as Henrietta came into the room. Midge sat up. She felt Edward stiffen and sit very still.
What, thought Midge, does Henrietta feel? She felt almost reluctant to look at her cousin–but there was nothing to see. Henrietta looked, if anything, belligerent. She had come in with her chin up, her colour high, and with a certain swiftness.
‘Oh, there you are, Henrietta,’ cried Lady Angkatell. ‘I have been wondering. The police are with Henry and M.