The Labors of Hercules - Agatha Christie [58]
“Going to show M. Poirot one or two things, Charles. He’s a bit of a connoisseur.”
The Admiral raised a vague hand. Frobisher tramped along the terrace and Poirot followed him. For a moment Diana’s face dropped its mask of gaiety and looked an agonized question. Hugh, too, raised his head, and looked steadily at the small man with the big black moustache.
Poirot followed Frobisher into the house. It was so dim at first coming in out of the sunlight that he could hardly distinguish one article from another. But he realized that the house was full of old and beautiful things.
Colonel Frobisher led the way to the Picture Gallery. On the panelled walls hung portraits of dead and gone Chandlers. Faces stern and gay, men in court dress or in Naval uniform. Women in satin and pearls.
Finally Frobisher stopped under a portrait at the end of the gallery.
“Painted by Orpen,” he said gruffly.
They stood looking up at a tall woman, her hand on a greyhound’s collar. A woman with auburn hair and an expression of radiant vitality.
“Boy’s the spitting image of her,” said Frobisher. “Don’t you think so?”
“In some things, yes.”
“He hasn’t got her delicacy—her femininity, of course. He’s a masculine edition—but in all the essential things—” He broke off. “Pity he inherited from the Chandlers the one thing he could well have done without. . . .”
They were silent. There was melancholy in the air all around them—as though dead and gone Chandlers sighed for the taint that lay in their blood and which, remorselessly, from time to time, they passed on. . . .
Hercule Poirot turned his head to look at his companion. George Frobisher was still gazing up at the beautiful woman on the wall above him. And Poirot said softly:
“You knew her well. . . .”
Frobisher spoke jerkily.
“We were boy and girl together. I went off as a subaltern to India when she was sixteen . . . When I got back—she was married to Charles Chandler.”
“You knew him well also?”
“Charles is one of my oldest friends. He’s my best friend—always has been.”
“Did you see much of them—after the marriage?”
“Used to spend most of my leaves here. Like a second home to me, this place. Charles and Caroline always kept my room here—ready and waiting . . .” He squared his shoulders, suddenly thrust his head forward pugnaciously. “That’s why I’m here now—to stand by in case I’m wanted. If Charles needs me—I’m here.”
Again the shadow of tragedy crept over them.
“And what do you think—about all this?” Poirot asked.
Frobisher stood stiffly. His brows came down over his eyes.
“What I think is, the least said the better. And to be frank, I don’t see what you’re doing in this business, M. Poirot. I don’t see why Diana roped you in and got you down here.”
“You are aware that Diana Maberly’s engagement to Hugh Chandler has been broken off?”
“Yes, I know that.”
“And you know the reason for it?”
Frobisher replied stiffly:
“I don’t know anything about that. Young people manage these things between them. Not my business to butt in.”
Poirot said:
“Hugh Chandler told Diana that it was not right that they should marry, because he was going out of his mind.”
He saw the beads of perspiration break out on Frobisher’s forehead. He said:
“Have we got to talk about the damned thing? What do you think you can do? Hugh’s done the right thing, poor devil. It’s not his fault, it’s heredity—germ plasm—brain cells . . . But once he knew, well, what else could he do but break the engagement? It’s one of those things that just has to be done.”
“If I could be convinced of that—”
“You can take it from me.”
“But you have told me nothing.”
“I tell you I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Why did Admiral Chandler force his son to leave the Navy?”
“Because it was the only thing to be done.”
“Why?”
Frobisher shook an obstinate head.
Poirot murmured softly:
“Was it to do with some sheep being killed?”
The other man said angrily:
“So you’ve heard about that?”
“Diana told me.”
“That girl had far better keep her mouth shut.”
“She did not think it was conclusive.”