The Moving Finger - Agatha Christie [35]
Partridge appeared at the head of the stairs, a long mop in one hand, and a look of “What is it now?” clearly discernible behind her invariably respectful manner.
“Yes, sir?”
“Agnes Waddle wants to speak to you on the telephone.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
I raised my voice. “Agnes Waddle.”
I have spelt the name as it presented itself to my mind. But I will now spell it as it was actually written.
“Agnes Woddell—whatever can she want now?”
Very much put out of countenance, Partridge relinquished her mop and rustled down the stairs, her print dress crackling with agitation.
I beat an unobtrusive retreat into the dining room where Megan was wolfing down kidneys and bacon. Megan, unlike Aimée Griffith, was displaying no “glorious morning face.” In fact she replied very gruffly to my morning salutations and continued to eat in silence.
I opened the morning paper and a minute or two later Joanna entered looking somewhat shattered.
“Whew!” she said. “I’m so tired. And I think I’ve exposed my utter ignorance of what grows when. Aren’t there runner beans this time of year?”
“August,” said Megan. “Well, one has them anytime in London,” said Joanna defensively.
“Tins, sweet fool,” I said. “And cold storage on ships from the far-flung limits of empire.”
“Like ivory, apes and peacocks?” asked Joanna.
“Exactly.”
“I’d rather have peacocks,” said Joanna thoughtfully.
“I’d like a monkey of my own as a pet,” said Megan.
Meditatively peeling an orange, Joanna said:
“I wonder what it would feel like to be Aimée Griffith, all bursting with health and vigour and enjoyment of life. Do you think she’s ever tired, or depressed, or—or wistful?”
I said I was quite certain Aimée Griffith was never wistful, and followed Megan out of the open French window on to the veranda.
Standing there, filling my pipe, I heard Partridge enter the dining room from the hall and heard her voice say grimly:
“Can I speak to you a minute, miss?”
“Dear me,” I thought. “I hope Partridge isn’t going to give notice. Emily Barton will be very annoyed with us if so.”
Partridge went on: “I must apologize, miss, for being rung up on the telephone. That is to say, the young person who did so should have known better. I have never been in the habit of using the telephone or of permitting my friends to ring me up on it, and I’m very sorry indeed that it should have occurred, and the master taking the call and everything.”
“Why, that’s quite all right, Partridge,” said Joanna soothingly, “why shouldn’t your friends use the phone if they want to speak to you?”
Partridge’s face, I could feel, though I could not see it, was more dour than ever as she replied coldly:
“It is not the kind of thing that has ever been done in this house. Miss Emily would never permit it. As I say, I am sorry it occurred, but Agnes Woddell, the girl who did it, was upset and she’s young too, and doesn’t know what’s fitting in a gentleman’s house.”
“That’s one for you, Joanna,” I thought gleefully.
“This Agnes who rung me up, miss,” went on Partridge, “she used to be in service here under me. Sixteen she was, then, and come straight from the orphanage. And you see, not having a home, or a mother or any relations to advise her, she’s been in the habit of coming to me. I can tell her what’s what, you see.”
“Yes?” said Joanna and waited. Clearly there was more to follow.
“So I am taking the liberty of asking you, miss, if you would allow Agnes to come here to tea this afternoon in the kitchen. It’s her day out, you see, and she’s got something on her mind she wants to consult me about. I wouldn’t dream of suggesting such a thing in the usual way.”
Joanna said bewildered:
“But why shouldn’t you have anyone to tea with you?”
Partridge drew herself up at this, so Joanna said afterwards, and really looked most formidable, as she replied:
“It has never been the custom of This House, miss. Old Mrs. Barton never allowed visitors in the kitchen, excepting as it should be our own day out, in which case we were allowed to entertain friends here instead of going out, but otherwise, on