The Seven Dials Mystery - Agatha Christie [45]
George reappeared suddenly.
‘I must make some introductions, Eileen. This is Sir Stanley Digby–Lady Eileen Brent. Mr O’Rourke.’ The Air Minister was a little round man with a cheerful smile. Mr O’Rourke, a tall young man with laughing blue eyes and a typical Irish face, greeted Bundle with enthusiasm.
‘And I thinking it was going to be a dull political party entirely,’ he murmured in an adroit whisper.
‘Hush,’ said Bundle. ‘I’m political–very political.’
‘Sir Oswald and Lady Coote you know,’ continued George.
‘We’ve never actually met,’ said Bundle, smiling.
She was mentally applauding her father’s descriptive powers.
Sir Oswald took her hand in an iron grip and she winced slightly.
Lady Coote, after a somewhat mournful greeting, had turned to Jimmy Thesiger, and appeared to be registering something closely akin to pleasure. Despite his reprehensible habit of being late for breakfast, Lady Coote had a fondness for this amiable, pink-faced young man. His air of irrepressible good nature fascinated her. She had a motherly wish to cure him of his bad habits and form him into one of the world’s workers. Whether, once formed, he would be as attractive was a question she had never asked herself. She began now to tell him of a very painful motor accident which had happened to one of her friends.
‘Mr Bateman,’ said George briefly, as one who would pass on to better things.
A serious, pale-faced young man bowed.
‘And now,’ continued George, ‘I must introduce you to Countess Radzky.’
Countess Radzky had been conversing with Mr Bateman. Leaning very far back on a sofa, with her legs crossed in a daring manner, she was smoking a cigarette in an incredibly long turquoise-studded holder.
Bundle thought she was one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen. Her eyes were very large and blue, her hair was coal black, she had a matte skin, the slightly flattened nose of the Slav, and a sinuous, slender body. Her lips were reddened to a degree with which Bundle was sure Wyvern Abbey was totally unacquainted.
She said eagerly: ‘This is Mrs Macatta–yes?’
On George’s replying in the negative and introducing Bundle, the countess gave her a careless nod, and at once resumed her conversation with the serious Mr Bateman.
Bundle heard Jimmy’s voice in her ear:
‘Pongo is absolutely fascinated by the lovely Slav,’ he said. ‘Pathetic, isn’t it? Come and have some tea.’
They drifted once more into the neighbourhood of Sir Oswald Coote.
‘That’s a fine place of yours, Chimneys,’ remarked the great man.
‘I’m glad you liked it,’ said Bundle meekly.
‘Wants new plumbing,’ said Sir Oswald. ‘Bring it up to date, you know.’
He ruminated for a minute or two.
‘I’m taking the Duke of Alton’s place. Three years. Just while I’m looking round for a place of my own. Your father couldn’t sell if he wanted to, I suppose?’
Bundle felt her breath taken away. She had a nightmare vision of England with innumerable Cootes in innumerable counterparts of Chimneys–all, be it understood, with an entirely new system of plumbing installed.
She felt a sudden violent resentment which, she told herself, was absurd. After all, contrasting Lord Caterham with Sir Oswald Coote, there was no doubt as to who would go to the wall. Sir Oswald had one of those powerful personalities which make all those with whom they come in contact appear faded. He was, as Lord Caterham had said, a human steam-roller. And yet, undoubtedly, in many ways, Sir Oswald was a stupid man. Apart from his special line of knowledge and his terrific driving force, he was probably intensely ignorant. A hundred delicate appreciations of life which Lord Caterham could and did enjoy were a sealed book to Sir Oswald.
Whilst indulging in these reflections Bundle continued to chat pleasantly. Herr Eberhard, she heard, had arrived, but was lying down with a nervous headache. This was told her by Mr O’Rourke, who managed to find a place by