The Seven Dials Mystery - Agatha Christie [48]
Lady Coote looked at her in some surprise.
‘But I understood that you worked–’
‘Oh, that!’ The Countess uncrossed her legs, took her cigarette holder from her mouth and began to talk rapidly.
‘I will tell you some horrors,’ she said. ‘Horrors that I have seen. Incredible! You would not believe!’
And she was as good as her word. She talked fluently and with a graphic power of description. Incredible scenes of starvation and misery were painted by her for the benefit of her audience. She spoke of Buda Pesth shortly after the war and traced its vicissitudes to the present day. She was dramatic, but she was also, to Bundle’s mind, a little like a gramophone record. You turned her on, and there you were. Presently, just as suddenly, she would stop.
Lady Coote was thrilled to the marrow–that much was clear. She sat with her mouth slightly open and her large, sad, dark eyes fixed on the Countess. Occasionally, she interpolated a comment of her own.
‘One of my cousins had three children burned to death. Awful, wasn’t it?’
The Countess paid no attention. She went on and on. And she finally stopped as suddenly as she had begun.
‘There!’ she said. ‘I have told you. We have money–but no organization. It is organization we need.’
Lady Coote sighed.
‘I’ve heard my husband say that nothing can be done without regular methods. He attributes his own success entirely to that. He declares he would never have got on without them.’
She sighed again. A sudden fleeting vision passed before her eyes of a Sir Oswald who had not got on in the world. A Sir Oswald who retained, in all essentials, the attributes of that cheery young man in the bicycle shop. Just for a second it occurred to her how much pleasanter life might have been for her if Sir Oswald had not had regular methods.
By a quite understandable association of ideas she turned to Bundle.
‘Tell me, Lady Eileen,’ she said; ‘do you like that head gardener of yours?’
‘MacDonald? Well–’ Bundle hesitated. ‘One couldn’t exactly like MacDonald,’ she explained apologetically. ‘But he’s a first-class gardener.’
‘Oh! I know he is,’ said Lady Coote.
‘He’s all right if he’s kept in his place,’ said Bundle.
‘I suppose so,’ said Lady Coote.
She looked enviously at Bundle, who appeared to approach the task of keeping MacDonald in his place so lightheartedly.
‘I’d just adore a high-toned garden,’ said the Countess dreamily.
Bundle stared, but at that moment a diversion occurred. Jimmy Thesiger entered the room and spoke directly to her in a strange, hurried voice.
‘I say, will you come and see those etchings now? They’re waiting for you.’
Bundle left the room hurriedly, Jimmy close behind her.
‘What etchings?’ she asked, as the drawing-room door closed behind her.
‘No etchings,’ said Jimmy. ‘I’d got to say something to get hold of you. Come on, Bill is waiting for us in the library. There’s nobody there.’
Bill was striding up and down the library, clearly in a very perturbed state of mind.
‘Look here,’ he burst out, ‘I don’t like this.’
‘Don’t like what?’
‘You being mixed up in this. Ten to one there’s going to be a rough house and then–’
He looked at her with a kind of pathetic dismay that gave Bundle a warm and comfortable feeling.
‘She ought to be kept out of it, oughtn’t she, Jimmy?’
He appealed to the other.
‘I’ve told her so,’ said Jimmy.
‘Dash it all, Bundle, I mean–someone might get hurt.’
Bundle turned round to Jimmy.
‘How much have you told him?’
‘Oh! everything.’
‘I haven’t got the hang of it all yet,’ confessed Bill. ‘You in that place in Seven Dials and all that.’ He looked at her unhappily. ‘I say, Bundle, I wish you wouldn’t.’
‘Wouldn’t what?’
‘Get mixed up in these sort of things.’
‘Why not?’ said Bundle. ‘They’re exciting.’
‘Oh, yes–exciting. But they may be damnably dangerous. Look at poor old Ronny.’
‘Yes,’ said Bundle. ‘If it hadn’t been for your friend Ronny, I don’t suppose I should ever have got what you call “mixed up” in this thing. But I am. And it’s no earthly use your bleating about it.’
‘I know