The Sittaford Mystery - Agatha Christie [68]
‘Certainly,’ said the Major. ‘I am agreeable. Do you a lot more good to walk,’ he added. ‘Exercise. None of you young chaps nowadays take any exercise. A brisk six miles there and a brisk six miles back would do you all the good in the world. If it weren’t that I needed the car to bring some of Trevelyan’s things back here, I should be walking myself. Getting soft—that’s the curse of the present day.’
‘Oh, well,’ said Ronnie, ‘I don’t believe in being strenuous myself. But I’m glad we’ve settled that all right. Elmer said you were starting at eleven o’clock. Is that right?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Good. I’ll be there.’
Ronnie was not quite so good as his word. His idea of being on the spot was to be ten minutes late, and he found Major Burnaby fuming and fretting and not at all inclined to be placated by a careless apology.
‘What a fuss old buffers make,’ thought Ronnie to himself. ‘They have no idea what a curse they are to everybody with their punctuality, and everything done on the dot of the minute, and their cursed exercise and keeping fit.’
His mind played agreeably for a few minutes with the idea of a marriage between Major Burnaby and his aunt. Which, he wondered, would get the better of it? He thought his aunt every time. Rather amusing to think of her clapping her hands and uttering piercing cries to summon the Major to her side.
Banishing these reflections from his mind he proceeded to enter into cheerful conversation.
‘Sittaford has become a pretty gay spot—what? Miss Trefusis and this chap Enderby and the lad from Australia—by the way, when did he blow in? There he was as large as life this morning and nobody knew where he had come from. It’s been worrying my aunt blue in the face.’
‘He is staying with the Willetts,’ said Major Burnaby tartly.
‘Yes, but where did he blow in from? Even the Willetts haven’t got a private aerodrome. You know, I think there’s something deuced mysterious about this lad Pearson. He’s got what I call a nasty gleam in his eye—a very nasty glint. It’s my impression that he’s the chap who did in poor old Trevelyan.’
The Major made no reply.
‘The way I look at it is this,’ continued Ronnie, ‘fellows that go off to the Colonies are usually bad hats. Their relations don’t like them and push them out there for that reason. Very well then—there you are. The bad hat comes back, short of money, visits wealthy uncle in the neighbourhood of Christmas time, wealthy relative won’t cough up to impecunious nephew—and impecunious nephew bats him one. That’s what I call a theory.’
‘You should mention it to the police,’ said Major Burnaby.
‘I thought you might do that,’ said Mr Garfield. ‘You’re Narracott’s little pal, aren’t you? By the way he hasn’t been nosing about Sittaford again, has he?’
‘Not that I know about.’
‘Not meeting you at the house today, is he?’
The shortness of the Major’s answers seemed to strike Ronnie at last.
‘Well,’ he said vaguely, ‘that’s that,’ and relapsed into a thoughtful silence.
At Exhampton the car drew up outside the Three Crowns. Ronnie alighted and after arranging with the Major that they would rendezvous there at half past four for the return journey, he strode off in the direction of such shops as Exhampton offered.
The Major went first to see Mr Kirkwood. After a brief conversation with him, he took the keys and started off for Hazelmoor.
He had told Evans to meet him there at twelve o’clock, and he found the faithful retainer waiting on the doorstep. With a rather grim face, Major Burnaby inserted the key into the front door and passed into the empty house, Evans at his heels. He had not been in it since the night of the tragedy, and in spite of his iron determination to show no weakness, he gave a slight shiver as he passed the drawing-room.
Evans and the Major worked together in sympathy and silence. When either of them made a brief remark it was duly appreciated and understood by the other.