The Sittaford Mystery - Agatha Christie [84]
‘That chattering magpie of a woman, Mrs Curtis. She’s clean and she’s honest, but her tongue never stops, and she pays no attention to whether you listen or whether you don’t.’
‘It’s quite true,’ admitted Mr Rycroft. ‘I am expecting my niece, Mrs Dering, and her husband, tomorrow.’
They had arrived at the front door by now, and on pressing the bell it was opened to them by Brian Pearson.
As they removed their overcoats in the hall, Mr Rycroft observed the tall broad-shouldered young man with an interested eye.
‘Fine specimen,’ he thought. ‘Very fine specimen. Strong temper. Curious angle of the jaw. Might be a nasty customer to tackle in certain circumstances. What you might call a dangerous young man.’
A queer feeling of unreality stole over Major Burnaby as he entered the drawing-room, and Mrs Willett rose to greet him.
‘Splendid of you to turn out.’
The same words as last week. The same blazing fire on the hearth. He fancied, but was not sure, the same gowns on the two women.
It did give one a queer feeling. As though it were last week again—as though Joe Trevelyan hadn’t died—as though nothing had happened or were changed. Stop, that was wrong. The Willett woman had changed. A wreck, that was the only way of describing her. No longer the prosperous determined woman of the world, but a broken nervy creature making an obvious and pathetic effort to appear as usual.
‘But I’m hanged if I can see what Joe’s death meant to her,’ thought the Major.
For the hundredth time he registered the impression that there was something deuced odd about the Willetts.
As usual, he awoke to the realization that he was being silent and that someone was speaking to him.
‘Our last little gathering, I am afraid,’ Mrs Willett was saying.
‘What’s that?’ Ronnie Garfield looked up suddenly.
‘Yes.’ Mrs Willett shook her head with a would-be smile. ‘We have got to forego the rest of the winter in Sittaford. Personally, of course, I love it—the snow and the tors and the wildness of it all. But the domestic problem! The domestic problem is too difficult—it defeats me!’
‘I thought you were going to get a chauffeur-butler and a handyman,’ said Major Burnaby.
A sudden shiver shook Mrs Willett’s frame.
‘No,’ she said, ‘I—I have to give up that idea.’
‘Dear, dear,’ said Mr Rycroft. ‘This is a great blow to us all. Very sad indeed. We will sink back into our little rut after you have gone. When do you go, by the way?’
‘On Monday, I expect,’ said Mrs Willett. ‘Unless I can get away tomorrow. It’s so very awkward with no servants. Of course, I must arrange things with Mr Kirkwood. I took the house for four months.’
‘You are going to London?’ inquired Mr Rycroft.
‘Yes, probably, to start with anyway. Then I expect we shall go abroad to the Riviera.’
‘A great loss,’ said Mr Rycroft bowing gallantly.
Mrs Willett gave a queer aimless little titter.
‘Too kind of you, Mr Rycroft. Well, shall we have tea?’
Tea was laid ready. Mrs Willett poured out. Ronnie and Brian handed things. A queer kind of embarrassment lay over the party.
‘What about you?’ said Burnaby abruptly to Brian Pearson. ‘You off too?’
‘To London, yes. Naturally I shan’t go abroad till this business is over.’
‘This business?’
‘I mean until my brother is cleared of this ridiculous charge.’
He flung the words at them defiantly in such a challenging manner that nobody knew quite what to say. Major Burnaby relieved the situation.
‘Never have believed he did it. Not for a moment,’ he said.
‘None of us think so,’ said Violet, flinging him a grateful glance.
The tinkle of a bell broke the ensuing pause.
‘That’s Mr Duke,’ said Mrs Willett. ‘Let him in, Brian.’
Young Pearson had gone to the window.
‘It’s not Duke,’ he said. ‘It’s that damned journalist.’
‘Oh! dear,’ said Mrs Willett. ‘Well, I suppose we must let him in all the same.’
Brian nodded and reappeared in a few minutes with Charles Enderby.
Enderby entered with his usual ingenuous air of beaming satisfaction. The idea that he might not be welcome did not seem to occur to him.
‘Hullo, Mrs Willett,