Crooked House. Агата Кристи
Читать онлайн книгу.
be cleared up. We may be reasonably sure that the wife and her young man were in cahoots over it—but proving it will be another matter. There’s not even a case to put up to the DPP so far. And unless we get definite evidence against her, there’ll always be a nasty doubt. You see that, don’t you?’
Yes, I saw that.
The Old Man then said quietly:
‘Why not put it to her?’
‘You mean—ask Sophia if I—’ I stopped.
The Old Man was nodding his head vigorously.
‘Yes, yes. I’m not asking you to worm your way in without telling the girl what you’re up to. See what she has to say about it.’
And so it came about that the following day I drove down with Chief Inspector Taverner and Detective Sergeant Lamb to Swinly Dean.
A little way beyond the golf course, we turned in at a gateway where I imagined that before the war there had been an imposing pair of gates. Patriotism or ruthless requisitioning had swept these away. We drove up a long curving drive flanked with rhododendrons and came out on a gravelled sweep in front of the house.
It was incredible! I wondered why it had been called Three Gables. Eleven Gables would have been more apposite! The curious thing was that it had a strange air of being distorted—and I thought I knew why. It was the type, really, of a cottage, it was a cottage swollen out of all proportion. It was like looking at a country cottage through a gigantic magnifying-glass. The slant-wise beams, the half-timbering, the gables—it was a little crooked house that had grown like a mushroom in the night!
Yet I got the idea. It was a Greek restaurateur’s idea of something English. It was meant to be an Englishman’s home—built the size of a castle! I wondered what the first Mrs Leonides had thought of it. She had not, I fancied, been consulted or shown the plans. It was, most probably, her exotic husband’s little surprise. I wondered if she had shuddered or smiled.
Apparently she had lived there quite happily.
‘Bit overwhelming, isn’t it?’ said Inspector Taverner. ‘Of course, the old gentleman built on to it a good deal—making it into three separate houses, so to speak, with kitchens and everything. It’s all tip-top inside, fitted up like a luxury hotel.’
Sophia came out of the front door. She was hatless and wore a green shirt and a tweed skirt.
She stopped dead when she saw me.
‘You?’ she exclaimed.
I said:
‘Sophia, I’ve got to talk to you. Where can we go?’
For a moment I thought she was going to demur, then she turned and said: ‘This way.’
We walked down across the lawn. There was a fine view across Swinly Dean’s No 1 course—away to a clump of pine trees on a hill, and beyond it, to the dimness of hazy countryside.
Sophia led me to a rock-garden, now somewhat neglected, where there was a rustic wooden seat of great discomfort, and we sat down.
‘Well?’ she said.
Her voice was not encouraging.
I said my piece—all of it.
She listened very attentively. Her face gave little indication of what she was thinking, but when I came at last to a full stop, she sighed. It was a deep sigh.
‘Your father,’ she said, ‘is a very clever man.’
‘The Old Man has his points. I think it’s a rotten idea myself—but—’
She interrupted me.
‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘It isn’t a rotten idea at all. It’s the only thing that might be any good. Your father, Charles, knows exactly what’s been going on in my mind. He knows better than you do.’
With a sudden almost despairing vehemence, she drove one clenched hand into the palm of the other.
‘I’ve got to have the truth. I’ve got to know.’
‘Because of us? But, dearest—’
‘Not only because of us, Charles. I’ve got to know for my own peace of mind. You see, Charles, I didn’t tell you last night—but the truth is—I’m afraid.’
‘Afraid?’
‘Yes—afraid—afraid—afraid. The police think, your father thinks, you think, everybody thinks—that it was Brenda.’
‘The probabilities—’
‘Oh yes, it’s quite probable. It’s possible. But when I say, “Brenda probably did it,” I’m quite conscious that it’s only wishful thinking. Because, you see, I don’t really think so.’
‘You don’t think so?’ I said slowly.
‘I don’t know. You’ve heard about it all from the outside as I wanted you to. Now I’ll show it you from the inside. I simply don’t feel that Brenda is that kind of a person—she’s not the sort of person, I feel, who would ever do anything that might involve her in any danger. She’s far too careful of herself.’
‘How about this young man? Laurence Brown.’
‘Laurence is a complete rabbit. He wouldn’t have the guts.’
‘I wonder.’
‘Yes, we don’t really know, do we? I mean, people are capable of surprising one frightfully. One gets an idea of them into one’s head, and sometimes it’s absolutely wrong. Not always—but sometimes. But all the same, Brenda’—she shook her head—‘she’s always acted so completely in character. She’s what I call the harem type. Likes sitting about and eating sweets and having nice clothes and jewellery and reading cheap novels and going to the cinema. And it’s a queer thing to say, when one remembers that he was eighty-seven, but I really think she was rather thrilled by grandfather. He had a power, you know. I should imagine he could make a woman feel—oh—rather like a queen—the sultan’s favourite! I think—I’ve always thought—that he made Brenda feel as though she were an exciting, romantic person. He’s been clever with women all his life—and that kind of thing is a sort of art—you don’t lose the knack of it, however old you are.’
I left the problem of Brenda for the moment and harked back to a phrase of Sophia’s which had disturbed me.
‘Why did you say,’ I asked, ‘that you were afraid?’
Sophia shivered a little and pressed her hands together.
‘Because it’s true,’ she said in a low voice. ‘It’s very important, Charles, that I should make you understand this. You see, we’re a very queer family … There’s a lot of ruthlessness in us—and—different kinds of ruthlessness. That’s what’s so disturbing. The different kinds.’
She must have seen incomprehension in my face. She went on, speaking energetically.
‘I’ll try and make what I mean clear. Grandfather, for instance. Once when he was telling us about his boyhood in Smyrna, he mentioned, quite casually, that he had stabbed two men. It was some kind of a brawl—there had been some unforgivable insult—I don’t know—but it was just a thing that had happened quite naturally. He’d really practically forgotten about it. But it was, somehow, such a queer thing to hear about, quite casually, in England.’
I nodded.
‘That’s one kind of ruthlessness,’ went on Sophia, ‘and then there was my grandmother. I only just remember her, but I’ve heard a good deal about her. I think she might have had the ruthlessness that comes from having no imagination whatever. All those fox-hunting forebears—and the old Generals, the shoot-’em-down type. Full of rectitude and arrogance, and not a bit afraid of taking responsibility in matters of life and death.’