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Joanna nodded and helped herself to a cigarette.
‘Enemies, my sweet. You’re so devastatingly efficient. And you’re so frightfully good at doing the right thing.’
Linnet laughed.
‘Why, I haven’t got an enemy in the world.’
Chapter 4
Lord Windlesham sat under the cedar tree. His eyes rested on the graceful proportions of Wode Hall. There was nothing to mar its old-world beauty; the new buildings and additions were out of sight round the corner. It was a fair and peaceful sight bathed in the autumn sunshine. Nevertheless, as he gazed, it was no longer Wode Hall that Charles Windlesham saw. Instead, he seemed to see a more imposing Elizabethan mansion, a long sweep of park, a bleaker background… It was his own family seat, Charltonbury, and in the foreground stood a figure – a girl’s figure, with bright golden hair and an eager confident face… Linnet as mistress of Charltonbury!
He felt very hopeful. That refusal of hers had not been at all a definite refusal. It had been little more than a plea for time. Well, he could afford to wait a little…
How amazingly suitable the whole thing was. It was certainly advisable that he should marry money, but not such a matter of necessity that he could regard himself as forced to put his own feelings on one side. And he loved Linnet. He would have wanted to marry her even if she had been practically penniless, instead of one of the richest girls in England. Only, fortunately, she was one of the richest girls in England…
His mind played with attractive plans for the future. The Mastership of the Roxdale perhaps, the restoration of the west wing, no need to let the Scotch shooting…
Charles Windlesham dreamed in the sun.
Chapter 5
It was four o’clock when the dilapidated little two-seater stopped with a sound of crunching gravel. A girl got out of it – a small slender creature with a mop of dark hair. She ran up the steps and tugged at the bell.
A few minutes later she was being ushered into the long stately drawing room, and an ecclesiastical butler was saying with the proper mournful intonation:
‘Miss de Bellefort.’
‘Linnet!’
‘Jackie!’
Windlesham stood a little aside, watching sympathetically as this fiery little creature flung herself open-armed upon Linnet.
‘Lord Windlesham – Miss de Bellefort – my best friend.’
A pretty child, he thought – not really pretty but decidedly attractive with her dark curly hair and her enormous eyes. He murmured a few tactful nothings and then managed unobtrusively to leave the two friends together.
Jacqueline pounced – in a fashion that Linnet remembered as being characteristic of her.
‘Windlesham? Windlesham? That’s the man the papers always say you’re going to marry! Are you, Linnet? Are you?’
Linnet murmured:
‘Perhaps.’
‘Darling – I’m so glad! He looks nice.’
‘Oh, don’t make up your mind about it – I haven’t made up my own mind yet.’
‘Of course not! Queens always proceed with due deliberation to the choosing of a consort!’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Jackie.’
‘But you are a queen, Linnet! You always were. Sa Majestе, la reine Linette. Linette la blonde! And I–I’m the Queen’s confidante! The trusted Maid of Honour.’
‘What nonsense you talk, Jackie darling! Where have you been all this time? You just disappear. And you never write.’
‘I hate writing letters. Where have I been? Oh, about three parts submerged, darling. In JOBS, you know. Grim jobs with grim women!’
‘Darling, I wish you’d-’
‘Take the Queen’s bounty? Well, frankly, darling, that’s what I’m here for. No, not to borrow money. It’s not got to that yet! But I’ve come to ask a great big important favour!’
‘Go on.’
‘If you’re going to marry the Windlesham man, you’ll understand, perhaps.’
Linnet looked puzzled for a minute, then her face cleared.
‘Jackie, do you mean-?’
‘Yes, darling, I’m engaged!’
‘So that’s it! I thought you were looking particularly alive somehow. You always do, of course, but even more than usual.’
‘That’s just what I feel like.’
‘Tell me all about him.’
‘His name’s Simon Doyle. He’s big and square and incredibly simple and boyish and utterly adorable! He’s poor – got no money. He’s what you call “county” all right – but very impoverished county – a younger son and all that. His people come from Devonshire. He loves the country and country things. And for the last five years he’s been in the City in a stuffy office. And now they’re cutting down and he’s out of a job. Linnet, I shall die if I can’t marry him! I shall die! I shall die! I shall die…!’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Jackie.’
‘I shall die, I tell you! I’m crazy about him. He’s crazy about me. We can’t live without each other.’
‘Darling, you have got it badly!’
‘I know. It’s awful, isn’t it? This love business gets hold of you and you can’t do anything about it.’
She paused for a minute. Her dark eyes dilated, looked suddenly tragic. She gave a little shiver.
‘It’s – even frightening sometimes! Simon and I were made for each other. I shall never care for anyone else. And you’ve got to help us, Linnet. I heard you’d bought this place and it put an idea into my head. Listen, you’ll have to have a land agent – perhaps two. I want you to give the job to Simon.’
‘Oh!’ Linnet was startled.
Jacqueline rushed on.
‘He’s got all that sort of thing at his fingertips. He knows all about estates – was brought up on one. And he’s got his business training too. Oh, Linnet, you will give him a job, won’t you, for love of me? If he doesn’t make good, sack him. But he will. And we can live in a little house and I shall see lots of you and everything in the garden will be too, too divine.’ She got up. ‘Say you will, Linnet. Say you will. Beautiful Linnet! Tall golden Linnet! My own very special Linnet! Say you will!’
‘Jackie-’
‘You will?’
Linnet burst out laughing.
‘Ridiculous Jackie! Bring along your young man and let me have a look at him and we’ll talk it over.’
Jackie darted at her, kissing her exuberantly.
‘Darling Linnet – you’re a real friend! I knew you were. You wouldn’t let me down – ever. You’re just the loveliest thing in the world. Goodbye.’
‘But, Jackie, you’re staying.’
‘Me? No, I’m not. I’m going back to London and tomorrow I’ll come back and bring Simon and we’ll settle it all up. You’ll adore him. He really is a pet.’
‘But can’t you wait and just have tea?’
‘No, I can’t wait, Linnet. I’m too excited. I must get back and tell Simon. I know I’m mad, darling, but I can’t help it. Marriage will cure me, I expect. It always seems to have a very sobering effect on people.’ She turned at the door, stood a moment, then rushed back for a last quick birdlike embrace. ‘Dear Linnet – there’s no one like you.’
Chapter 6
M. Gaston Blondin, the proprietor of that modish little restaurant Chez Ma Tante, was not a man who delighted to honour many of his clientele. The rich, the beautiful, the notorious and the well-born might wait in vain to be singled out and paid special attention. Only in the rarest cases did M. Blondin, with gracious condescension, greet a guest, accompany him to a privileged table, and exchange with him suitable and apposite remarks.
On this particular night, M. Blondin had exercised his royal prerogative three times – once for a Duchess, once for a famous racing peer, and once for a little man of comical appearance with immense black moustaches and who, a casual onlooker would have thought, could bestow no favour on Chez Ma Tante by his presence there.
M. Blondin, however, was positively fulsome in his attentions. Though clients had been told for the last half hour that a table was not to be had, one now mysteriously appeared, placed in a most favourable position. M. Blondin conducted the client to it with every appearance of empressement.
‘But naturally, for you there is always a table, Monsieur Poirot! How I wish that you would honour us oftener!’
Hercule Poirot smiled, remembering that past incident wherein a dead body, a waiter, M. Blondin, and a very lovely lady had played a part.
‘You are too amiable, Monsieur Blondin,’ he said.
‘And you are alone, Monsieur Poirot?’
‘Yes, I am alone.’
‘Oh, well, Jules here will compose for you a little meal that will be a poem – positively a poem! Women, however charming, have this disadvantage: they distract the mind from food! You will enjoy your dinner, Monsieur Poirot, I promise you that. Now as to wine-’
A technical conversation ensued, Jules, the ma?tre d’hotel, assisting.
Before departing, M. Blondin lingered a moment, lowering his voice confidentially.
‘You have grave affairs on hand?’
Poirot shook his head.
‘I am, alas, a man of leisure,’ he said softly. ‘I have made the economies in my time and I have now the means to enjoy the life of idleness.’
‘I envy you.’
‘No, no, you would be unwise to do so. I can assure you, it is not so gay as it sounds.’ He sighed. ‘How true is the saying that man was forced to invent work in order to escape the strain of having to think.’
M. Blondin threw up his hands.
‘But there is so much! There is travel!’
‘Yes, there is travel. Already I have done not so badly. This winter I shall visit Egypt, I think. The climate, they say, is superb! One will escape from the fogs, the greyness, the monotony of the constantly falling rain.’
‘Ah! Egypt,’ breathed M. Blondin.
‘One can even voyage there now, I believe, by train, escaping all sea travel except the Channel.’
‘Ah, the sea, it does not agree with you?’
Hercule Poirot shook his head and shuddered slightly.
‘I, too,’ said M. Blondin with sympathy. ‘Curious the effect it has upon the stomach.’
‘But only upon certain stomachs! There are people on whom the motion makes no impression whatever. They actually enjoy it!’
‘An unfairness of the good God,’ said M. Blondin. He shook his head sadly, and, brooding on the impious thought, withdrew.
Smooth-footed, deft-handed waiters ministered to the table. Toast Melba, butter, an ice pail, all the adjuncts to a meal of quality.
The orchestra broke into an ecstasy of strange discordant noises. London danced.
Hercule Poirot looked on, registered impressions in his neat orderly mind.
How bored and weary most of the faces were! Some of those stout men, however, were enjoying themselves… whereas a patient endurance seemed to be the sentiment exhibited on their partners’ faces. The fat woman in purple was looking radiant… Undoubtedly the fat had certain compensations in life… a zest – a gusto – denied to those of more fashionable contours.
A good sprinkling of young people – some vacant-looking – some bored – some definitely unhappy. How absurd to call youth the time of happiness – youth, the time of greatest vulnerability!
His glance softened as it rested on one particular couple. A well-matched pair – tall broad-shouldered man, slender delicate girl. Two bodies that moved in a perfect rhythm of happiness. Happiness in the place, the hour, and in each other.
The dance stopped abruptly. Hands clapped and it started again. After a second encore the couple returned to their table close by Poirot. The girl was flushed, laughing. As she sat, he could study her face as it was lifted laughing to her companion.
There was something else beside laughter in her eyes. Hercule Poirot shook his head doubtfully.
‘She cares too much, that little one,’ he said to himself. ‘It is not safe. No, it is not safe.’
And then a word caught his ear. Egypt.
Their voices came to him clearly – the girl’s young, fresh, arrogant, with just a trace of soft-sounding for-eign Rs, and the man’s pleasant, low-toned, well-bred English.
‘I’m not counting my chickens before they’re hatched, Simon. I tell you Linnet won’t let us down!’
‘I might let her down.’
