The Secret of Chimneys, Agatha Christie [reading a book txt] 📗
- Author: Agatha Christie
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“All right,” he said hastily, “I’ll do it. You’ll arrange the whole thing, I suppose.”
“My dear fellow, there’s nothing to arrange. Chimneys, quite apart from its historic associations, is ideally situated. I shall be at the Abbey, less than seven miles away. It wouldn’t do, of course, for me to be actually a member of the house party.”
“Of course not,” agreed Lord Caterham, who had no idea why it would not do, and was not interested to learn.
“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind having Bill Eversleigh, though. He’d be useful to run messages.”
“Delighted,” said Lord Caterham, with a shade more animation. “Bill’s quite a decent shot, and Bundle likes him.”
“The shooting, of course, is not really important. It’s only the pretext, as it were.”
Lord Caterham looked depressed again.
“That will be all, then. The Prince, his suite, Bill Eversleigh, Herman Isaacstein——”
“Who?”
“Herman Isaacstein. The representative of the syndicate I spoke to you about.”
“The all British syndicate?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Nothing—nothing—I only wondered, that’s all. Curious names these people have.”
“Then, of course, there ought to be one or two outsiders—just to give the thing a bona fide appearance. Lady Eileen could see to that—young people, uncritical, and with no idea of politics.”
“Bundle would attend to that all right, I’m sure.”
“I wonder now.” Lomax seemed struck by an idea.
“You remember the matter I was speaking about just now?”
“You’ve been speaking about so many things.”
“No, no, I mean this unfortunate contretemps”—— he lowered his voice to a mysterious whisper—“the memoirs—Count Stylptitch’s memoirs.”
“I think you’re wrong about that,” said Lord Caterham, suppressing a yawn. “People like scandal. Damn it all, I read Reminiscences myself—and enjoy ’em too.”
“The point is not whether people will read them or not—they’ll read them fast enough—but their publication at this juncture might ruin everything—everything. The people of Herzoslovakia wish to restore the Monarchy, and are prepared to offer the Crown to Prince Michael who has the support and encouragement of His Majesty’s Government——”
“And who is prepared to grant concessions to Mr. Ikey Hermanstein & Co. in return for the loan of a million or so to set him on the throne——”
“Caterham, Caterham,” implored Lomax in an agonized whisper. “Discretion, I beg of you. Above all things, discretion.”
“And the point is,” continued Lord Caterham, with some relish, though he lowered his voice in obedience to the other’s appeal, “that some of Stylptitch’s Reminiscences may upset the apple cart. Tyranny and misbehaviour of the Obolovitch family generally, eh? Questions asked in the House. Why replace the present broad-minded and democratic form of Government by an obsolete tyranny? Policy dictated by the blood-sucking Capitalists. Down with the Government. That kind of thing—eh?”
Lomax nodded.
“And there might be worse still,” he breathed. “Suppose—only suppose that some reference should be made to—to that unfortunate disappearance—you know what I mean.”
Lord Caterham stared at him.
“No, I don’t. What disappearance?”
“You must have heard of it? Why, it happened while they were at Chimneys. Henry was terribly upset about it. It almost ruined his career.”
“You interest me enormously,” said Lord Caterham. “Who or what disappeared?”
Lomax leant forward and put his mouth to Lord Caterham’s ear. The latter withdrew it hastily.
“For God’s sake, don’t hiss at me.”
“You heard what I said?”
“Yes, I did,” said Lord Caterham reluctantly. “I remember now hearing something about it at the time. Very curious affair. I wonder who did it. It was never recovered?”
“Never. Of course we had to go about the matter with the utmost discretion. No hint of the loss could be allowed to leak out. But Stylptitch was there at the time. He knew something. Not all, but something. We were at loggerheads with him once or twice over the Turkish question. Suppose that in sheer malice he has set the whole thing down for the world to read. Think of the scandal—of the far-reaching results. Every one would say—why was it hushed up?”
“Of course they would,” said Lord Caterham, with evident enjoyment.
Lomax, whose voice had risen to a high pitch, took a grip on himself.
“I must keep calm,” he murmured. “I must keep calm. But I ask you this, my dear fellow. If he didn’t mean mischief, why did he send the manuscript to London in this roundabout way?”
“It’s odd, certainly. You are sure of your facts?”
“Absolutely. We—er—had our agents in Paris. The Memoirs were conveyed away secretly some weeks before his death.”
“Yes, it looks as though there’s something in it,” said Lord Caterham, with the same relish he had displayed before.
“We have found out that they were sent to a man called Jimmy, or James, McGrath, a Canadian at present in Africa.”
“Quite an Imperial affair, isn’t it?” said Lord Caterham cheerily.
“James McGrath is due to arrive by the Granarth Castle to-morrow—Thursday.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“We shall, of course, approach him at once, point out the possibly serious consequences, and beg him to defer publication of the Memoirs for at least a month, and in any case to permit them to be judiciously—er—edited.”
“Supposing that he says ‘No, sir,’ or ‘I’ll goddarned well see you in hell first,’ or something bright and breezy like that?” suggested Lord Caterham.
“That’s just what I’m afraid of,” said Lomax simply. “That’s why it suddenly occurred to me that it might be a good thing to ask him down to Chimneys as well. He’d be flattered, naturally, at being asked to meet Prince Michael, and it might be easier to handle him.”
“I’m not going to do it,” said Lord Caterham hastily. “I don’t get on with Canadians, never did—especially those that have lived much in Africa!”
“You’d probably find him a splendid fellow—a rough diamond, you know.”
“No, Lomax. I put my foot down there absolutely. Somebody else has got to tackle him.”
“It has occurred to me,” said Lomax, “that a woman might be very useful here. Told enough and not too much, you understand. A woman could handle the whole thing delicately and with tact—put the position before him, as it were, without getting his back up. Not that I approve of women in politics—St. Stephen’s is ruined, absolutely ruined, nowadays. But woman in her own sphere can do wonders. Look at Henry’s wife and what she did for him. Marcia was magnificent, unique, a perfect political hostess.”
“You don’t want me to ask Marcia down for this party, do you?” asked Lord Caterham faintly, turning a little pale at the mention of his redoubtable sister-in-law.
“No, no, you misunderstand me. I was speaking of the influence of women in general. No, I suggest a young woman, a woman of charm, beauty, intelligence?”
“Not Bundle? Bundle would be no use at all. She’s a red-hot socialist if she’s anything at all, and she’d simply scream with laughter at the suggestion.”
“I was not thinking of Lady Eileen. Your daughter, Caterham, is charming, simply charming, but quite a child. We need some one with savoir faire, poise, knowledge of the world—— Ah, of course, the very person. My cousin Virginia.”
“Mrs. Revel?” Lord Caterham brightened up. He began to feel that he might possibly enjoy the party after all. “A very good suggestion of yours, Lomax. The most charming woman in London.”
“She is well up in Herzoslovakian affairs too. Her husband was at the Embassy there, you remember. And, as you say, a woman of great personal charm.”
“A delightful creature,” murmured Lord Caterham.
“That is settled, then.”
Mr. Lomax relaxed his hold on Lord Caterham’s lapel, and the latter was quick to avail himself of the chance.
“Bye-bye, Lomax, you’ll make all the arrangements, won’t you.”
He dived into a taxi. As far as it is possible for one upright Christian gentleman to dislike another upright Christian gentleman, Lord Caterham disliked the Hon. George Lomax. He disliked his puffy red face, his heavy breathing, and his prominent blue eyes. He thought of the coming week and sighed. A nuisance, an abominable nuisance. Then he thought of Virginia Revel and cheered up a little.
“A delightful creature,” he murmured to himself. “A most delightful creature.”
Introducing a Very Charming Lady
George Lomax returned straightway to Whitehall. As he entered the sumptuous apartment in which he transacted affairs of State, there was a scuffling sound.
Mr. Bill Eversleigh was assiduously filing letters, but a large arm-chair near the window was still warm from contact with a human form.
A very likeable young man, Bill Eversleigh. Age at a guess, twenty-five, big and rather ungainly in his movements, a pleasurably ugly face, a splendid set of white teeth and a pair of honest brown eyes.
“Richardson sent up that report yet?”
“No, sir. Shall I get on to him about it?”
“It doesn’t matter. Any telephone messages?”
“Miss Oscar is dealing with most of them. Mr. Isaacstein wants to know if you can dine with him at the Savoy to-morrow.”
“Tell Miss Oscar to look in my engagement-book. If I’m not engaged, she can ring up and accept.”
“Yes, sir.”
“By the way, Eversleigh, you might ring up a number for me now. Look it up in the book. Mrs. Revel, 487, Pont Street.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bill seized the telephone-book, ran an unseeing eye down a column of M’s, shut the book with a bang and moved to the instrument on the desk. With his hand upon it, he paused, as though in sudden recollection.
“Oh, I say, sir, I’ve just remembered. Her line’s out of order. Mrs. Revel’s, I mean. I was trying to ring her up just now.”
George Lomax frowned.
“Annoying,” he said, “distinctly annoying.” He tapped the table undecidedly.
“If it’s anything important, sir, perhaps I might go round there now in a taxi. She’s sure to be in at this time in the morning.”
George Lomax hesitated, pondering the matter. Bill waited expectantly, poised for instant flight, should the reply be favourable.
“Perhaps that would be the best plan,” said Lomax at last. “Very well, then, take a taxi there, and ask Mrs. Revel if she will be at home this afternoon at four o’clock as I am very anxious to see her about an important matter.”
“Right, sir.”
Bill seized his hat and departed.
Ten minutes later, a taxi deposited him at 487, Pont Street. He rang the bell and executed a loud rat-tat on the knocker. The door was opened by a grave functionary to whom Bill nodded with the ease of long acquaintance.
“Morning, Quivers, Mrs. Revel in?”
“I believe, sir, that she is just going out.”
“Is that you, Bill?” called a voice over the banisters. “I thought I recognized that muscular knock. Come up and talk to me.”
Bill looked up at the face that was laughing down on him, and which was always inclined to reduce him—and not him alone—to a state of babbling incoherency. He took the stairs two at a time and clasped Virginia Revel’s out-stretched hands tightly in his.
“Hullo, Virginia!”
“Hullo, Bill!”
Charm is a very peculiar thing; hundreds of young women, some of them more beautiful than Virginia Revel, might have said “Hullo, Bill,” with exactly the same intonation, and yet have produced no effect whatever. But those two simple words, uttered by Virginia, had the most intoxicating effect upon Bill.
Virginia Revel was just twenty-seven. She was tall and of an exquisite slimness—indeed, a poem might have been written to her slimness, it was so exquisitely proportioned. Her hair was of real bronze, with the greenish tint in its gold; she had a determined little chin, a lovely nose, slanting blue eyes that showed a gleam of deepest cornflower between the half-closed lids, and a delicious and quite indescribable mouth that tilted ever so slightly at one corner in what is known as “the signature of Venus.” It was a wonderfully expressive face, and there was a sort of radiant vitality about her that always challenged attention. It would have been quite impossible ever to ignore Virginia Revel.
She drew Bill into the small drawing-room which was all pale
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