Agatha Christie - The Seven Dials Mystery

"There are some Yorkshire Thesigers," he said earnestly. "And unless I am mistaken some Devonshire Thesigers also. Your Great Aunt Selina married a Thesiger."

"What good is that to me?" cried Bundle.

Lord Caterham chuckled.

"It was very little good to her, if I remember rightly."

"You're impossible," said Bundle, rising. "I shall have to get hold of Bill."

"Do, dear," said her father absently as he turned a page. "Certainly. By all means. Quite so."

Bundle rose to her feet with an impatient sigh.

"I wish I could remember what that letter said," she murmured, more to herself than aloud. "I didn't read it very carefully. Something about a joke, that the Seven Dials business wasn't a joke."

Lord Caterham emerged suddenly from his catalogue.

"Seven Dials?" he said. "Of course. I've got it now."

"Got what?"

"I know why it sounded so familiar. George Lomax has been over. Tredwell failed for once and let him in. He was on his way up to town. It seems he's having some political party at the Abbey next week and he got a warning letter."

"What do you mean by a warning letter?"

"Well, I don't really know. He didn't go into details. I gather it said 'Beware' and 'Trouble is at hand,' and all those sort of things. But anyway it was written from Seven Dials, I distinctly remember his saying so. He was going up to town to consult Scotland Yard about it. You know George?"

Bundle nodded. She was well acquainted with that public-spirited Cabinet Minister, George Lomax, His Majesty's permanent Under Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, who was shunned by many because of his inveterate habit of quoting from his public speeches in private. In allusion to his bulging eyeballs, he was known to many – Bill Eversleigh among others – as Codders.

"Tell me," she said, "was Codders interested at all in Gerald Wade's death?"

"Not that I ever heard of. He may have been, of course."

Bundle said nothing for some minutes. She was busily engaged in trying to remember the exact wording of the letter she had sent on to Loraine Wade, and at the same time she was trying to picture the girl to whom it had been written. What sort of a girl was this to whom, apparently, Gerald Wade was so devoted?

The more she thought over it, the more it seemed to her that it was an unusual letter for a brother to write.

"Did you say the Wade girl was Gerry's half-sister?" she asked suddenly.

"Well, of course, strictly speaking, I suppose she isn't – wasn't, I mean – his sister at all."

"But her name's Wade?"

"Not really. She wasn't old Wade's child. As I was saying, he ran away with his second wife, who was married to a perfect blackguard. I suppose the Courts gave the rascally husband the custody of the child, but he certainly didn't avail himself of the privilege. Old Wade got very fond of the child and insisted that she should he called by his name."

"I see," said Bundle. "That explains it."

"Explains what?"

"Something that puzzled me about that letter."

"She's rather a pretty girl, I believe," said Lord Caterham. "Or so I've heard."

Bundle went upstairs thoughtfully. She had several objects in view. First she must find this Jimmy Thesiger. Bill, perhaps, would be helpful there. Ronny Devereux had been a friend of Bill's. If Jimmy Thesiger was a friend of Ronny's, the chances were that Bill would know him too. Then there was the girl, Loraine Wade. It was possible that she could throw some light on the problem of Seven Dials. Evidently Gerry Wade had said something to her about it. His anxiety that she should forget the fact had a sinister suggestion.

Getting hold of Bill presented few difficulties. Bundle motored up to town on the following morning – this time without adventures on the way – and rang him up. Bill responded with alacrity, and made various suggestions as to lunch, tea, dinner and dancing. All of which suggestions Bundle turned down as made.

"In a day or two, I'll come and frivol with you, Bill. But for the moment I'm up on business."

"Oh," said Bill. "What a beastly bore."

"It's not that kind," said Bundle. "It's anything but boring. Bill, do you know anyone called Jimmy Thesiger?"

"Of course. So do you."

"No, I don't," said Bundle.

"Yes, you do. You must. Everyone knows old Jimmy."

"Sorry," said Bundle. "Just for once I don't seem to be everyone."

"Ah, but how can you not know Jimmy? A slightly stupid-looking chap, but really as brainy as me."

"You don't say," exclaimed Bundle. "But then he must be a genius!"

"This is irony, isn't it?"

"More or less. What does he do?"

"What do you mean?"

"I wonder if working with Foreign Relations forbids you to understand your own language."

"Oh! Got it! You want to know what his work is? He doesn't do anything. Why should he work if he doesn't need to?"

"You mean he has more money than brains?"

"Not all that much. I said he was smarter than he looked like."

Bundle remained silent. This rich fellow didn't seem to be a good ally. And nonetheless his name had been on the lips of the dying man. Suddenly Bill spoke again.

"Ronny always thought him really smart. Ronny Devereux, you know? Thesiger was his best friend."

"Ronny…"

Bundle stopped, doubtful. Bill, evidently, ignored the other's death. Then it occured to her for the first time how strange it was that the morning papers hadn't commented the subject. There could be only one explanation: the police, for their own reasons, were keeping the case quiet.

"It's been ages since I saw Ronny," Bill went on. "Since that weekend at your house. You know, when poor Gerry Wade died."

There was a pause.

"Unpleasant story, by the way. I suppose you heard about it. Listen, Bundle… still on the line?"

"Of course."

"Well, you went so silent that I thought you rang off."

"No, I was just thinking of something."

Should she tell him about Ronny's death? She decided not to – it wasn't the kind of news to break over the phone. Soon, she must have a meeting with Bill. In the meantime –

"Bill?"

"Hullo."

"I might dine with you tomorrow night."

"Good, and we'll dance afterwards. I've got a lot to talk to you about. As a matter of fact I've been rather hard hit – the foulest luck –"

"Well, tell me about it tomorrow," said Bundle, cutting him short rather unkindly. "In the meantime, what is Jimmy Thesiger's address?"

"Jimmy Thesiger?"

"That's what I said."

"He's got rooms in Jermyn Street – do I mean Jermyn Street or the other one?"

"Bring that class A brain to bear upon it."

"Yes, Jermyn Street. Wait a bit and I'll give you the number."

There was a pause.

"Are you there still?"

"I'm always there."

"Well, one never knows with these dashed telephones. The number is 103. Got it?"

"103. Thank you, Bill."

"Yes, but, I say – what do you want it for? You said you didn't know him."

"I don't, but I shall in half an hour."

"You're going round to his rooms?"

"Quite right, Sherlock."

"Yes, but, I say – well, for one thing he won't be up."

"Won't be up?"

"I shouldn't think so. I mean, who would if they hadn't got to? Look at it that way. You've no idea what an effort it is for me to get here at eleven every morning, and the fuss Codders makes if I'm behind time is simply appalling. You haven't the least idea, Bundle, what a dog's life this is –"

"You shall tell me all about it tomorrow night," said Bundle hastily.

She slammed down the receiver and took stock of the situation. First she glanced at the clock. It was five and twenty minutes to twelve. Despite Bill's knowledge of his friend's habits, she inclined to the belief that Mr. Thesiger would by now be in a fit state to receive visitors. She took a taxi to 103 Jermyn Street .