Агата Кристи - Crooked House / Скрюченный домишко. Книга для чтения на английском языке

‘It was? My God! Then it was that woman! She couldn’t wait! He took her more or less out of the gutter and this is his reward. She murdered him in cold blood! God, it makes my blood boil to think of it.’

‘Have you any particular reason for thinking that?’ Taverner asked.

Roger was pacing up and down [70] to pace up and down – расхаживать взад-вперед , tugging at his hair with both hands.

‘Reason? Why, who else could it be? I’ve never trusted her—never liked her! We’ve none of us liked her. Philip and I were both appalled when Dad came home one day and told us what he had done! At his age! It was madness— madness. My father was an amazing man, Inspector. In intellect he was as young and fresh as a man of forty. Everything I have in the world I owe to him. He did everything for me—never failed me. It was I who failed him —when I think of it—’

He dropped heavily on to a chair. His wife came quietly to his side.

‘Now, Roger, that’s enough. Don’t work yourself up.’

‘I know, dearest—I know,’ he took her hand. ‘But how can I keep calm—how can I help feeling—’

‘But we must all keep calm, Roger. Chief Inspector Taverner wants our help.’

‘That is right, Mrs Leonides.’

Roger cried:

‘Do you know what I’d like to do? I’d like to strangle that woman with my own hands. Grudging that dear old man a few extra years of life. If I had her here—’ He sprang up [71] to spring up – вскочить . He was shaking with rage. He held out convulsive hands. ‘Yes, I’d wring her neck, wring her neck…’

‘Roger!’ said Clemency sharply.

He looked at her, abashed.

‘Sorry, dearest.’ He turned to us. ‘I do apologize. My feelings get the better of me. I—excuse me—’

He went out of the room again. Clemency Leonides said with a very faint smile:

‘Really, you know, he wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

Taverner accepted her remark politely.

Then he started on his so-called routine questions.

Clemency Leonides replied concisely and accurately.

Roger Leonides had been in London on the day of his father’s death at Box House, the headquarters of the Associated Catering. He had returned early in the afternoon and had spent some time with his father as was his custom. She herself had been, as usual, at the Lambert Institute in Gower Street where she worked. She had returned to the house just before six o’clock.

‘Did you see your father-in-law?’

‘No. The last time I saw him was on the day before. We had coffee with him after dinner.’

‘But you did not see him on the day of his death?’

‘No. I actually went over to his part of the house because Roger thought he had left his pipe there—a very precious pipe, but as it happened he had left it on the hall table there, so I did not need to disturb the old man. He often dozed off [72] to doze off – вздремнуть about six.’

‘When did you hear of his illness?’

‘Brenda came rushing over. That was just a mi nute or two after half-past six.’

These questions, as I knew, were unimportant, but I was aware how keen was Inspector Taverner’s scrutiny of the woman who answered them. He asked her a few questions about the nature of her work in London. She said that it had to do with the radiation effects of atomic disintegration.

‘You work on the atom bomb, in fact?’

‘The work has nothing destructive about it. The Institute is carrying out experiments on the therapeutic effects.’

When Taverner got up, he expressed a wish to look round their part of the house. She seemed a little surprised, but showed him its extent readily enough. The bedroom with its twin beds and white coverlets and its simplified toilet appliances reminded me again of a hospital or some monastic cell. The bathroom, too, was severely plain with no special luxury fitting and no array of cosmetics. The kitchen was bare, spotlessly clean, and well equipped with labour-saving devices of a practical kind. Then we came to a door which Clemency opened, saying: ‘This is my husband’s special room.’

‘Come in,’ said Roger. ‘Come in.’

I drew a faint breath of relief. Something in the spotless austerity elsewhere had been getting me down. This was an intensely personal room. There was a large roll-top desk untidily covered with papers, old pipes, and tobacco ash. There were big shabby easy-chairs. Persian rugs covered the floor. On the walls were groups, their photography somewhat faded. School groups, cricket groups, military groups. Water-colour sketches of deserts and minarets, and of sailing-boats and sea effects and sunsets. It was, somehow, a pleasant room, the room of a lovable, friendly, companionable man.

Roger, clumsily, was pouring out [73] to pour out – разливать (напитки) drinks from a tantalus [74] tantalus – подставка для графинов с вином, из которой нельзя вынуть содержимое без ключа , sweeping books and papers off one of the chairs.

‘Place is in a mess. I was turning out. Clearing up old papers. Say when.’ The inspector declined a drink. I accepted. ‘You must forgive me just now,’ went on Roger. He brought my drink over to me, turning his head to speak to Taverner as he did so. ‘My feelings ran away with me.’

He looked round almost guiltily, but Clemency Leonides had not accompanied us into the room.

‘She’s so wonderful,’ he said. ‘My wife, I mean. All through this, she’s been splendid— splendid! I can’t tell you how I admire that woman. And she’s had such a hard time—a terrible time. I’d like to tell you about it. Before we were married, I mean. Her first husband was a fine chap—fine mind, I mean—but terribly delicate—tubercular as a matter of fact. He was doing very valuable research work on crystallography, I believe. Poorly paid and very exacting, but he wouldn’t give up. She slaved for him, practically kept him, knowing all the time that he was dying. And never a complaint—never a murmur of weariness. She always said she was happy. Then he died, and she was terribly cut up. At last she agreed to marry me. I was so glad to be able to give her some rest, some happiness. I wished she would stop working, but of course she felt it her duty in wartime, and she still seems to feel she should go on. But she’s been a wonderful wife—the most wonderful wife a man ever had. Gosh, I’ve been lucky! I’d do anything for her.’

Taverner made a suitable rejoinder. Then he embarked once more on the familiar routine questions. When had he first heard of his father’s illness?

‘Brenda had rushed over to call me. My father was ill—she said he had had a seizure of some sort.

‘I’d been sitting with the dear old boy only about half an hour earlier. He’d been perfectly all right then. I rushed over. He was blue in the face, gasping. I dashed down to Philip. He rang up the doctor. I—we couldn’t do anything. Of course I never dreamed for a moment then that there had been any funny business. Funny? Did I say funny? God, what a word to use.’

With a little difficulty, Taverner and I disentangled ourselves from the emotional atmosphere of Roger Leonides’ room and found ourselves outside the door, once more at the top of the stairs.

‘Whew!’ said Taverner. ‘What a contrast from the other brother.’ He added, rather inconsequently: ‘Curious things, rooms. Tell you quite a lot about the people who live in them.’

I agreed and he went on:

‘Curious the people who marry each other, too, isn’t it?’

I was not quite sure if he was referring to Clemency and Roger, or to Philip and Magda. His words applied equally well to either. Yet it seemed to me that both the marriages might be classed as happy ones. Roger’s and Clemency’s certainly was.