'Me? Well, for example, do you expect me to keep up the fiction that Uncle Claud's death is a regrettable incident?'
'Isn't it?' Hastings sounded shocked.
'My dear!' exclaimed Barbara. She rose and perched herself on the edge of the coffee-table. 'As far as I'm concerned, it's the most marvellous thing that ever happened. You don't know what an old skinflint he was. You don't know how he ground us all down!' She stopped, overcome by the strength of her feelings.
Embarrassed, Hastings began, 'I – I – wish you wouldn't -' but was interrupted by Barbara.
'You don't like honesty?' she asked. 'That's just what I thought you'd be like. You'd prefer me to be wearing black instead of this, and to be talking in a hushed voice about 'Poor Uncle Claud! So good to us all.''
'Really!' Hastings exclaimed.
'Oh, you needn't pretend,' Barbara went on, 'I knew that's what you'd turn out to be like, if I got to know you properly. But what I say is that life isn't long enough for all that lying and pretence. Uncle Claud wasn't good to us at all. I'm certain we're all glad he's dead, really, in our heart of hearts. Yes, even Aunt Caroline. Poor dear, she's stood him longer than any of us.'
Barbara suddenly calmed down. When she spoke again, it was in a milder tone. 'You know, I've been thinking. Scientifically speaking, Aunt Caroline might have poisoned Uncle Claud. That heart attack last night was really very queer. I don't believe it was a heart attack at all. Just suppose that suppressing her feelings all these years had led to Aunt Caroline developing some powerful complex -'
'I suppose it's theoretically possible,' Hastings murmured guardedly.
'I wonder who pinched the formula, though,' Barbara continued. 'Everyone says it was the Italian, but personally I suspect Tredwell.'
'Your butler? Good heavens! Why?'
'Because he never went near the study!'
Hastings looked perplexed. 'But then -'
'I'm very orthodox in some ways,' Barbara remarked. 'I've been brought up to suspect the least likely person. That's who it is in all the best murder mysteries. And Tredwell is certainly the least likely person.'
'Except you, perhaps,' Hastings suggested with a laugh.
'Oh, me!' Barbara smiled uncertainly as she rose and moved away from him. 'How curious -' she murmured to herself.
'What's curious?' Hastings asked, rising to his feet.
'Something I've just thought of. Let's go out in the garden. I hate it in here.' She moved towards the French windows.
'I'm afraid I have to stay here,' Hastings told her.
'Why?'
'I mustn't leave this room.'
'You know,' Barbara observed, 'you've got a complex about this room. Do you remember last night? There we all were, completely shattered by the disappearance of the formula, and in you strode, and produced the most marvellous anti-climax by saying in your best conversational manner, 'What a delightful room, Mr Amory.' It was so funny when the two of you walked in. There was this extraordinary little man with you, no more than five feet four, but with an air of immense dignity. And you, being oh, so polite.'
'Poirot is rather odd at first sight, I admit,' Hastings agreed. 'And he has all kinds of little foibles. For instance, he has an absolute passion for neatness of any kind. If he sees an ornament set crookedly, or a speck of dust, or even a slight disarray in someone's attire, it's absolute torture to him.'
'You make such a wonderful contrast to each other,' Barbara said, laughing.
'Poirot's methods of detection are very much his own, you know,' Hastings continued. 'Order and method are his gods. He has a great disdain for tangible evidence, things like footprints and cigarette ash, you know what I mean. In fact he maintains that, taken by themselves, they would never enable a detective to solve a problem. The true work, he says, is done from within. And then he taps that egg-shaped head of his, and remarks with great satisfaction, 'The little grey cells of the brain – always remember the little grey cells, mon ami.''
'Oh, I think he's a poppet,' Barbara declared. 'But not as sweet as you, with your 'What a delightful room!''
'But it is a delightful room,' Hastings insisted, sounding rather nettled.
'Personally, I don't agree with you,' said Barbara. She took his hand and tried to pull him towards the open French windows. 'Anyway, you've had quite enough of it for now. Come along.'
'You don't understand,' Hastings declared, taking his hand away from her. 'I promised Poirot.'
Barbara spoke slowly. 'You promised Monsieur Poirot that you would not leave this room? But why?'
'I can't tell you that.'
'Oh!' Barbara was silent for a moment or two, and then her manner changed. She moved behind Hastings and began to recite, in an exaggerated dramatic voice, 'The boy stood on the burning deck -''
'I beg your pardon?'
''Whence all but he had fled.' Well, my pet?'
'I simply cannot understand you,' Hastings declared in exasperation.
'Why should you understand me? Oh, you really are a delight,' declared Barbara, slipping her arm through his. 'Come and be vamped. Really, you know, I think you're adorable.'
'You're pulling my leg.'
'Not at all,' Barbara insisted. 'I'm crazy about you. You're positively pre-war.'
She pulled him to the French windows, and this time Hastings allowed himself to yield to the pressure of her arm.
'You really are an extraordinary person,' he told her. 'You're quite different from any girl I've ever met.'
'I'm delighted to hear it. That's a very good sign,' said Barbara, as they now stood, face to face, framed in the open windows.
'A good sign?'
'Yes, it makes a girl feel hopeful.'
Hastings blushed, and Barbara laughed light-heartedly as she dragged him out into the garden.
Chapter 16
After Barbara's exit with Hastings into the garden, the library remained unoccupied for no longer than a moment or two. Then the door to the hall opened, and Miss Amory entered, carrying a small work-bag. She went over to the settee, put the bag down, knelt, and began to feel at the back of the seat. As she did so, Dr Carelli entered by the other door, carrying a hat and a small suitcase. Seeing Miss Amory, Carelli stopped and murmured a word of apology at having intruded upon her.
Miss Amory rose from the settee, looking a trifle flustered. 'I was searching for a knitting needle,' she explained unnecessarily, brandishing her discovery as she spoke. 'It had slipped down behind the seat.' Then, taking in the significance of his suitcase, she asked, 'Are you leaving us, Dr Carelli?'
Carelli put his hat and suitcase on a chair. 'I feel I can no longer trespass on your hospitality,' he announced.
Obviously delighted, Miss Amory was polite enough to murmur, 'Well, of course, if you feel like that -' Then, remembering the situation in which the occupants of the house currently found themselves, she added, 'But I thought there were some tiresome formalities -' Her voice trailed off indecisively.
'Oh, that is all arranged,' Carelli assured her.
'Well, if you feel you must go -'
'I do, indeed.'
'Then I will order the car,' Miss Amory declared briskly, moving to the bell above the fireplace.
'No, no,' Carelli insisted. 'That, too, is all arranged.'
'But you've even had to carry your suitcase down yourself. Really, the servants! They're all demoralized, completely demoralized!' She returned to the settee and took her knitting from her bag. 'They can't concentrate, Dr
