Gudgeon hadn't brought out the cocktails yet, I see. He was waiting for you to arrive.' The two men sat down rather gingerly in two wicker chairs near the door so that they I could watch the path from the house.
A constraint settled over them. It was an occasion on which it was difficult to make small talk.
Poirot glanced round the pavilion, noting anything that struck him as unusual. An expensive cape of platinum fox had been flung carelessly across the back of one of the chairs. He wondered whose it was. Its rather ostentatious magnificence did not harmonize with any of the people he had seen up to now. He could not, for instance, imagine it round Lady AngkatelFs shoulders.
It worried him. It breathed a mixture of opulence and self-advertisement-and those characteristics were lacking in anyone he had seen so far.
'I suppose we can smoke,' said Sir Henry, offering his case to Poirot.
Before taking the cigarette, Poirot sniffed the air.
French perfume… an expensive French perfume…
Only a trace of it lingered, but it was there, and again the scent was not the scent that associated itself in his mind with any of the occupants of The Hollow…
As he leaned forward to light his cigarette at Sir Henry's lighter, Poirot's glance fell on a little pile of match- boxes-six of them-stacked on a small table near one of the settees.
It was a detail that struck him as definitely odd.
Chapter XII
'Half past two,' said Lady Angkatell.
She was in the drawing-room with Midge and Edward. From behind the closed door of Sir Henry's study came the murmur of voices. Hercule Poirot, Sir Henry and Inspector Grange were in there.
Lady Angkatell sighed.
'You know, Midge, I still feel one ought to do something about lunch… It seems, of course, quite heartless to sit down round the table as though nothing had happened.
But after all, M. Poirot was asked to lunch -and he is probably hungry. And it can't be upsetting to him that poor John Christow has been killed, like it is to us… And I must say that though I really do not feel like eating myself. Henry and Edward must be extremely hungry after being out shooting all the morning-'
Edward Angkatell said, 'Don't worry on my account, Lucy dear.'
'You are always considerate, Edward.
And then there is David-I noticed that he ate a great deal at dinner last night. Intellectual people always seem to need a good deal of food. Where is David, by the way?'
'He went up to his room,' said Midge, 'after he had heard what had happened.'
'Yes-well, that was rather tactful of him. I daresay it made him feel awkward … Of course, say what you like, a murder is an awkward thing-it upsets the servants and puts the general routine out-we were having ducks for lunch-fortunately they are quite nice eaten cold… What does one do about Gerda, do you think? Something on a tray? A little strong soup, perhaps?'
Really, thought Midge, Lucy is inhuman!
And then with a qualm she reflected that it was perhaps because Lucy was too human that it shocked one so! Wasn't it the plain unvarnished truth that all catastrophes were hedged round with these little trivial wonderings and surmises? Lucy merely gave utterance to the thoughts which most people did not acknowledge. One did remember the servants, and worry about meals, and one did even feel hungry. She felt hungry herself at this very moment! Hungry, she thought, and at the same time, rather sick… A curious mixture.
And there was, undoubtedly, just plain awkward embarrassment in not knowing how to react to a quiet commonplace woman whom one had referred to, only yesterday, as 'poor Gerda' and who was now, presumably, shortly to be standing in the dock accused of murder.
'These things happen to other people,' thought Midge. 'They can't happen to us.'
She looked across the room at Edward.
They oughtn't, she thought, to happen to people like Edward. People who are so very ^violent… She took comfort in looking at Edward. Edward, so quiet, so reasonable, so kind and calm…
Gudgeon entered, inclined himself confidentially and spoke in a suitably muted voice.
'I have placed sandwiches and some coffee in the dining room, m'lady.'
'Oh, thank you. Gudgeon!'
'Really,' said Lady Angkatell as Gudgeon left the room. 'Gudgeon is wonderful! I don't know what I should do without Gudgeon. He always knows the right thing to do. Some really substantial sandwiches are as good as lunch-and nothing heartless about them if you know what I mean!'
'Oh, Lucy, don't…'
Midge suddenly felt warm tears running down her cheeks. Lady Angkatell looked surprised, murmured:
'Poor darling. It's all been too much for you.'
Edward crossed to the sofa and sat down by Midge. He put his arm round her.
'Don't worry, little Midge,' he said.
Midge buried her face on his shoulder and sobbed there comfortably. She remembered how nice Edward had been to her when her rabbit had died at Ainswick one Easter holidays.
Edward said gently, 'It's been a shock. Can I get her some brandy, Lucy?'
'On the sideboard in the dining room. I don't think-'
She broke off as Henrietta came into the room. Midge sat up. She felt Edward stiffen and sit very still.
What, thought Midge, does Henrietta feel? She felt almost reluctant to look at her cousin-but there was nothing to see. Henrietta looked, if anything, belligerent. She had come in with her chin up, her colour high, and with a certain swiftness.
'Oh, there you are, Henrietta,' cried Lady Angkatell. 'I have been wondering. The police are with Henry and M. Poirot. What have you given Gerda? Brandy? Or tea and an aspirin?'
'I gave her some brandy-and a hot water bottle.'
'Quite right,' said Lady Angkatell approvingly. 'That's what they tell you in First Aid classes-the hot water bottle, I mean, for shock-not the brandy; there is a reaction nowadays against stimulants. But I think that is only a fashion. We always gave brandy l for shock when I was a girl at Ainswick.
Though, really, I suppose, it can't be exactly shock with Gerda. I don't know really what one would feel if one had killed one's husband-it's the sort of thing one just can't begin to imagine-but it wouldn't exactly give one a shock. I mean there wouldn't be any element of surprise.'
Henrietta's voice, icy cold, cut into the placid atmosphere.
She said, 'Why are you all so sure that Gerda killed John?'
There was a moment's pause-and Midge felt a curious shifting in the atmosphere-there was confusion, strain and, finally, a kind of slow watchfulness.
'Mrs. Christow?'
Gerda said eagerly:
'Yes, I am Mrs. Christow.'
'I don't want to distress you, Mrs. Christow, but I would like to ask you a few questions. You can, of course, have your solicitor present if you prefer it-'
Sir Henry put in:
'It is sometimes wiser, Gerda-'
She interrupted:
'A solicitor? Why a solicitor? Why should a solicitor know anything about John's death?'
Inspector Grange coughed. Sir Henry seemed about to speak. Henrietta put in:
'The Inspector only wants to know just what happened this morning.'
Gerda turned to him. She spoke in a wondering voice,
'It seems all like a bad dream-not real. I-I haven't been able to cry or anything. One just doesn't feel anything at all.'
