Grange felt vaguely comforted. Remarkable was exactly what he felt himself. He was grateful to Sir Henry for saying so, and equally grateful for his not saying any more.
It was as far as they could go at the moment.
The thing was remarkable-and beyond that simply did not make sense.
Sir Henry asked:
'Have you any reason to believe that the weapon from which the fatal shot was fired comes from my collection?'
'No reason at all. But I have got to make sure, shall we say, that it doesn't.'
Sir Henry nodded his head in confirmation.
'I appreciate your point. Well, we will get to work. It will take a little time.'
He opened the desk and took out a leatherbound volume.
As he opened it he repeated:
'It will take a little time to check up-'
Grange's attention was held by something in his voice. He looked up sharply. Sir Henry's shoulders sagged a little-he seemed suddenly an older and more tired man.
Inspector Grange frowned.
He thought, Devil if I know what to make of these people down here…
'Ah-'
Grange spun round. His eyes noted the time by the clock, thirty minutes-twenty minutes-since Sir Henry had said, 'It will take a little time…'
Grange said sharply:
'Yes, sir?'
'A.38 Smith&Wesson is missing. It was in a brown leather holster and was at the end of the rack in this drawer.'
'Ah!' The Inspector kept his voice calm, but he was excited. 'And when, sir, to your certain knowledge, did you last see it in its proper place?'
Sir Henry reflected for a moment or two.
'That is not very easy to say, Inspector. I last had this drawer open about a week ago and I think-I am almost certain-that if the revolver had been missing then I should have noticed the gap. But I should not like to swear definitely that I saw it there.'
Inspector Grange nodded his head.
'Thank you, sir, I quite understand… Well, I must be getting on with things-'
He left the room-a busy, purposeful man.
Sir Henry stood motionless for a while after the Inspector had gone, then he went out slowly through the French windows onto the terrace. His wife was busy with a gardening basket and gloves. She was trimming some rare shrubs with a pair of scissors.
She waved to him brightly.
'What did the Inspector want? I hope he is not going to worry the servants again. You know, Henry, they don't like it. They can't see it as amusing or as a novelty like we do.'
'Do we see it like that?'
His tone attracted her attention. She smiled up at him sweetly.
'How tired you look. Henry. Must you let all this worry you so much?'
'Murder is worrying, Lucy.'
Lady Angkatell considered a moment, absently clipping off some branches, then her face clouded over.
'Oh, dear-that is the worst of scissors, they are so fascinating-one can't stop and one always clips off more than one means. What was it you were saying-something about murder being worrying? But, really, Henry, I have never seen why. I mean if one has to die, it may be cancer, or tuberculosis in one of those dreadful bright sanatoriums, or a stroke-horrid, with one's face all on one side-or else one is shot or stabbed or strangled perhaps-but the whole thing comes to the same in the end. There one is; I mean, dead! Out of it all. And all the worry over. And the relations have all the difficulties-money quarrels and whether to wear black or not-and who was to have Aunt Selina's writing desk-things like that!'
Sir Henry sat down on the stone coping.
He said:
'This is all going to be more upsetting than we thought, Lucy.'
'Well, darling, we shall have to bear it. And when it's all over we might go away somewhere. Let's not bother about present troubles but look forward to the future. I really am happy about that. I've been wondering whether it would be nice to go to Ainswick for Christmas-or leave it until Easter. What do you think?'
'Plenty of time to make plans for Christmas.'
'Yes, but I like to see things in my mind. Easter, perhaps…Yes,' Lucy smiled happily, 'she will certainly have got over it by then.'
'Who?' Sir Henry was startled.
Lady Angkatell said calmly:
'Henrietta… I think if they were to have the wedding in October-October of next year, I mean, then we could go and stop for that Christmas. I've been thinking, Henry-'
'I wish you wouldn't, my dear. You think too much.'
'You know the barn? It will make a perfect studio. And Henrietta will need a studio. She has real talent, you know. Edward, I am sure, will be immensely proud of her. Two boys and a girl would be nice-or two boys and two girls-'
'Lucy-Lucy! How you run on.'
'But, darling,' Lady Angkatell opened wide beautiful eyes, 'Edward will never marry anyone but Henrietta-he is very, very obstinate. Rather like my father in that way. He gets an idea in his head! So, of course, Henrietta must marry him-and she will now that John Christow is out of the way. He was really the greatest misfortune that could possibly have happened to her.'
'Poor devil!'
'Why? Oh, you mean because he's dead? Oh, well, everyone has to die sometime. I never worry over people dying…'
He looked at her curiously.
'I always thought you liked Christow, Lucy?'
'I found him amusing. And he had charm. But I never think one ought to attach too much importance to anybody.'
And gently, with a smiling face, Lady Angkatell clipped remorselessly at a vine.
Chapter XVIII
Hercule Poirot looked out of his window and saw Henrietta Savernake walking up the path to the front door. She was wearing the same green tweeds that she had worn on the day of the tragedy. There was a spaniel with her.
He hastened to the front door and opened it. She stood smiling at him.
'May I come in and see your house? I like looking at people's houses. I'm just taking the dog for a walk.'
'But most certainly. How English it is to take the dog for a walk!'
'I know,' said Henrietta. 'I thought of that. Do you know that nice poem: 'The days passed slowly one by one. I fed the ducks, reproved my wife, played Handel's Largo on the fife. And took the dog a run.''
Again she smiled-a brilliant, unsubstantial smile.
Poirot ushered her into his sitting room.
She looked round its neat and prim arrangement and nodded her head.
'Nice,' she said, 'two of everything. How you would hate my studio.'
'Why should I hate it?'
