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Five Little Pigs :: Christie Agatha
Страница: 64 из 147At the trial my wife came in for some,in my opinion, undeserved calumny. She had to be smuggled out of court afterwards. Public opinion was very hostile to her.’
‘The English,’ said Poirot, ‘are a very moral people.’
Lord Dittisham said: ‘Confound them, they are!’
He added-looking at Poirot: ‘And you?’
‘Me,’ said Poirot. ‘I lead a very moral life. That is not quite the same thing as having moral ideas.’
Lord Dittisham said:
‘I’ve wondered sometimes what this Mrs Crale was really like. All this injured wife business-I’ve a feeling there was somethingbehind that.’
‘Your wife might know,’ agreed Poirot.
‘My wife,’ said Lord Dittisham, ‘has never mentioned the case once.’
Poirot looked at him with quickened interest. He said:
‘Ah, I begin to see-’
The other said sharply:
‘What do you see?’
Poirot replied with a bow:
‘The creative imagination of the poet…’
Lord Dittisham rose and rang the bell. He said brusquely:
‘My wife will be waiting for you.’
The door opened.
‘You rang, my lord?’
‘Take M. Poirot up to her ladyship.’
Up two flights of stairs, feet sinking into soft pile carpets. Subdued flood lighting. Money, money everywhere. Of taste, not so much. There had been a sombre austerity in Lord Dittisham’s room. But here, in the house, there was only a solid lavishness. The best. Not necessarily the showiest, or the most startling. Merely ‘expense no object’, allied to a lack of imagination.
Poirot said to himself: ‘Roast beef? Yes, roast beef!’
It was not a large room into which he was shown. The big drawing-room was on the first floor. This was the personal sitting-room of the mistress of the house and the mistress of the house was standing against the mantelpiece as Poirot was announced and shown in.
A phrase leapt into his startled mind and refused to be driven out.
She died young…
That was his thought as he looked at Elsa Dittisham who had been Elsa Greer.
He would never have recognized her from the picture Meredith Blake had shown him. That had been, above all, a picture of youth, a picture of vitality. Here there was no youth-there might never have been youth. And yet he realized, as he had not realized from Crale’s picture, that Elsa was beautiful. Yes, it was a very beautiful woman who came forward to meet him. And certainly not old.
‘The English,’ said Poirot, ‘are a very moral people.’
Lord Dittisham said: ‘Confound them, they are!’
He added-looking at Poirot: ‘And you?’
‘Me,’ said Poirot. ‘I lead a very moral life. That is not quite the same thing as having moral ideas.’
Lord Dittisham said:
‘I’ve wondered sometimes what this Mrs Crale was really like. All this injured wife business-I’ve a feeling there was somethingbehind that.’
‘Your wife might know,’ agreed Poirot.
‘My wife,’ said Lord Dittisham, ‘has never mentioned the case once.’
Poirot looked at him with quickened interest. He said:
‘Ah, I begin to see-’
The other said sharply:
‘What do you see?’
Poirot replied with a bow:
‘The creative imagination of the poet…’
Lord Dittisham rose and rang the bell. He said brusquely:
‘My wife will be waiting for you.’
The door opened.
‘You rang, my lord?’
‘Take M. Poirot up to her ladyship.’
Up two flights of stairs, feet sinking into soft pile carpets. Subdued flood lighting. Money, money everywhere. Of taste, not so much. There had been a sombre austerity in Lord Dittisham’s room. But here, in the house, there was only a solid lavishness. The best. Not necessarily the showiest, or the most startling. Merely ‘expense no object’, allied to a lack of imagination.
Poirot said to himself: ‘Roast beef? Yes, roast beef!’
It was not a large room into which he was shown. The big drawing-room was on the first floor. This was the personal sitting-room of the mistress of the house and the mistress of the house was standing against the mantelpiece as Poirot was announced and shown in.
A phrase leapt into his startled mind and refused to be driven out.
She died young…
That was his thought as he looked at Elsa Dittisham who had been Elsa Greer.
He would never have recognized her from the picture Meredith Blake had shown him. That had been, above all, a picture of youth, a picture of vitality. Here there was no youth-there might never have been youth. And yet he realized, as he had not realized from Crale’s picture, that Elsa was beautiful. Yes, it was a very beautiful woman who came forward to meet him. And certainly not old.