“Something I said?”
“Yes. You couldn’t tell, of course. It was just unfortunate.”
“What did I say?”
“I don’t expect you remember, even. It was just the way you put it. You said something about an accident and poison.”
“Did I?”
“I knew you’d probably not remember. Yes. You see, Anne had a ghastly experience once. She was in a house where a woman took some poison—hat paint, I think it was—by mistake for something else. And she died. And, of course, it was an awful shock to Anne. She can’t bear thinking of it or speaking of it. And your saying that reminded her, of course, and she dried up and got all stiff and queer like she does. And I saw you noticed it. And I couldn’t say anything in front of her. But I did want you to know that it wasn’t what you thought. She wasn’t ungrateful.”
Mrs. Oliver looked at Rhoda’s flushed eager face. She said slowly:
“I see.”
“Anne’s awfully sensitive,” said Rhoda. “And she’s bad about—well, facing things. If anything’s upset her, she’d just rather not talk about it, although that isn’t any good, really—at least, I don’t think so. Things are there just the same—whether you talk about them or not. It’s only running away from them to pretend they don’t exist. I’d rather have it all out, however painful it would be.”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Oliver quietly. “But you, my dear, are a soldier. Your Anne isn’t.”
Rhoda flushed.
“Anne’s a darling.”
Mrs. Oliver smiled.
She said, “I didn’t say she wasn’t. I only said she hadn’t got your particular brand of courage.”
She sighed, then said rather unexpectedly to the girl:
“Do you believe in the value of truth, my dear, or don’t you?”
“Of course I believe in the truth,” said Rhoda staring.
“Yes, you say that—but perhaps you haven’t thought about it. The truth hurts sometimes—and destroys one’s illusions.”
“I’d rather have it, all the same,” said Rhoda.
“So would I. But I don’t know that we’re wise.”
Rhoda said earnestly:
“Don’t tell Anne, will you, what I’ve told you? She wouldn’t like it.”
“I certainly shouldn’t dream of doing any such thing. Was this long ago?
“About four years ago. It’s odd, isn’t it, how the same things happen again and again to people. I had an aunt who was always in shipwrecks. And here’s Anne mixed up in two sudden deaths—only, of course, this one is much worse. Murder’s rather awful, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.”
The black coffee and the hot buttered toast appeared at this minute.
Rhoda ate and drank with childish gusto. It was very exciting to her thus to be sharing an intimate meal with a celebrity.
When they had finished she rose and said:
“I do hope I haven’t interrupted you too terribly. Would you mind—I mean, would it bother you awfully—if I sent one of your books to you, would you sign it for me?”
Mrs. Oliver laughed.
“Oh, I can do better than that for you.” She opened a cupboard at the far end of the room. “Which would you like? I rather fancy The Affair of the Second Goldfish myself. It’s not quite such frightful tripe as the rest.”
A little shocked at hearing an authoress thus describe the children of her pen, Rhoda accepted eagerly. Mrs. Oliver took the book, opened it, inscribed her name with a superlative flourish and handed it to Rhoda.
“There you are.”
“Thank you very much. I have enjoyed myself. Sure you didn’t mind my coming?”
“I wanted you to,” said Mrs. Oliver.
She added after a moment’s pause:
“You’re a nice child. Good-bye. Take care of yourself, my dear.”
“Now, why did I say that?” she murmured to herself as the door closed behind her guest.
She shook her head, ruffled her hair, and returned to the masterly dealings of Sven Hjerson with the sage and onion stuffing.
Eighteen
TEA INTERLUDE
Mrs. Lorrimer came out of a certain door in Harley Street.
She stood for a minute at the top of the steps, and then she descended them slowly.
There was a curious expression on her face—a mingling of grim determination and of strange indecision. She bent her brows a little, as though to concentrate on some all-absorbing problem.
It was just then that she caught sight of Anne Meredith on the opposite pavement.
Anne was standing staring up at a big block of flats just on the corner.
Mrs. Lorrimer hesitated a moment, then she crossed the road.
“How do you do, Miss Meredith?”
Anne started and turned.
“Oh, how do you do?”
“Still in London?” said Mrs. Lorrimer.
“No. I’ve only come up for the day. To do some legal business.”
Her eyes were still straying to the big block of flats.
Mrs. Lorrimer said:
“Is anything the matter?”
Anne started guiltily.
“The matter? Oh, no, what should be the matter?”
“You were looking as though you had something on your mind.”
“I haven’t—well, at least I have, but it’s nothing important, something quite silly.” She laughed a little.
She went on:
“It’s only that I thought I saw my friend—the girl I live with—go in there, and I wondered if she’d gone to see Mrs. Oliver.”
“Is that where Mrs. Oliver lives? I didn’t know.”
“Yes. She came to see us the other day and she gave us her address and asked us to come and see her. I wondered if it was Rhoda I saw or not.”
“Do you want to go up and see?”
“No, I’d rather not do that.”
“Come and have tea with me,” said Mrs. Lorrimer. “There is a shop quite near here that I know.”
“It’s very kind of you,” said Anne, hesitating.
Side by side they walked down the street and turned into a side street. In a small pastry cook’s they were served with tea and muffins.
They did not talk much. Each of them seemed to find the other’s silence restful.
Anne asked suddenly:
“Has Mrs. Oliver been to see you?”
Mrs. Lorrimer shook her head.
“No one has been to see me except M. Poirot.”
“I didn’t mean—” began Anne.
“Didn’t you? I think you did,” said Mrs. Lorrimer.
The girl looked up—a quick, frightened glance. Something she saw in Mrs. Lorrimer’s face seemed to reassure her.
“He hasn’t been to see me,” she said slowly.
There was a pause.
“Hasn’t Superintendent Battle been to see you?” asked Anne.
“Oh, yes, of course,” said Mrs. Lorrimer.
Anne said hesitatingly:
“What sort of things did he ask you?”
Mrs. Lorrimer sighed wearily.
“The usual things, I suppose. Routine inquiries. He was very pleasant over it all.”
“I suppose he interviewed everyone?”
“I should think so.”
There was another pause.
Anne said:
“Mrs. Lorrimer, do you think—they will ever find out who did it?”
Her eyes were bent on her plate. She did not see the curious expression in the older woman’s eyes as she watched the downcast head.
Mrs. Lorrimer said quietly:
“I don’t know….”
Anne murmured:
“It’s not—very nice, is it?”
There was that same curious appraising and yet sympathetic look on Mrs. Lorrimer’s face, as she asked:
“How old are you, Anne Meredith?”
“I—I?” the girl stammered. “I’m twenty-five.”
“And I’m
sixty-three,” said Mrs. Lorrimer.
She went on slowly:
“Most of your life is in front of you….”
Anne shivered.
“I might be run over by a bus on the way home,” she said.
“Yes, that’s true. And I—might not.”
She said it in an odd way. Anne looked at her in astonishment.
“Life is a difficult business,” said Mrs. Lorrimer. “You’ll know that when you come to my age. It needs infinite courage and a lot of endurance. And in the end one wonders: ‘Was it worthwhile?’”
“Oh, don’t,” said Anne.
Mrs. Lorrimer laughed, her old competent self again.
“It’s rather cheap to say gloomy things about life,” she said.