Clues to Christie by Agatha Christie Read Free Book Online Page A

had dressed her head to go as a French marquise to a fancy-dress party. The rest of her middle-aged person was dressed in what ought to have been rustling black silk but was actually one of the shinier varieties of black rayon. Although she was not a large woman, she had a well developed and sumptuous bust. Her voice when she spoke, was unexpectedly deep. She spoke with exquisite diction, only a slight hesitation over words beginning with “h” and the final pronunciation of them with an exaggerated aspirate gave rise to a suspicion that at some remote period in her youth she might have had trouble over dropping her h’s.
    “The fish, madam,” said Mrs. Cresswell, “the slice of cod. It has not arrived. I have asked Alfred to go down for it and he refuses to do so.”
    Rather unexpectedly, Miss Greenshaw gave a cackle of laughter.
    “Refuses, does he?”
    “Alfred, madam, has been most disobliging.”
    Miss Greenshaw raised two earth-stained fingers to her lips, suddenly produced an ear-splitting whistle and at the same time yelled:
    “Alfred. Alfred, come here.”
    Round the corner of the house a young man appeared in answer to the summons, carrying a spade in his hand. He had a bold, handsome face and as he drew near he cast an unmistakably malevolent glance towards Mrs. Cresswell.
    “You wanted me, miss?” he said.
    “Yes, Alfred. I hear you’ve refused to go down for the fish. What about it, eh?”
    Alfred spoke in a surly voice.
    “I’ll go down for it if you wants it, miss. You’ve only got to say.”
    “I do want it. I want it for my supper.”
    “Right you are, miss. I’ll go right away.”
    He threw an insolent glance at Mrs. Cresswell, who flushed and murmured below her breath:
    “Really! It’s unsupportable.”
    “Now that I think of it,” said Miss Greenshaw, “a couple of strange visitors are just what we need aren’t they, Mrs. Cresswell?”
    Mrs. Cresswell looked puzzled.
    “I’m sorry, madam—’
    “For you-know-what,” said Miss Greenshaw, nodding her head. “Beneficiary to a will mustn’t witness it. That’s right, isn’t it?” She appealed to Raymond West.
    “Quite correct,” said Raymond.
    “I know enough law to know that,” said Miss Greenshaw. “And you two are men of standing.”
    She flung down her trowel on her weeding-basket.
    “Would you mind coming up to the library with me?”
    “Delighted,” said Horace eagerly.
    She led the way through french windows and through a vast yellow and gold drawing-room with faded brocade on the walls and dust covers arranged over the furniture, then through a large dim hall, up a staircase and into a room on the first floor.
    “My grandfather’s library,” she announced.
    Horace looked round the room with acute pleasure. It was a room, from his point of view, quite full of monstrosities. The heads of sphinxes appeared on the most unlikely pieces of furniture, there was a colossal bronze representing, he thought, Paul and Virginia, and a vast bronze clock with classical motifs of which he longed to take a photograph.
    “A fine lot of books,” said Miss Greenshaw.
    Raymond was already looking at the books. From what he could see from a cursory glance there was no book here of any real interest or, indeed, any book which appeared to have been read. They were all superbly bound sets of the classics as supplied ninety years ago for furnishing a gentleman’s library. Some novels of a bygone period were included. But they too showed little signs of having been read.
    Miss Greenshaw was fumbling in the drawers of a vast desk. Finally she pulled out a parchment document.
    “My will,” she explained. “Got to leave your money to someone—or so they say. If I died without a will I suppose that son of a horse-coper would get it. Handsome fellow, Harry Fletcher, but a rogue if there ever was one. Don’t see why his son should inherit this place. No,” she went on, as though answering some unspoken objection, “I’ve made up