At Bertram's Hotel

by Agatha Christie

  “No,” said Elvira, “I don’t think I’d be clever enough for that.” She paused before saying, “I suppose you’d have to agree to anything if I did want to do it?”

  Egerton’s keen eyes focused sharply.

  “I am one of your guardians, and a trustee under your father’s will, yes,” he said. “Therefore, you have a perfect right to approach me at anytime.”

  Elvira said, “Thank you,” politely. Egerton asked:

  “Is there anything worrying you?”

  “No. Not really. But you see, I don’t know anything. Nobody’s ever told me things. One doesn’t always like to ask.”

  He looked at her attentively.

  “You mean things about yourself?”

  “Yes,” said Elvira. “It’s kind of you to understand. Uncle Derek—” she hesitated.

  “Derek Luscombe, you mean?”

  “Yes. I’ve always called him uncle.”

  “I see.”

  “He’s very kind,” said Elvira, “but he’s not the sort of person who ever tells you anything. He just arranges things, and looks a little worried in case they mightn’t be what I’d like. Of course he listens to a lot of people—women, I mean—who tell him things. Like Contessa Martinelli. He arranges for me to go to schools or to finishing places.”

  “And they haven’t been where you wanted to go?”

  “No, I didn’t mean that. They’ve been quite all right. I mean they’ve been more or less where everyone else goes.”

  “I see.”

  “But I don’t know anything about myself, I mean what money I’ve got, and how much, and what I could do with it if I wanted.”

  “In fact,” said Egerton, with his attractive smile, “you want to talk business. Is that it? Well, I think you’re quite right. Let’s see. How old are you? Sixteen—seventeen?”

  “I’m nearly twenty.”

  “Oh dear. I’d no idea.”

  “You see,” explained Elvira, “I feel all the time that I’m being shielded and sheltered. It’s nice in a way, but it can get very irritating.”

  “It’s an attitude that’s gone out of date,” agreed Egerton, “but I can quite see that it would appeal to Derek Luscombe.”

  “He’s a dear,” said Elvira, “but very difficult, somehow, to talk to seriously.”

  “Yes, I can see that that might be so. Well, how much do you know about yourself, Elvira? About your family circumstances?”

  “I know that my father died when I was five and that my mother had run away from him with someone when I was about two, I don’t remember her at all. I barely remember my father. He was very old and had his leg up on a chair. He used to swear. I was rather scared of him. After he died I lived first with an aunt or a cousin or something of my father’s, until she died, and then I lived with Uncle Derek and his sister. But then she died and I went to Italy. Uncle Derek has arranged for me, now, to live with the Melfords who are his cousins and very kind and nice and have two daughters about my age.”

  “You’re happy there?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’ve barely got there. They’re all very dull. I really wanted to know how much money I’ve got.”

  “So it’s financial information you really want?”

  “Yes,” said Elvira. “I’ve got some money. Is it a lot?”

  Egerton was serious now.

  “Yes,” he said. “You’ve got a lot of money. Your father was a very rich man. You were his only child. When he died, the title and the estate went to a cousin. He didn’t like the cousin, so he left all his personal property, which was considerable, to his daughter—to you, Elvira. You’re a very rich woman, or will be, when you are twenty-one.”

  “You mean I am not rich now?”

  “Yes,” said Egerton, “you’re rich now, but the money is not yours to dispose of until you are twenty-one or marry. Until that time it is in the hands of your Trustees. Luscombe, myself and another.” He smiled at her. “We haven’t embezzled it or anything like that. It’s still there. In fact, we’ve increased your capital considerably by investments.”

  “How much will I have?”

  “At the age of twenty-one or upon your marriage, you will come into a sum which at a rough estimate would amount to six or seven hundred thousand pounds.”

  “That is a lot,” said Elvira, impressed.

  “Yes, it is a lot. Probably it is because it is such a lot that nobody has ever talked to you about it much.”

  He watched her as she reflected upon this. Quite an interesting girl, he thought. Looked an unbelievably milk-and-water Miss, but she was more than that. A good deal more. He said, with a faintly ironic smile:

  “Does that satisfy you?”

  She gave him a sudden smile.

  “It ought to, oughtn’t it?”

  “Rather better than winning the pools,” he suggested.

  She nodded, but her mind was elsewhere. Then she came out abruptly with a question.

  “Who gets it if I die?”

  “As things stand now, it would go to your next of kin.”

  “I mean—I couldn’t make a will now, could I? Not until I was twenty-one. That’s what someone told me.”

  “They were quite right.”

  “That’s really rather annoying. If I was married and died I suppose my husband would get the money?”

  “Yes.”

  “And if I wasn’t married my mother would be my next of kin and get it. I really seem to have very few relations—I don’t even know my mother. What is she like?”

  “She’s a very remarkable woman,” said Egerton shortly. “Everybody would agree to that.”

  “Didn’t she ever want to see me?”

  “She may have done…I think it’s very possible that she did. But having made in—certain ways—rather a mess of her own life, she may have thought that it was better for you that you should be brought up quite apart from her.”

  “Do you actually know that she thinks that?”

  “No. I don’t really know anything about it.”

  Elvira got up.

  “Thank you,” she said. “It’s very kind of you to tell me all this.”

  “I think perhaps you ought to have been told more about things before,” said Egerton.

  “It’s humiliating not to know things,” said Elvira. “Uncle Derek, of course, thinks I’m just a child.”

  “Well, he’s not a very young man himself. He and I, you know, are well advanced in years. You must make allowances for us when we look at things from the point of view of our advanced age.”

  Elvira stood looking at him for a moment or two.

  “But you don’t think I’m really a child, do you?” she said shrewdly, and added, “I expect you know rather more about girls than Uncle Derek does. He just lived with his sister.” Then she stretched out her hand and said, very prettily, “Thank you so much. I hope I haven’t interrupted some important work you had to do,” and went out.

  Egerton stood looking at the door that had closed behind her. He pursed up his lips, whistled a moment, shook his head and sat down again, picked up a pen and tapped thoughtfully on his desk. He drew some papers towards him, then thrust them back and picked up his telephone.

  “Miss Cordell, get me Colonel Luscombe, will you? Try his club first. And then the Shropshire address.”

  He put back the receiver. Again he drew his papers towards him and started reading them but his mind was not on what he was doing. Presently his buzzer went.

  “Colonel Luscombe is on the wire now, Mr. Egerton.”

  “Right. Put him through. Hallo, Derek. Richard Egerton here. How are you? I’ve just been having a visit from someone you know. A visit from your ward.”

  “From Elvira?” Derek Luscombe sounded very surprised.

  “Yes.”

  “But why—what on earth—what did she come to you for? Not in any trouble?”

  “No, I wouldn’t say so. On the contrary, she seemed rather—well, pleased with herself. She wan
ted to know all about her financial position.”

  “You didn’t tell her, I hope?” said Colonel Luscombe, in alarm.

  “Why not? What’s the point of secrecy?”

  “Well, I can’t help feeling it’s a little unwise for a girl to know that she is going to come into such a large amount of money.”

  “Somebody else will tell her that, if we don’t. She’s got to be prepared, you know. Money is a responsibility.”

  “Yes, but she’s so much of a child still.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  “What do you mean? Of course she’s a child.”

  “I wouldn’t describe her as such. Who’s the boyfriend?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “I said who’s the boyfriend? There is a boyfriend in the offing, isn’t there?”

  “No, indeed. Nothing of the sort. What on earth makes you think that?”

  “Nothing that she actually said. But I’ve got some experience, you know. I think you’ll find there is a boyfriend.”

  “Well, I can assure you you’re quite wrong. I mean, she’s been most carefully brought up, she’s been at very strict schools, she’s been in a very select finishing establishment in Italy. I should know if there was anything of that kind going on. I dare say she’s met one or two pleasant young fellows and all that, but I’m sure there’s been nothing of the kind you suggest.”

  “Well, my diagnosis is a boyfriend—and probably an undesirable one.”

  “But why, Richard, why? What do you know about young girls?”

  “Quite a lot,” said Egerton dryly. “I’ve had three clients in the last year, two of whom were made wards of court and the third one managed to bully her parents into agreeing to an almost certainly disastrous marriage. Girls don’t get looked after the way they used to be. Conditions are such that it’s very difficult to look after them at all—”

  “But I assure you Elvira has been most carefully looked after.”

  “The ingenuity of the young female of the species is beyond anything you could conjecture! You keep an eye on her, Derek. Make a few inquiries as to what she’s been up to.”

  “Nonsense. She’s just a sweet simple girl.”

  “What you don’t know about sweet simple girls would fill an album! Her mother ran away and caused a scandal—remember?—when she was younger than Elvira is today. As for old Coniston, he was one of the worst rips in England.”

  “You upset me, Richard. You upset me very much.”

  “You might as well be warned. What I didn’t quite like was one of her other questions. Why is she so anxious to know who’d inherit her money if she dies?”

  “It’s queer your saying that, because she asked me that same question.”

  “Did she now? Why should her mind run on early death? She asked me about her mother, by the way.”

  Colonel Luscombe’s voice sounded worried as he said: “I wish Bess would get in touch with the girl.”

  “Have you been talking to her on the subject—to Bess, I mean?”

  “Well, yes…Yes I did. I ran across her by chance. We were staying in the same hotel, as a matter of fact. I urged Bess to make some arrangements to see the girl.”

  “What did she say?” asked Egerton curiously.

  “Refused point-blank. She more or less said that she wasn’t a safe person for the girl to know.”

  “Looked at from one point of view I don’t suppose she is,” said Egerton. “She’s mixed-up with that racing fellow, isn’t she?”

  “I’ve heard rumours.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard them too. I don’t know if there’s much in it really. There might be, I suppose. That could be why she feels as she does. Bess’s friends are strong meat from time to time! But what a woman she is, eh Derek? What a woman.”

  “Always been her own worst enemy,” said Derek Luscombe, gruffly.

  “A really nice conventional remark,” said Egerton. “Well, sorry I bothered you, Derek, but keep a look out for undesirables in the background. Don’t say you haven’t been warned.”

  He replaced the receiver and drew the pages on his desk towards him once more. This time he was able to put his whole attention on what he was doing.

  Chapter Eleven

  Mrs. McCrae, Canon Pennyfather’s housekeeper, had ordered a Dover sole for the evening of his return. The advantages attached to a good Dover sole were manifold. It need not be introduced to the grill or frying pan until the Canon was safely in the house. It could be kept until the next day if necessary. Canon Pennyfather was fond of Dover sole; and, if a telephone call or telegram arrived saying that the Canon would after all be elsewhere on this particular evening, Mrs. McCrae was fond of a good Dover sole herself. All therefore was in good trim for the Canon’s return. The Dover sole would be followed by pancakes. The sole sat on the kitchen table, the batter for the pancakes was ready in a bowl. All was in readiness. The brass shone, the silver sparkled, not a minuscule of dust showed anywhere. There was only one thing lacking. The Canon himself.

  The Canon was scheduled to return on the train arriving at 6:30 from London.

  At 7 o’clock he had not returned. No doubt the train was late. At 7:30 he still had not returned. Mrs. McCrae gave a sigh of vexation. She suspected that this was going to be another of these things. Eight o’clock came and no Canon. Mrs. McCrae gave a long, exasperated sigh. Soon, no doubt, she would get a telephone call, though it was quite within the bounds of possibility that there would not be even a telephone call. He might have written to her. No doubt he had written, but he had probably omitted to post the letter.

  “Dear, dear!” said Mrs. McCrae.

  At 9 o’clock she made herself three pancakes with the pancake batter. The sole she put carefully away in the Frigidaire. “I wonder where the good man’s got to now,” she said to herself. She knew by experience that he might be anywhere. The odds were that he would discover his mistake in time to telegraph her or telephone her before she retired to bed. “I shall sit up until 11 o’clock but no longer,” said Mrs. McCrae. Ten thirty was her bedtime, an extension to eleven she considered her duty, but if at eleven there was nothing, no word from the Canon, then Mrs. McCrae would duly lock up the house and betake herself to bed.

  It cannot be said that she was worried. This sort of thing had happened before. There was nothing to be done but wait for news of some kind. The possibilities were numerous. Canon Pennyfather might have got on the wrong train and failed to discover his mistake until he was at Land’s End or John o’ Groats, or he might still be in London having made some mistake in the date, and was therefore convinced he was not returning until tomorrow. He might have met a friend or friends at this foreign conference he was going to and been induced to stay out there perhaps over the weekend. He would have meant to let her know but had entirely forgotten to do so. So, as has been already said, she was not worried. The day after tomorrow his old friend, Archdeacon Simmons, was coming to stay. That was the sort of thing the Canon did remember, so no doubt he himself or a telegram from him would arrive tomorrow and at latest he would be home on the day after, or there would be a letter.

  The morning of the day after, however, arrived without a word from him. For the first time Mrs. McCrae began to be uneasy. Between 9 a.m. and 1 p.m. she eyed the telephone in a doubtful manner. Mrs. McCrae had her own fixed views about the telephone. She used it and recognized its convenience but she was not fond of the telephone. Some of her household shopping was done by telephone, though she much preferred to do it in person owing to a fixed belief that if you did not see what you were being given, a shopkeeper was sure to try and cheat you. Still, telephones were useful for domestic matters. She occasionally, though rarely, telephoned her friends or relations in the near neighbourhood. To make a call of any distance, or a London call, upset her severely. It was a shameful waste of money. Nevertheless, she began to meditate facing that problem.

  Finally, when yet another day dawned without any news of him, she decided to
act. She knew where the Canon was staying in London. Bertram’s Hotel. A nice old-fashioned place. It might be as well, perhaps, if she rang up and made certain inquiries. They would probably know where the Canon was. It was not an ordinary hotel. She would asked to be put through to Miss Gorringe. Miss Gorringe was always efficient and thoughtful. The Canon might, of course, return by the twelve thirty. If so he would be here any minute now.

  But the minutes passed and there was no Canon. Mrs. McCrae took a deep breath, nerved herself and asked for a call to London. She waited, biting her lips and holding the receiver clamped firmly to her ear.

  “Bertram’s Hotel, at your service,” said a voice.

  “I would like, if you please, to speak to Miss Gorringe,” said Mrs. McCrae.

  “Just a moment. What name shall I say?”

  “It’s Canon Pennyfather’s housekeeper. Mrs. McCrae.”

  “Just a moment please.”

  Presently the calm and efficient voice of Miss Gorringe came through.

  “Miss Gorringe here. Did you say Canon Pennyfather’s housekeeper?”

  “That’s right. Mrs. McCrae.”

  “Oh yes. Of course. What can I do for you, Mrs. McCrae?”

  “Is Canon Pennyfather staying at the hotel still?”

  “I’m glad you’ve rung up,” said Miss Gorringe. “We have been rather worried as to what exactly to do.”

  “Do you mean something’s happened to Canon Pennyfather? Has he had an accident?”

  “No, no, nothing of that kind. But we expected him back from Lucerne on Friday or Saturday.”

  “Eh—that’d be right.”

  “But he didn’t arrive. Well, of course that wasn’t really surprising. He had booked his room on—booked it, that is, until yesterday. He didn’t come back yesterday or send any word and his things are still here. The major part of his baggage. We hadn’t been quite sure what to do about it. Of course,” Miss Gorringe went on hastily, “we know the Canon is, well—somewhat forgetful sometimes.”

  “You may well say that!”

  “It makes it a little difficult for us. We are so fully booked up. His room is actually booked for another guest.” She added: “You have no idea where he is?”