The Hollow hp-24

by Agatha Christie

  Lady Angkatell smiled at him.

  "I think one always has to take some risk," she said gently. "And one should do it quickly and not think too much about it."

  "An admirable sentiment, my dear," said Sir Henry. "But I have always felt slightly aggrieved that I was the risk you took!"

  Chapter VIII

  After tea John said to Henrietta, "Come for a walk," and Lady Angkatell said that she must show Gerda the rock garden though of course it was quite the wrong time of year.

  Walking with John, thought Henrietta, was as unlike walking with Edward as anything could be.

  With Edward one seldom did more than potter. Edward, she thought, was a born potterer.

  Walking with John, it was all she could do to keep up, and by the time they got up to Shovel Down she said breathlessly, "It's not a Marathon, John!" He slowed down and laughed.

  "Am I walking you off your feet?"

  "I can do it-but is there any need? We haven't got a train to catch. Why do you have this ferocious energy? Are you running away from yourself?" He stopped dead. "Why do you say that?"

  Henrietta looked at him curiously.

  "I didn't mean anything particular by it."

  John went on again, but walking more slowly.

  "As a matter of fact," he said, "I'm tired.

  I'm very tired."

  She heard the lassitude in his voice.

  "How's the Crabtree?"

  "It's early days to say, but I think, Henrietta, that I've got the hang of things. If I'm right"-his footsteps began to quicken -"a lot of our ideas will be revolutionised -we'll have to reconsider the whole question of hormone secretion-"

  "You mean that there will be a cure for Ridgeway's Disease? That people won't die?"

  "That, incidentally."

  What odd people doctors were, thought Henrietta. Incidentally!

  "Scientifically, it opens up all sorts of possibilities!" He drew a deep breath. "But it's good to get down here-good to get some air into your lungs-good to see you." He gave her one of his sudden quick smiles, "And it will do Gerda good."

  "Gerda, of course, simply loves coming to The Hollow!"

  "Of course she does. By the way, have I met Edward Angkatell before?"

  "You've met him twice," said Henrietta dryly.

  "I couldn't remember. He's one of those vague, indefinite people."

  "Edward's a dear. I've always been very fond of him."

  "Well, don't let's waste time on Edward! None of these people count."

  Henrietta said in a low voice:

  "Sometimes, John-I'm afraid for you!"

  "Afraid for me-what do you mean?"

  He turned an astonished face upon her.

  "You are so oblivious-so-yes, blind."

  "Blind?"

  "You don't know-you don't see-you're curiously insensitive! You don't know what other people are feeling and thinking."

  "I should have said just the opposite."

  "You see what you're looking at, yes. You're-you're like a search-light. A powerful beam turned onto the one spot where your interest is, and behind it and each side of it, darkness!"

  "Henrietta, my dear, what is all this?"

  "It's dangerous, John. You assume that everyone likes you, that they mean well to you. People like Lucy, for instance."

  "Doesn't Lucy like me?" he said, surprised. "I've always been extremely fond of her."

  "And so you assume that she likes you. But I'm not sure… And Gerda and Edward-or and Midge and Henry? How do you know what they feel towards you?"

  "And Henrietta? Do I know how she feels?" He caught her hand for a moment. "At least-I'm sure of you."

  She took her hand away.

  "You can be sure of no one in this world, John."

  His face had grown grave.

  "No, I won't believe that. I'm sure of you and I'm sure of myself. At least-" His face changed.

  "What is it, John?"

  "Do you know what I found myself saying today? Something quite ridiculous. 'I want to go home.' That's what I said and I haven't the least idea what I meant by it."

  Henrietta said slowly, "You must have had some picture in your mind…"

  He said sharply, "Nothing. Nothing at all!"

  At dinner that night, Henrietta was put next to David and from the end of the table Lucy's delicate eyebrows telegraphed-not a command-Lucy never commanded-but an appeal.

  Sir Henry was doing his best with Gerda and succeeding quite well. John, his face amused, was following the leaps and bounds of Lucy's discursive mind. Midge talked in rather a stilted way to Edward who seemed more absentminded than usual.

  David was glowering and crumbling his bread with a nervous hand.

  David had come to The Hollow in a spirit of considerable unwillingness. Until now, he had never met either Sir Henry or Lady Angkatell, and disapproving of the Empire generally, he was prepared to disapprove of these relatives of his. Edward, whom he did know, he despised as a dilettante. The remaining four guests he examined with a critical eye. Relations, he thought, were pretty awful, and one was expected to talk to people, a thing which he hated doing.

  Midge and Henrietta he discounted as empty-headed. This Dr. Christow was just one of these Harley Street charlatans-all manner and social success-his wife obviously did not count.

  David shifted his neck in his collar and wished fervently that all these people could know how little he thought of them! They were really all quite negligible.

  When he had repeated that three times to himself he felt rather better. He still glowered but he was able to leave his bread alone.

  Henrietta though responding loyally to the eyebrows, had some difficulty in making headway. David's curt rejoinders were snubbing in the extreme. In the end she had recourse to a method she had employed before with the tongue-tied young.

  She made, deliberately, a dogmatic and quite un justifiable pronouncement on a modern composer, knowing that David had much technical musical knowledge.

  To her amusement the plan worked.

  David drew himself up from his slouching position where he had been more or less reclining on his spine. His voice was no longer low and mumbling. He stopped crumbling his bread.

  "That," he said in loud, clear tones, fixing a cold eye on Henrietta, "shows that you don't know the first thing about the subject!"

  From then on until the end of dinner he lectured her in clear and biting accents, and Henrietta subsided into the proper meekness of one instructed.

  Lucy Angkatell sent a benignant glance down the table, and Midge grinned to herself.

  "So clever of you, darling," murmured

  Lady Angkatell as she slipped an arm through Henrietta's on the way to the drawing-room.

  "What an awful thought it is that if people had less in their heads they would know better what to do with their hands! Do you think hearts or bridge or rummy or something terribly, terribly simple like animal grab?"

  "I think David would be rather insulted by animal grab."

  "Perhaps you are right. Bridge, then. I am sure he will feel that bridge is rather worthless and then he can have a nice glow of contempt for us."

  They made up -two tables. Henrietta played with Gerda against John and Edward.

  It was not her idea of the best grouping. She had wanted to segregate Gerda from Lucy and if possible from John also-but John had shown determination. And Edward had then forestalled Midge.

  The atmosphere was not, Henrietta thought, quite comfortable, but she did not quite know from whence the discomfort arose. Anyway, if the cards gave them anything like a break, she intended that Gerda should win. Gerda was not really a bad bridge player-away from John she was quite average-but she was a nervous player with bad judgment and with no real knowledge of the value of her hand. John was a good, if slightly over-confident player. Edward was a very good player indeed.

  The evening wore on and at Henrietta's table they were still playing the same rubber.

  Th
e scores rose above the line on either side.

  A curious tensity had come into the play of which only one person was unaware.

  To Gerda, this was just a rubber of bridge which she happened for once to be quite enjoying. She felt, indeed, a pleasurable excitement.

  Difficult decisions had been unexpectedly eased by Henrietta's overcalling her own bids and playing the hand.

  Those moments when John, unable to refrain from that critical attitude which did more to undermine Gerda's self-confidence than he could possibly have imagined, exclaimed, "Why on earth did you lead that club, Gerda?" were countered almost immediately by Henrietta's swift, "Nonsense, John, of course she had to lead the club! It was the only possible thing to do." Finally, with a sigh, Henrietta drew the score towards her.

  "Game and rubber, but I don't think we shall make much out of it, Gerda."

  John said, "A lucky finesse," in a cheerful voice.

  Henrietta looked up sharply. She knew his tone. She met his eyes and her own dropped.

  She got up and went to the mantelpiece and John followed her. He said conversationally, "You don't always look deliberately into people's hands, do you?"

  Henrietta said calmly, "Perhaps I was a little obvious. How despicable it is to want to win at games!"

  "You wanted Gerda to win the rubber, you mean. In your desire to give pleasure to people, you don't draw the line at cheating."

  "How horribly you put things! And you are always quite right."

  "Your wishes seemed to be shared by my partner."

  So he had noticed, thought Henrietta. She had wondered, herself, if she had been mistaken.

  Edward was so skilful-there was nothing you could have taken hold of. A failure, once, to call the game. A lead that had been sound and obvious-but when a less obvious lead would have assured success.

  It worried Henrietta… Edward, she knew, would never play his cards in order that she, Henrietta, might win. He was far too imbued with English sportsmanship for that. No, she thought, it was just any more success for John Christow that he was unable to endure…

  She felt suddenly keyed up, alert. She didn't like this party of Lucy's.

  And then dramatically, unexpectedly, with the unreality of a stage entrance, Veronica Cray came through the window!

  The French windows had been pushed to, not closed, for the evening was warm. Veronica pushed them wide, came through them and stood there framed against the night, smiling, a little rueful, wholly charming, waiting just that infinitesimal moment before speaking so that she might be sure of her audience.

  "You must forgive me-bursting in upon you this way, I'm your neighbour. Lady Angkatell-from that ridiculous cottage Dovecotes-and the most frightful catastrophe has occurred!"

  Her smile broadened-became more humorous.

  "Not a match! Not a single match in the house! And Saturday evening. So stupid of me. But what could I do? I came along here to beg help from my only neighbour within miles."

  Nobody spoke for a moment, for Veronica had rather that effect. She was lovely-not quietly lovely, not even dazzlingly lovely-but so efficiently lovely that it made you gasp! The waves of pale shimmering hair, the curving mouth-the platinum foxes that swathed her shoulders and the long sweep of white velvet underneath them…

  She was looking from one to the other of them, humorous, charming!

  "And I smoke," she said, "like a chimney! And my lighter won't work! And besides, there's breakfast-gas stoves-" She thrust out her hands. "I do feel such a complete fool."

  Lucy came forward, gracious, faintly amused.

  "Why, of course-" she began, but Veronica Cray interrupted.

  She was looking at John Christow. An expression of utter amazement, of incredulous delight, was spreading over her face.

  She took a step towards him, hands outstretched.

  "Why, surely-John! It's John Christow! Now isn't that too extraordinary? I haven't seen you for years and years and years! And suddenly-to find you here!"

  She had his hands in hers by now. She was all warmth and simple eagerness. She half turned her head to Lady Angkatell.

  "This is just the most wonderful surprise. John's an old, old friend of mine. Why, John's the first man I ever loved! I was crazy about you,John."

  She was half laughing now-a woman moved by the ridiculous remembrance of young love.

  "I always thought John was just wonderful!"

  Sir Henry, courteous and polished, had moved forward to her.

  She must have a drink. He manoeuvred glasses. Lady Angkatell said:

  "Midge dear, ring the bell."

  When Gudgeon came, Lucy said:

  "A box of matches. Gudgeon-at least has cook got plenty?"

  "A new dozen came in today, m'lady."

  "Then bring in half a dozen. Gudgeon."

  "Oh, no. Lady Angkatell-just one!"

  Veronica protested, laughing, she had her drink now and was smiling round at everyone.

  John Christow said:

  "This is my wife, Veronica."

  "Oh, but how lovely to meet you." Veronica beamed upon Gerda's air of bewilderment.

  Gudgeon brought in the matches, stacked on a silver salver.

  Lady Angkatell indicated Veronica Cray with a gesture and he brought the salver to her.

  "Oh, dear Lady Angkatell, not all these!"

  Lucy's gesture was negligently royal.

  "It's so tiresome having only one of a thing. We can spare them quite easily."

  Sir Henry was saying pleasantly:

  "And how do you like living at Dovecotes?"

  "I adore it. It's wonderful here, near London, and yet one feels so beautifully isolated."

  Veronica put down her glass. She drew the platinum foxes a little closer round her.

  She smiled on them all.

  "Thank you so much! You've been so kind-" the words floated between Sir Henry and Lady Angkatell, and for some reason, Edward. "I shall now carry home the spoils, John," she gave him an artless, friendly smile, "you must see me safely back, because I want dreadfully to hear all you've been doing in the years and years since I've seen you. It makes me feel, of course, dreadfully old.. "

  She moved to the window and John Christow followed her. She flung a last brilliant smile at them all.

  "I'm so dreadfully sorry to have bothered you in this stupid way… Thank you so much, Lady Angkatell."

  She went out with John. Sir Henry stood by the window looking after them.

  "Quite a fine warm night," he said.

  Lady Angkatell yawned.

  "Oh, dear," she murmured, "we must go to bed. Henry, we must go and see one of her pictures. I'm sure, from tonight, she must give a lovely performance."

  They went upstairs. Midge, saying good night, asked Lucy:

  "A lovely performance?"

  "Didn't you think so, darling?"

  "I gather, Lucy, that you think it's just possible she may have some matches in Dovecotes all the time."

  "Dozens of boxes, I expect, darling. But we mustn't be uncharitable. And it was a lovely performance!"

  Doors were shutting all down the corridor, voices were murmuring good nights. Sir Henry said, "I'll leave the window for Christow."

  His own door shut.

  Henrietta said to Gerda, "What fun actresses are. They make such marvellous entrances and exits!" She yawned and added, "I'm frightfully sleepy."

  Veronica Cray moved swiftly along the narrow path through the chestnut woods.

  She came out from the woods to the open space by the swimming pool. There was a small pavilion here where the Angkatells sat on days that were sunny but when there was a cold wind.

  Veronica Cray stood still. She turned and faced John Christow.

  Then she laughed. With her hand she gestured towards the leaf-strewn surface of the swimming pool.

  "Not quite like the Mediterranean, is it, John?" she said.

  He knew then what he had been waiting for-knew that in all those fifteen ye
ars of separation from Veronica, she had still been with him. The blue sea, the scent of mimosa, the hot dust-pushed down, thrust out of it, but never really forgotten… They meant one thing-Veronica. He was a young man of twenty-four, desperately and agonizingly in love and this time he was not going to run away…

  Chapter IX

  John Christow came out from the chestnut woods onto the green slope by the house.

  There was a moon and the house basked in the moonlight with a strange innocence in its curtained windows. He looked down at the wrist-watch he wore.

  It was three o'clock. He drew a deep breath and his face was anxious. He was no longer, even remotely, a young man of twenty-four in love. He was a shrewd practical man of just on forty and his mind was clear and levelheaded.

  He'd been a fool, of course, a complete damned fool, but he didn't regret that! For he was, he now realized, completely master of himself. It was as though, for years, he had dragged a weight upon his leg-and now the weight was gone. He was free.

  He was free and himself, John Christow -and he knew that to John Christow, successful Harley Street specialist, Veronica Cray meant nothing whatsoever. All that had been in the past-and because that conflict had never been resolved, because he had always suffered humiliatingly from the fear that he had, in plain language, "run away,"

  Veronica's image had never completely left him. She had come to him tonight out of a dream… and he had accepted the dream, and now, thank God, he was delivered from it for ever. He was back in the present-and it was 3:00 a.m., and it was just possible that he had mucked up things rather badly.

  He'd been with Veronica for three hours.

  She had sailed in like a frigate, and cut him out of the circle and carried him off as her prize, and he wondered now what on earth everybody had thought about it.

  What, for instance, would Gerda think?

  And Henrietta? (But he didn't care quite so much about Henrietta. He could, he felt, at a pinch explain to Henrietta. He could never explain to Gerda.) And he didn't, definitely he didn't, want to lose anything.

  All his life he had been a man who took a justifiable amount of risks. Risks with patients, risks with treatment, risks with investments.

  Never a fantastic risk-only the kind of risk that was just beyond the margin of safety.