Agatha Christie – Lord Edgware Dies

Somebody—I forgot who—had uttered the phrase ‘judgement of Paris’, and straight away Jane’s delightful voice was uplifted.

‘Paris?’ she said. ‘Why, Paris doesn’t cut any ice nowadays. It’s London and New York that count.’

As sometimes happens, the words fell in a momentary lull of conversation. It was an awkward moment. On my right I heard Donald Ross draw his breath sharply. Mrs Widburn began to talk violently about Russian opera. Everyone hastily said something to somebody else. Jane alone looked serenely up and down the table without the least consciousness of having said anything amiss.

It was then I noticed the Duke. His lips were drawn tightly together, he had flushed, and it seemed to me as though he drew slightly away from Jane. He must have had a foretaste of the fact that for a man of his position to marry a Jane Wilkinson might lead to some awkward contretemps.

As so often happens, I made the first remark that came into my head to my left-hand neighbour, a stout titled lady who arranged children’s matinees. I remember that the remark in question was: ‘Who is that extraordinary looking woman in purple at the other end of the table?’ It was, of course, the lady’s sister! Having stammered apologies, I turned and chatted to Ross, who answered in monosyllables.

It was then, rebuffed on both sides, that I noticed Bryan Martin. He must have been late for I had not seen him before.

He was a little way further down the table on my side and was leaning forward and chatting with great animation to a pretty blonde woman.

It was some time since I had seen him at close quarters, and I was struck at once by the great improvement in his looks. The haggard lines had almost disappeared. He looked younger and in every way more fit. He was laughing and chaffing his vis-à-vis and seemed in first-rate spirits.

I did not have time to observe him further, for at that moment my stout neighbour forgave me and graciously permitted me to listen to a long monologue on the beauties of a Children’s Matinee which she was organizing for Charity.

Poirot had to leave early as he had an appointment. He was investigating the strange disappearance of an Ambassador’s boots and had a rendezvous fixed for half-past two. He charged me to make his adieus to Mrs Widburn. While I was waiting to do so—not an easy matter, for she was at the moment closely surrounded by departing friends all breathing out ‘Darlings’ at a great rate—somebody touched me on the shoulder.

It was young Ross.

‘Isn’t M. Poirot here? I wanted to speak to him.’

I explained that Poirot had just departed.

Ross seemed taken aback. Looking more closely at him, I saw that something seemed to have upset him. He looked white and strained and he had a queer uncertain look in his eyes.

‘Did you want to see him particularly?’ I asked.

He answered slowly.

‘I—don’t know.’

It was such a queer answer that I stared at him in surprise. He flushed.

‘It sounds odd, I know. The truth is that something rather queer has happened. Something that I can’t make out. I—I’d like M. Poirot’s advice about it. Because, you see, I don’t know what to do—I don’t want to bother him, but—’

He looked so puzzled and unhappy that I hastened to reassure him.

‘Poirot has gone to keep an appointment,’ I said. ‘But I know he means to be back for five o’clock. Why not ring him up then, or come and see him?’

‘Thanks. Do you know, I think I will. Five o’clock?’

‘Better ring up first,’ I said, ‘and make sure before coming round.’

‘All right. I will. Thanks, Hastings. You see, I think it might—just might—be very important.’

I nodded and turned again to where Mrs Widburn was dispensing honied words and limp handshakes.

My duty done, I was turning away when a hand was slipped through my arm.

‘Don’t cut me,’ said a merry voice.

It was Jenny Driver—looking extremely chic, by the way.

‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Where have you sprung from?’

‘I was lunching at the next table to you.’