The Secret of Chimneys by Agatha Christie (books suggested by elon musk .TXT) 📕

“Simply because as I walked away last night, after thinking I heard a shot, the light went up in that room.”

“How curious! I don’t know who has that room, but I can find out by asking Bundle. Perhaps they heard the shot?”

“If so, they haven’t come forward to say so. I understood from Battle that nobody in the house heard the shot fired. It’s the only clue of any kind that I’ve got, and I dare say it’s a pretty rotten one, but I mean to follow it up for what it’s worth.”

“It’s curious, certainly,” said Virginia thoughtfully.

They had arrived at the boat-house by the lake, and had been leaning against it as they talked.

“And now for the whole story,” said Anthony. “We’ll paddle gently about on the lake, secure from the prying ears of Scotland Yard, American visitors, and curious house-maids.”

“I’ve heard something from Lord Caterham,” said Virginia. “But not nearly enough. To begin with, which are you really, Anthony Cade or Jimmy McGrath?”

For the second time that morning, Anthony unfolded the history of the last six weeks of his life—with this difference that the account given to Virginia needed no editing. He finished up with his own astonished recognition of “Mr. Holmes.”

“By the way, Mrs. Revel,” he ended, “I’ve never thanked you for imperilling your immortal soul by saying that I was an old friend of yours.”

“Of course you’re an old friend,” cried Virginia. “You don’t suppose I’d cumber you with a corpse, and then pretend you were a mere acquaintance next time I met you? No, indeed!”

She paused.

“Do you know one thing that strikes me about all this?” she went on. “That there’s some extra mystery about those Memoirs that we haven’t fathomed yet.”

“I think you’re right,” agreed Anthony. “There’s one think I’d like you to tell me,” he continued.

“What’s that?”

“Why did you seem so surprised when I mentioned the name of Jimmy McGrath to you yesterday at Pont Street? Had you heard it before?”

“I had, Sherlock Holmes. George—my cousin, George Lomax, you know—came to see me the other day, and suggested a lot of frightfully silly things. His idea was that I should come down here and make myself agreeable to this man McGrath and Delilah the Memoirs out of him somehow. He didn’t put it like that, of course. He talked a lot of nonsense about English gentlewomen, and things like that, but his real meaning was never obscure for a moment. It was just the sort of rotten thing poor old George would think of. And then I wanted to know too much, and he tried to put me off with lies that wouldn’t have deceived a child of two.”

“Well, his plan seems to have succeeded, anyhow,” observed Anthony. “Here am I, the James McGrath he had in mind, and here are you being agreeable to me.”

“But, alas, for poor old George, no Memoirs! Now I’ve got a question for you. When I said I hadn’t written those letters, you said you knew I hadn’t—you couldn’t know any such thing?”

“Oh, yes, I could,” said Anthony, smiling. “I’ve got a good working knowledge of psychology.”

“You mean your belief in the sterling worth of my moral character was such that——”

But Anthony was shaking his head vigorously.

“Not at all. I don’t know anything about your moral character. You might have a lover, and you might write to him. But you’d never lie down to be blackmailed. The Virginia Revel of those letters was scared stiff. You’d have fought.”

“I wonder who the real Virginia Revel is—where she is, I mean. It makes me feel as though I had a double somewhere.”

Anthony lit a cigarette.

“You know that one of the letters was written from Chimneys?” he asked at last.

“What?” Virginia was clearly startled. “When was it written?”

“It wasn’t dated. But it’s odd, isn’t it?”

“I’m perfectly certain no other Virginia Revel has ever stayed at Chimneys. Bundle or Lord Caterham would have said something about the coincidence of the name if she had.”

“Yes. It’s rather queer. Do you know, Mrs. Revel, I am beginning to disbelieve profoundly in this other Virginia Revel.”

“She’s very elusive,” agreed Virginia.

“Extraordinarily elusive. I am beginning to think that the person who wrote those letters deliberately used your name.”

“But why?” cried Virginia. “Why should they do such a thing?”

“Ah, that’s just the question. There’s the devil of a lot to find out about everything.”

“Who do you really think killed Michael?” asked Virginia suddenly. “The Comrades of the Red Hand?”

“I suppose they might have done so,” said Anthony in a dissatisfied voice. “Pointless killing would be rather characteristic of them.”

“Let’s get to work,” said Virginia. “I see Lord Caterham and Bundle strolling together. The first thing to do is to find out definitely whether the dead man is Michael or not.”

Anthony paddled to shore and a few moments later they had joined Lord Caterham and his daughter.

“Lunch is late,” said his lordship in a depressed voice. “Battle has insulted the cook, I expect.”

“This is a friend of mine, Bundle,” said Virginia. “Be nice to him.”

Bundle looked earnestly at Anthony for some minutes, and then addressed a remark to Virginia as though he had not been there.

“Where do you pick up these nice-looking men, Virginia? ‘How do you do it?’ says she enviously.”

“You can have him,” said Virginia generously. “I want Lord Caterham.”

She smiled upon the flattered peer, slipped her hand through his arm and they moved off together.

“Do you talk?” asked Bundle. “Or are you just strong and silent?”

“Talk?” said Anthony. “I babble. I murmur. I gurgle—like the running brook, you know. Sometimes I even ask questions.”

“As for instance?”

“Who occupies the second room on the left from the end?”

He pointed to it as he spoke.

“What an extraordinary question!” said Bundle. “You intrigue me greatly. Let me see—yes—that’s Mademoiselle Brun’s room. The French governess. She endeavours to keep my young sisters in order. Dulcie and Daisy—like the song, you know. I dare say they’d have called the next one, Dorothy May. But mother got tired of having nothing but girls and died. Thought some one else could take on the job of providing an heir.”

“Mademoiselle Brun,” said Anthony thoughtfully. “How long has she been with you?”

“Two months. She came to us when we were in Scotland.”

“Ha!” said Anthony. “I smell a rat.”

“I wish I could smell some lunch,” said Bundle. “Do I ask the Scotland Yard man to have lunch with us, Mr. Cade? You’re a man of the world, you know about the etiquette of such things. We’ve never had a murder in the house before. Exciting, isn’t it? I’m sorry your character was so completely cleared this morning. I’ve always wanted to meet a murderer and see for myself if they’re as genial and charming as the Sunday papers always say they are. God! what’s that?”

“What” seemed to be a taxi approaching the house. Its two occupants were a tall man with a bald head and a black beard, and a smaller and younger man with a black moustache. Anthony recognized the former, and guessed that it was he—rather than the vehicle which contained him—that had wrung the exclamation of astonishment from his companion’s lips.

“Unless I much mistake,” he remarked, “that is my old friend, Baron Lollipop.”

“Baron what?”

“I call him Lollipop for convenience. The pronouncing of his own name tends to harden the arteries.”

“It nearly wrecked the telephone this morning,” remarked Bundle. “So that’s the Baron, is it? I foresee he’ll be turned on to me this afternoon—and I’ve had Isaacstein all the morning. Let George do his own dirty work, say I, and to hell with politics. Excuse me leaving you, Mr. Cade, but I must stand by poor old Father.”

Bundle retreated rapidly to the house.

Anthony stood looking after her for a minute or two and thoughtfully lighted a cigarette. As he did so, his ear was caught by a stealthy sound quite near him. He was standing by the boat-house, and the sound seemed to come from just round the corner. The mental picture conveyed to him was that of a man vainly trying to stifle a sudden sneeze.

“Now I wonder—I very much wonder who’s behind the boat-house,” said Anthony to himself. “We’d better see, I think.”

Suiting the action to the word, he threw away the match he had just blown out, and ran lightly and noiselessly round the corner of the boat-house.

He came upon a man who had evidently been kneeling on the ground and was just struggling to rise to his feet. He was tall, wore a light coloured overcoat and glasses, and for the rest, had a short pointed black beard and a slightly foppish manner. He was between thirty and forty years of age, and altogether of a most respectable appearance.

“What are you doing here?” asked Anthony.

He was pretty certain that the man was not one of Lord Caterham’s guests.

“I ask your pardon,” said the stranger, with a marked foreign accent and what was meant to be an engaging smile. “It is that I wish to return to the Jolly Crickets, and I have lost my way. Would Monsieur be so good as to direct me?”

“Certainly,” said Anthony. “But you don’t go there by water, you know.”

“Eh?” said the stranger, with the air of one at a loss.

“I said,” repeated Anthony, with a meaning glance at the boat-house, “that you won’t get there by water. There’s a right of way across the park—some distance away, but all this is the private part. You’re trespassing.”

“I am most sorry,” said the stranger. “I lost my direction entirely. I thought I would come up here and inquire.”

Anthony refrained from pointing out that kneeling behind a boat-house was a somewhat peculiar manner of prosecuting inquiries. He took the stranger kindly by the arm.

“You go this way,” he said. “Right round the lake and straight on—you can’t miss the path. When you get on it, turn to the left, and it will lead you to the village. You’re staying at the Cricketers, I suppose?”

“I am, monsieur. Since this morning. Many thanks for your kindness in directing me.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Anthony. “I hope you haven’t caught cold.”

“Eh?” said the stranger.

“From kneeling on the damp ground, I mean,” explained Anthony. “I fancied I heard you sneezing.”

“I may have sneezed,” admitted the other.

“Quite so,” said Anthony. “But you shouldn’t suppress a sneeze, you know. One of the most eminent doctors said so only the other day. It’s frightfully dangerous. I don’t remember exactly what it does to you—whether it’s an inhibition or whether it hardens your arteries, but you must never do it. Good morning.”

“Good morning, and thank you, monsieur, for setting me on the right road.”

“Second suspicious stranger from village inn,” murmured Anthony to himself, as he watched the other’s retreating form. “And one that I can’t quite place, either. Appearance that of a French commercial traveller. I don’t quite see him as a Comrade of the Red Hand. Does he represent yet a third party in the harassed state of Herzoslovakia? The French governess has the second window from the end. A mysterious Frenchman is found slinking round the grounds, listening to conversations that are not meant for his ears. I’ll bet my hat there’s something in it.”

Musing thus, Anthony retraced his steps to the house. On the terrace he encountered Lord Caterham, looking suitably depressed, and two new arrivals. He brightened a little at the sight of Anthony.

“Ah, there you are,” he remarked. “Let me introduce you to Baron—er—er—and Captain Andrassy. Mr. Anthony Cade.”

The Baron stared at Anthony with growing suspicion.

“Mr. Cade?” he said stiffly. “I think not.”

“A word alone with you, Baron,” said Anthony. “I can explain everything.”

The Baron bowed, and the two men walked down the terrace together.

“Baron,” said Anthony. “I must throw myself upon your mercy. I have so far strained the honor of an English