Причуда мертвеца / Dead Man's Folly. Книга для чтения на английском языке

‘But I will be good tomorrow. I will do everything you tell me.’

‘That’s very sweet of you, dear.’

‘I’ve got a new dress to wear. It came this morning. Come upstairs with me and look at it.’

Mrs Folliat hesitated. Lady Stubbs rose to her feet and said insistently:

‘You must come. Please. It is a lovely dress. Come now!’

‘Oh, very well.’ Mrs Folliat gave a half-laugh and rose. As she went out of the room, her small figure following Hattie’s tall one, Poirot saw her face and was quite startled at the weariness on it which had replaced her smiling composure. It was as though, relaxed and off her guard for a moment, she no longer bothered to keep up the social mask. And yet—it seemed more than that. Perhaps she was suffering from some disease about which, like many women, she never spoke. She was not a person, he thought, who would care to invite pity or sympathy.

Captain Warburton dropped down in the chair Hattie Stubbs had just vacated. He, too, looked at the door through which the two women had just passed, but it was not of the older woman that he spoke. Instead he drawled, with a slight grin:

‘Beautiful creature, isn’t she?’ He observed with the tail of his eye Sir George’s exit through a French window with Mrs Masterton and Mrs Oliver in tow. ‘Bowled over old George Stubbs all right. Nothing’s too good for her! Jewels, mink, all the rest of it. Whether he realizes she’s a bit wanting in the top storey[41 - she’s a bit wanting in the top storey – (досл.) у нее немного не хватает на верхнем этаже (намек на слабоумие героини)], I’ve never discovered. Probably thinks it doesn’t matter. After all, these financial johnnies don’t ask for intellectual companionship.’

‘What nationality is she?’ Poirot asked curiously.

‘Looks South American, I always think. But I believe she comes from the West Indies[42 - West Indies – Вест-Индия, историческое название группы островов в Карибском море, в Мексиканском заливе и в прилегающих районах Атлантического океана.]. One of those islands with sugar and rum and all that. One of the old families there—a creole[43 - creole – креол(ка), представитель(ница) этнической или этнорасовой общности, образовавшейся в колониальный период в Америке, Африке и Азии], I don’t mean a half-caste. All very intermarried, I believe, on these islands. Accounts for the mental deficiency.’

Young Mrs Legge came over to join them.

‘Look here, Jim,’ she said, ‘you’ve got to be on my side. That tent’s got to be where we all decided—on the far side of the lawn backing on the rhododendrons. It’s the only possible place.’

‘Ma Masterton[44 - Ma Masterton – мамаша Мастертон] doesn’t think so.’

‘Well, you’ve got to talk her out of it.’

He gave her his foxy smile.

‘Mrs Masterton’s my boss.’

‘Wilfred Masterton’s your boss. He’s the M.P.[45 - M.P. – Member of Parliament, член парламента]’

‘I dare say, but she should be. She’s the one who wears the pants[46 - she’s the one who wears the pants – (досл.) она та, кто носит штаны (имеется в виду, что она главная в доме).]—and don’t I know it.’

Sir George re-entered the window.

‘Oh, there you are, Sally,’ he said. ‘We need you. You wouldn’t think everyone could get het up over who butters the buns and who raffles a cake, and why the garden produce stall is where the fancy woollens was promised it should be. Where’s Amy Folliat? She can deal with these people—about the only person who can.’

‘She went upstairs with Hattie.’

‘Oh, did she—?’

Sir George looked round in a vaguely helpless manner and Miss Brewis jumped up from where she was writing tickets, and said, ‘I’ll fetch her for you, Sir George.’

‘Thank you, Amanda.’

Miss Brewis went out of the room.

‘Must get hold of some more wire fencing,’ murmured Sir George.

‘For the fête?’

‘No, no. To put up where we adjoin Hoodown Park in the woods. The old stuff’s rotted away, and that’s where they get through.’

‘Who get through?’

‘Trespassers!’ ejaculated Sir George.

Sally Legge said amusedly:

‘You sound like Betsy Trotwood[47 - Betsy Trotwood – Бетси Тротвуд, персонаж романа Ч. Диккенса «Посмертные записки пиквикского клуба».] campaigning against donkeys.’

‘Betsy Trotwood? Who’s she?’ asked Sir George simply.

‘Dickens.’

‘Oh, Dickens. I read the Pickwick Papers once. Not bad. Not bad at all—surprised me. But, seriously, trespassers are a menace since they’ve started this Youth Hostel tomfoolery. They come out at you from everywhere wearing the most incredible shirts—boy this morning had one all covered with crawling turtles and things—made me think I’d been hitting the bottle or something. Half of them can’t speak English—just gibber at you…’ He mimicked: ‘“Oh, plees—yes, haf you—tell me—iss way to ferry?” I say no, it isn’t, roar at them, and send them back where they’ve come from, but half the time they just blink and stare and don’t understand. And the girls giggle. All kinds of nationalities, Italian, Yugoslavian, Dutch, Finnish—Eskimos I shouldn’t be surprised! Half of them communists, I shouldn’t wonder,’ he ended darkly.

‘Come now, George, don’t get started on communists,’ said Mrs Legge. ‘I’ll come and help you deal with the rabid women.’

She led him out of the window and called over her shoulder: ‘Come on, Jim. Come and be torn to pieces in a good cause.’

‘All right, but I want to put M. Poirot in the picture about the Murder Hunt since he’s going to present the prizes.’

‘You can do that presently.’

‘I will await you here,’ said Poirot agreeably.

In the ensuing silence, Alec Legge stretched himself out in his chair and sighed.

‘Women!’ he said. ‘Like a swarm of bees.’

He turned his head to look out of the window.

‘And what’s it all about? Some silly garden fête that doesn’t matter to anyone.’

‘But obviously,’ Poirot pointed out, ‘there are those to whom it does matter.’

‘Why can’t people have some sense? Why can’t they think? Think of the mess the whole world has got itself into. Don’t they realize that the inhabitants of the globe are busy committing suicide?’

Poirot judged rightly that he was not intended to reply to this question. He merely shook his head doubtfully.

‘Unless we can do something before it’s too late…’ Alec Legge broke off. An angry look swept over his face. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said, ‘I know what you’re thinking. That I’m nervy, neurotic—all the rest of it. Like those damned doctors. Advising rest and change and sea air. All right, Sally and I came down here and took the Mill Cottage for three months, and I’ve followed their prescription. I’ve fished and bathed and taken long walks and sunbathed—’

‘I noticed that you had sunbathed, yes,’ said Poirot politely.

‘Oh, this?’ Alec’s hand went to his sore face. ‘That’s the result of a fine English summer for once in a way. But what’s the good of it all? You can’t get away from facing truth just by running away from it.’