Crooked House / Скрюченный домишко. Книга для чтения на английском языке. Агата Кристи

she said. ‘It isn’t a rotten idea at all. It’s the only thing that might be any good. Your father, Charles, knows exactly what’s been going on in my mind. He knows better than you do.’

      With a sudden almost despairing vehemence, she drove one clenched hand into the palm of the other.

      I’ve got to have the truth. I’ve got to know!

      ‘Because of us? But, dearest—’

      ‘Not only because of us, Charles. I’ve got to know for my own peace of mind. You see, Charles, I didn’t tell you last night—but the truth is—I’m afraid.’

      ‘Afraid?’

      ‘Yes—afraid—afraid—afraid. The police think, your father thinks, you think, everybody thinks—that it was Brenda.’

      ‘The probabilities—’

      ‘Oh yes, it’s quite probable. It’s possible. But when I say, “Brenda probably did it,” I’m quite conscious that it’s only wishful thinking. Because, you see, I don’t really think so!

      ‘You don’t think so?’ I said slowly.

      ‘I don’t know. You’ve heard about it all from the outside as I wanted you to. Now I’ll show it you from the inside. I simply don’t feel that Brenda is that kind of a person— she’s not the sort of person, I feel, who would ever do anything that might involve her in any danger. She’s far too careful of herself.’

      ‘How about this young man? Laurence Brown.’

      ‘Laurence is a complete rabbit. He wouldn’t have the guts[47].’

      ‘I wonder.’

      ‘Yes, we don’t really know, do we? I mean, people are capable of[48] surprising one frightfully. One gets an idea of them into one’s head, and sometimes it’s absolutely wrong. Not always—but sometimes. But all the same, Brenda’—she shook her head—‘she’s always acted so completely in character. She’s what I call the harem type. Likes sitting about and eating sweets and having nice clothes and jewellery and reading cheap novels and going to the cinema. And it’s a queer thing to say, when one remembers that he was eighty-seven, but I really think she was rather thrilled by grandfather. He had a power, you know. I should imagine he could make a woman feel—oh—rather like a queen— the sultan’s favourite! I think—I’ve always thought—that he made Brenda feel as though she were an exciting, romantic person. He’s been clever with women all his life—and that kind of thing is a sort of art—you don’t lose the knack of it, however old you are.’

      I left the problem of Brenda for the moment and harked back to[49] a phrase of Sophia’s which had disturbed me.

      ‘Why did you say,’ I asked, ‘that you were afraid?’

      Sophia shivered a little and pressed her hands together.

      ‘Because it’s true,’ she said in a low voice. ‘It’s very important, Charles, that I should make you understand this. You see, we’re a very queer family… There’s a lot of rutblessness in us—and—different kinds of ruthlessness. That’s what’s so disturbing. The different kinds.’

      She must have seen incomprehension in my face. She went on, speaking energetically.

      ‘I’ll try and make what I mean clear. Grandfather, for instance. Once when he was telling us about his boyhood in Smyrna, he mentioned, quite casually, that he had stabbed two men. It was some kind of a brawl—there had been some unforgivable insult—I don’t know—but it was just a thing that had happened quite naturally. He’d really practically forgotten about it. But it was, somehow, such a queer thing to hear about, quite casually, in England.’

      I nodded.

      ‘That’s one kind of ruthlessness,’ went on Sophia, ‘and then there was my grandmother. I only just remember her, but I’ve heard a good deal about her. I think she might have had the ruthlessness that comes from having no imagination whatever. All those fox-hunting forebears—and the old Generals, the shoot-’em-down type. Full of rectitude and arrogance, and not a bit afraid of taking responsibility in matters of life and death.’

      ‘Isn’t that a bit far-fetched?’

      ‘Yes, I dare say—but I’m always rather afraid of that type. It’s full of rectitude but it is ruthless. And then there’s my own mother—she’s an actress—she’s a darling, but she’s got absolutely no sense of proportion. She’s one of those unconscious egoists who can only see things in relation to how it affects them. That’s rather frightening, sometimes, you know. And there’s Clemency, Uncle Roger’s wife. She’s a scientist—she’s doing some kind of very important research—she’s ruthless too, in a kind of cold-blooded impersonal way. Uncle Roger’s the exact opposite—he’s the kindest and most lovable person in the world, but he’s got a really terrific temper. Things make his blood boil and then he hardly knows what he’s doing. And there’s father—’

      She made a long pause.

      ‘Father,’ she said slowly, ‘is almost too well controlled. You never know what he’s thinking. He never shows any emotion at all. It’s probably a kind of unconscious self-defence against mother’s absolute orgies of emotion, but sometimes—it worries me a little.’

      ‘My dear child,’ I said, ‘you’re working yourself up unnecessarily. What it comes to in the end is that everybody, perhaps, is capable of murder.’

      ‘I suppose that’s true. Even me.’

      ‘Not you!’

      ‘Oh yes, Charles, you can’t make me an exception. I suppose I could murder someone…’ She was silent a moment or two, then added, ‘But if so, it would have to be for something really worth while[50]!’

      I laughed then. I couldn’t help it. And Sophia smiled.

      ‘Perhaps I’m a fool,’ she said, ‘but we’ve got to find out the truth about grandfather’s death. We’ve got to. If only it was Brenda…’

      I felt suddenly rather sorry for Brenda Leonides.

      Chapter 5

      Along the path towards us came a tall figure walking briskly. It had on a battered old felt hat, a shapeless skirt, and a rather cumbersome jersey.

      ‘Aunt Edith,’ said Sophia.

      The figure paused once or twice, stooping to the flower borders, then it advanced upon us. I rose to my feet.

      ‘This is Charles Hayward, Aunt Edith. My aunt, Miss de Haviland.’

      Edith de Haviland was a woman of about seventy. She had a mass of untidy grey hair, a weather-beaten face and a shrewd and piercing glance.

      ‘How d’ye do?’ she said. ‘I’ve heard about you. Back from the East. How’s your father?’

      Rather surprised, I said he was very well.

      ‘Knew him when he was a boy,’ said Miss de Haviland. ‘Knew his mother very well. You look rather like her. Have you come to help us—or the other thing?’

      ‘I hope to help,’ I said rather uncomfortably.

      She nodded.

      ‘We could do with some help. Place swarming with policemen. Pop out at you all over the place. Don’t like some of the types. A boy who’s been to a decent school oughtn’t to go into the police. Saw Moyra Kinoul’s boy the other day holding up the traffic at Marble Arch. Makes you feel you don’t know where you are!’

      She turned to Sophia.

      ‘Nannie’s asking for you, Sophia. Fish.’

      ‘Bother[51],’

47

to have the guts – осмелиться

48

to be capable of – быть способным (на ч.-л.)

49

to hark back to – мысленно вернуться к

50

worth while – стоящее, ценное

51

Bother – Тьфу ты!