Hickory Dickory Dock. Агата Кристи

eye?’ ‘Never heard of him.’ ‘Oh, I have. There was a man condemned to death for the murder of a charwoman and this detective got him off at the last moment by finding the real person.’ ‘Sounds crummy to me.’ ‘I think it might be rather fun.’ ‘Colin ought to enjoy it. He’s mad on criminal psychology.’ ‘I would not put it precisely like that, but I’ll not deny that a man who has been closely acquainted with criminals might be interesting to interrogate.’

      Dinner was at seven-thirty and most of the students were already seated when Mrs Hubbard came down from her sitting-room (where sherry had been served to the distinguished guest) followed by a small elderly man with suspiciously black hair and a moustache of ferocious proportions which he twirled continuously.

      ‘These are some of our students, M. Poirot. This is M. Hercule Poirot who is kindly going to talk to us after dinner.’

      Salutations were exchanged and Poirot sat down by Mrs Hubbard and busied himself with keeping his moustaches out of the excellent minestrone which was served by a small active Italian manservant from a big tureen.

      This was followed by a piping hot dish of spaghetti and meat balls and it was then that a girl sitting on Poirot’s right spoke shyly to him.

      ‘Does Mrs Hubbard’s sister really work for you?’

      Poirot turned to her.

      ‘But yes indeed. Miss Lemon has been my secretary for many years. She is the most efficient woman that ever lived. I am sometimes afraid of her.’

      ‘Oh I see. I wondered—’

      ‘Now what did you wonder, mademoiselle?’

      He smiled upon her in paternal fashion, making a mental note as he did so.

      ‘Pretty, worried, not too quick mentally, frightened…’ He said:

      ‘May I know your name and what it is you are studying?’

      ‘Celia Austin. I don’t study. I’m a dispenser at St Catherine’s Hospital.’

      ‘Ah, that is interesting work?’

      ‘Well, I don’t know—perhaps it is.’ She sounded rather uncertain.

      ‘And these others? Can you tell me something about them, perhaps? I understood this was a home for foreign students, but these seem mostly to be English.’

      ‘Some of the foreign ones are out. Mr Chandra Lal and Mr Gopal Ram—they’re Indians—and Miss Reinjeer who’s Dutch—and Mr Achmed Ali who’s Egyptian and frightfully political!’

      ‘And those who are here? Tell me about these.’

      ‘Well, sitting on Mrs Hubbard’s left is Nigel Chapman. He’s studying Medieval History and Italian at London University. Then there’s Patricia Lane next to him, with the spectacles. She’s taking a diploma in Archaeology. The big red-headed boy is Len Bateson, he’s a medical and the dark girl is Valerie Hobhouse, she’s in a beauty shop. Next to her is Colin McNabb—he’s doing a post-graduate course in Psychiatry.’

      There was a faint change in her voice as she described Colin. Poirot glanced keenly at her and saw that the colour had come up in her face.

      He said to himself:

      ‘So—she is in love and she cannot easily conceal the fact.’

      He noticed that young McNabb never seemed to look at her across the table, being far too much taken up with his conversation with a laughing red-headed girl beside him.

      ‘That’s Sally Finch. She’s American—over here on a Fulbright. Then there’s Genevieve Maricaud. She’s doing English, and so is René Halle who sits next to her. The small fair girl is Jean Tomlinson—she’s at St Catherine’s too. She’s a physiotherapist. The black man is Akibombo—he comes from West Africa and he’s frightfully nice. Then there’s Elizabeth Johnston, she’s from Jamaica and she’s studying law. Next to us on my right are two Turkish students who came about a week ago. They know hardly any English.’

      ‘Thank you. And do you all get on well together? Or do you have quarrels?’

      The lightness of his tone robbed the words of seriousness.

      Celia said:

      ‘Oh, we’re all too busy really to have fights—although—’

      ‘Although what, Miss Austin?’

      ‘Well—Nigel—next to Mrs Hubbard. He likes stirring people up and making them angry. And Len Bateson gets angry. He gets wild with rage sometimes. But he’s very sweet really.’

      ‘And Colin McNabb—does he too get annoyed?’

      ‘Oh no. Colin just raises his eyebrows and looks amused.’

      ‘I see. And the young ladies, do you have your quarrels?’

      ‘Oh no, we all get on very well. Genevieve has feelings sometimes. I think French people are inclined to be touchy—oh, I mean—I’m sorry—’

      Celia was the picture of confusion.

      ‘Me, I am Belgian,’ said Poirot solemnly. He went on quickly, before Celia could recover control of herself: ‘What did you mean just now, Miss Austin, when you said that you wondered. You wondered—what?’

      She crumbled her bread nervously.

      ‘Oh that—nothing—nothing really—just, there have been some silly practical jokes lately—I thought Mrs Hubbard—But really it was silly of me. I didn’t mean anything.’

      Poirot did not press her. He turned away to Mrs Hubbard and was presently engaged in a three-cornered conversation with her and with Nigel Chapman, who introduced the controversial challenge that crime was a form of creative art—and that the misfits of society were really the police who only entered that profession because of their secret sadism. Poirot was amused to note that the anxious-looking young woman in spectacles who sat beside him tried desperately to explain away his remarks as fast as he made them. Nigel, however, took absolutely no notice of her.

      Mrs Hubbard looked benignly amused.

      ‘All you young people nowadays think of nothing but politics and psychology,’ she said. ‘When I was a girl we were much more lighthearted. We danced. If you rolled back the carpet in the common-room there’s quite a good floor, and you could dance to the wireless, but you never do.’

      Celia laughed and said with a tinge of malice:

      ‘But you used to dance, Nigel. I’ve danced with you myself once, though I don’t expect you remember.’

      ‘You’ve danced with me,’ said Nigel incredulously. ‘Where?’

      ‘At Cambridge—in May Week.’

      ‘Oh, May Week!’ Nigel waved away the follies of youth. ‘One goes through that adolescent phase. Mercifully it soon passes.’

      Nigel was clearly not much more than twenty-five now. Poirot concealed a smile in his moustache.

      Patricia Lane said earnestly:

      ‘You see, Mrs Hubbard, there is so much study to be done. With lectures to attend and one’s notes to write up, there’s really not time for anything but what is really worth while.’

      ‘Well, my dear, one’s only young once,’ said Mrs Hubbard.

      A chocolate pudding succeeded the spaghetti and afterwards they all went into the common-room, and helped themselves to coffee from an urn that stood on a table. Poirot was then invited to begin his discourse. The two Turks politely excused themselves. The rest seated themselves and looked expectant.

      Poirot rose to his feet and spoke with his usual aplomb. The sound of his own voice was always pleasant to him, and he spoke for three-quarters of an hour in a light and amusing fashion, recalling those of his experiences that lent themselves to an agreeable exaggeration.