The Hollow. Агата Кристи

a quarter of an hour after he need, thinking about Henrietta and Mrs Crabtree and letting ridiculous nostalgic feelings about San Miguel sweep over him. The fault was his. It was idiotic of Gerda to try and take the blame, maddening of her to try and eat the burnt part herself. Why did she always have to make a martyr of herself ? Why did Terence stare at him in that slow, interested way? Why, oh why, did Zena have to sniff so continually? Why were they all so damned irritating?

      His wrath fell on Zena.

      ‘Why on earth don’t you blow your nose?’

      ‘She’s got a little cold, I think, dear.’

      ‘No, she hasn’t. You’re always thinking they have colds! She’s all right.’

      Gerda sighed. She had never been able to understand why a doctor, who spent his time treating the ailments of others, could be so indifferent to the health of his own family. He always ridiculed any suggestions of illness.

      ‘I sneezed eight times before lunch,’ said Zena importantly.

      ‘Heat sneeze!’ said John.

      ‘It’s not hot,’ said Terence. ‘The thermometer in the hall is 55.’

      John got up. ‘Have we finished? Good, let’s get on. Ready to start, Gerda?’

      ‘In a minute, John. I’ve just a few things to put in.’

      ‘Surely you could have done that before. What have you been doing all the morning?’

      He went out of the dining-room fuming. Gerda had hurried off into her bedroom. Her anxiety to be quick would make her much slower. But why couldn’t she have been ready? His own suitcase was packed and in the hall. Why on earth—

      Zena was advancing on him, clasping some rather sticky cards.

      ‘Can I tell your fortune, Daddy? I know how. I’ve told Mother’s and Terry’s and Lewis’s and Jane’s and Cook’s.’

      ‘All right.’

      He wondered how long Gerda was going to be. He wanted to get away from this horrible house and this horrible street and this city full of ailing, sniffling, diseased people. He wanted to get to woods and wet leaves—and the graceful aloofness of Lucy Angkatell, who always gave you the impression she hadn’t even got a body.

      Zena was importantly dealing out cards.

      ‘That’s you in the middle, Father, the King of Hearts. The person whose fortune’s told is always the King of Hearts. And then I deal the others face down. Two on the left of you and two on the right of you and one over your head—that has power over you, and one under your feet—you have power over it. And this one—covers you!

      ‘Now.’ Zena drew a deep breath. ‘We turn them over. On the right of you is the Queen of Diamonds—quite close.’

      ‘Henrietta,’ he thought, momentarily diverted and amused by Zena’s solemnity.

      ‘And the next one is the knave of clubs—he’s some quiet young man.

      ‘On the left of you is the eight of spades—that’s a secret enemy. Have you got a secret enemy, Father?’

      ‘Not that I know of.’

      ‘And beyond is the Queen of Spades—that’s a much older lady.’

      ‘Lady Angkatell,’ he said.

      ‘Now this is what’s over your head and has power over you—the Queen of Hearts.’

      ‘Veronica,’ he thought. ‘Veronica!’ And then, ‘What a fool I am! Veronica doesn’t mean a thing to me now.’

      ‘And this is under your feet and you have power over it—the Queen of Clubs.’

      Gerda hurried into the room.

      ‘I’m quite ready now, John.’

      ‘Oh, wait, Mother, wait, I’m telling Daddy’s fortune. Just the last card, Daddy—the most important of all. The one that covers you.’

      Zena’s small sticky fingers turned it over. She gave a gasp.

      ‘Oh—it’s the Ace of Spades! That’s usually a death—but—’

      ‘Your mother,’ said John, ‘is going to run over someone on the way out of London. Come on, Gerda. Goodbye, you two. Try and behave.’

       CHAPTER 6

      Midge Hardcastle came downstairs about eleven on Saturday morning. She had had breakfast in bed and had read a book and dozed a little and then got up.

      It was nice lazing this way. About time she had a holiday! No doubt about it, Madame Alfrege’s got on your nerves.

      She came out of the front door into the pleasant autumn sunshine. Sir Henry Angkatell was sitting on a rustic seat reading The Times. He looked up and smiled. He was fond of Midge.

      ‘Hallo, my dear.’

      ‘Am I very late?’

      ‘You haven’t missed lunch,’ said Sir Henry, smiling.

      Midge sat down beside him and said with a sigh:

      ‘It’s nice being here.’

      ‘You’re looking rather peaked.’

      ‘Oh, I’m all right. How delightful to be somewhere where no fat women are trying to get into clothes several sizes too small for them!’

      ‘Must be dreadful!’ Sir Henry paused and then said, glancing down at his wrist-watch: ‘Edward’s arriving by the 12.15.’

      ‘Is he?’ Midge paused, then said, ‘I haven’t seen Edward for a long time.’

      ‘He’s just the same,’ said Sir Henry. ‘Hardly ever comes up from Ainswick.’

      ‘Ainswick,’ thought Midge. ‘Ainswick!’ Her heart gave a sick pang. Those lovely days at Ainswick. Visits looked forward to for months! ‘I’m going to Ainswick.’ Lying awake for nights beforehand thinking about it. And at last—the day! The little country station at which the train—the big London express—had to stop if you gave notice to the guard! The Daimler waiting outside. The drive—the final turn in through the gate and up through the woods till you came out into the open and there the house was—big and white and welcoming. Old Uncle Geoffrey in his patchwork tweed coat.

      ‘Now then, youngsters—enjoy yourselves.’ And they had enjoyed themselves. Henrietta over from Ireland. Edward, home from Eton. She herself, from the North-country grimness of a manufacturing town. How like heaven it had been.

      But always centring about Edward. Edward, tall and gentle and diffident and always kind. But never, of course, noticing her very much because Henrietta was there.

      Edward, always so retiring, so very much of a visitor so that she had been startled one day when Tremlet, the head gardener, had said:

      ‘The place will be Mr Edward’s some day.’

      ‘But why, Tremlet? He’s not Uncle Geoffrey’s son.’

      ‘He’s the heir, Miss Midge. Entailed, that’s what they call it. Miss Lucy, she’s Mr Geoffrey’s only child, but she can’t inherit because she’s a female, and Mr Henry, as she married, he’s only a second cousin. Not so near as Mr Edward.’

      And now Edward lived at Ainswick. Lived there alone and very seldom came away. Midge wondered, sometimes, if Lucy minded. Lucy always looked as though she never minded about anything.

      Yet Ainswick had been her home, and Edward was only her first cousin once removed, and over twenty years younger than she was. Her father, old Geoffrey Angkatell, had been a great ‘character’