Sad Cypress. Agatha Christie

head.

      ‘I like you as you are: delicate and aloof and ironical. I’d hate you to go all earnest. I’m only saying that if it weren’t for Aunt Laura you probably would be working at some grim job.’

      He went on:

      ‘The same with me. I’ve got a job, of sorts. Being with Lewis & Hume is not too arduous. It suits me. I preserve my self-respect by having a job; but—mark this—but I don’t worry about the future because of my expectations—from Aunt Laura.’

      Elinor said:

      ‘We sound rather like human leeches!’

      ‘Nonsense! We’ve been given to understand that some day we shall have money—that’s all. Naturally, that fact influences our conduct.’

      Elinor said thoughtfully:

      ‘Aunt Laura has never told us definitely just how she has left her money?’

      Roddy said:

      ‘That doesn’t matter! In all probability she’s divided it between us; but if that isn’t so—if she’s left all of it or most of it to you as her own flesh and blood—why, then, darling, I shall share in it, because I’m going to marry you—and if the old pet thinks the majority should go to me as the male representative of the Welmans, that’s still all right, because you’re marrying me.’

      He grinned at her affectionately. He said:

      ‘Lucky we happen to love each other. You do love me, don’t you, Elinor?’

      ‘Yes.’

      She said it coldly, almost primly.

      ‘Yes!’ Roddy mimicked her. ‘You’re adorable, Elinor. That little air of yours—aloof—untouchable—la Princesse Lointaine. It’s that quality of yours that made me love you, I believe.’

      Elinor caught her breath. She said, ‘Is it?’

      ‘Yes.’ He frowned. ‘Some women are so—oh, I don’t know—so damned possessive—so—so dog-like and devoted—their emotions slopping all over the place! I’d hate that. With you I never know—I’m never sure—any minute you might turn round in that cool, detached way of yours and say you’d changed your mind—quite coolly, like that—without batting an eyelash! You’re a fascinating creature, Elinor. You’re like a work of art—so—so—finished!’

      He went on:

      ‘You know, I think ours will be the perfect marriage… We both love each other enough and not too much. We’re good friends. We’ve got a lot of tastes in common. We know each other through and through. We’ve all the advantages of cousinship without the disadvantages of blood relationship. I shall never get tired of you, because you’re such an elusive creature. You may get tired of me, though. I’m such an ordinary sort of chap—’

      Elinor shook her head. She said:

      ‘I shan’t get tired of you, Roddy—never.’

      ‘My sweet!’

      He kissed her.

      He said:

      ‘Aunt Laura has a pretty shrewd idea of how it is with us, I think, although we haven’t been down since we finally fixed it up. It rather gives us an excuse, doesn’t it, for going down?’

      ‘Yes. I was thinking the other day—’

      Roddy finished the sentence for her:

      ‘—That we hadn’t been down as often as we might. I thought that, too. When she first had her stroke we went down almost every other week-end. And now it must be almost two months since we were there.’

      Elinor said:

      ‘We’d have gone if she’d asked for us—at once.’

      ‘Yes, of course. And we know that she likes Nurse O’Brien and is well looked after. All the same, perhaps we have been a bit slack. I’m talking now not from the money point of view—but the sheer human one.’

      Elinor nodded.

      ‘I know.’

      ‘So that filthy letter has done some good, after all! We’ll go down to protect our interests and because we’re fond of the old dear!’

      He lit a match and set fire to the letter which he took from Elinor’s hand.

      ‘Wonder who wrote it?’ he said. ‘Not that it matters… Someone who was “on our side”, as we used to say when we were kids. Perhaps they’ve done us a good turn, too. Jim Partington’s mother went out to the Riviera to live, had a handsome young Italian doctor to attend her, became quite crazy about him and left him every penny she had. Jim and his sisters tried to upset the will, but couldn’t.’

      Elinor said:

      ‘Aunt Laura likes the new doctor who’s taken over Dr Ransome’s practice—but not to that extent! Anyway, that horrid letter mentioned a girl. It must be Mary.’

      Roddy said:

      ‘We’ll go down and see for ourselves…’

      Nurse O’Brien rustled out of Mrs Welman’s bedroom and into the bathroom. She said over her shoulder:

      ‘I’ll just pop the kettle on. You could do with a cup of tea before you go on, I’m sure, Nurse.’

      Nurse Hopkins said comfortably:

      ‘Well, dear, I can always do with a cup of tea. I always say there’s nothing like a nice cup of tea—a strong cup!’

      Nurse O’Brien said as she filled the kettle and lit the gas-ring:

      ‘I’ve got everything here in this cupboard—teapot and cups and sugar—and Edna brings me up fresh milk twice a day. No need to be forever ringing bells. ’Tis a fine gas-ring, this; boils a kettle in a flash.’

      Nurse O’Brien was a tall red-haired woman of thirty with flashing white teeth, a freckled face and an engaging smile. Her cheerfulness and vitality made her a favourite with her patients. Nurse Hopkins, the District Nurse who came every morning to assist with the bed-making and toilet of the heavy old lady, was a homely-looking middle-aged woman with a capable air and a brisk manner.

      She said now approvingly:

      ‘Everything’s very well done in this house.’

      The other nodded.

      ‘Yes, old-fashioned, some of it, no central heating, but plenty of fires and all the maids are very obliging girls and Mrs Bishop looks after them well.’

      Nurse Hopkins said:

      ‘These girls nowadays—I’ve no patience with ’em—don’t know what they want, most of them—and can’t do a decent day’s work.’

      ‘Mary Gerrard’s a nice girl,’ said Nurse O’Brien. ‘I really don’t know what Mrs Welman would do without her. You saw how she asked for her now? Ah, well, she’s a lovely creature, I will say, and she’s got a way with her.’

      Nurse Hopkins said:

      ‘I’m sorry for Mary. That old father of hers does his best to spite the girl.’

      ‘Not a civil word in his head, the old curmudgeon,’ said Nurse O’Brien. ‘There, the kettle’s singing. I’ll wet the tea as soon as it comes to the boil.’

      The tea was made and poured, hot and strong. The two nurses sat with it in Nurse O’Brien’s room next door to Mrs Welman’s bedroom.

      ‘Mr Welman and Miss Carlisle are coming down,’ said Nurse O’Brien. ‘There was a telegram came this morning.’

      ‘There now, dear,’ said Nurse Hopkins. ‘I thought the old lady was looking excited about something. It’s some