Hercule Poirot's Christmas / Рождество Эркюля Пуаро. Книга для чтения на английском языке. Агата Кристи

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Lee came inside, let Tressilian remove his scarf and take the somewhat theatrical hat.

      ‘How’s my dear brother Alfred, Tressilian?’

      ‘He’s very well, sir.’

      Harry grinned. ‘Looking forward to seeing me? Eh?’

      ‘I expect so, sir.’

      ‘I don’t! Quite the contrary. I bet it’s given him a nasty jolt, my turning up! Alfred and I never did get on. Ever read your Bible, Tressilian?’

      ‘Why, yes, sir, sometimes, sir.’

      ‘Remember the tale of the prodigal’s return? The good brother didn’t like it, remember? Didn’t like it at all! Good old stay-at-home Alfred doesn’t like it either, I bet.’

      Tressilian remained silent looking down his nose[75]. His stiffened back expressed protest. Harry clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Lead on, old son,’ he said. ‘The fatted calf awaits me! Lead me right to it.’

      Tressilian murmured: ‘If you will come this way into the drawing-room, sir. I am not quite sure where everyone is… They were unable to send to meet you, sir, not knowing the time of your arrival.’

      Harry nodded. He followed Tressilian along the hall, turning his head to look about him as he went.

      ‘All the old exhibits in their place, I see,’ he remarked. ‘I don’t believe anything has changed since I went away twenty years ago.’

      He followed Tressilian into the drawing-room.

      The old man murmured: ‘I will see if I can find Mr or Mrs Alfred,’ and hurried out.

      Harry Lee had marched into the room and had then stopped, staring at the figure who was seated on one of the window-sills. His eyes roamed incredulously over the black hair and the creamy exotic pallor.

      ‘Good Lord!’ he said. ‘Are you my father’s seventh and most beautiful wife?’

      Pilar slipped down and came towards him. ‘I am Pilar Estravados,’ she announced. ‘And you must be my Uncle Harry, my mother’s brother.’

      Harry said, staring: ‘So that’s who you are! Jenny’s daughter.’

      Pilar said: ‘Why did you ask me if I was your father’s seventh wife? Has he really had six wives?’

      Harry laughed. ‘No, I believe he’s only had one official one. Well – Pil – what’s your name?’

      ‘Pilar, yes.’

      ‘Well, Pilar, it really gives me quite a turn to see something like you blooming in this mausoleum.’

      ‘This – maus – please?[76]’

      ‘This museum of stuffed dummies! I always thought this house was lousy! Now I see it again I think it’s lousier than ever!’

      Pilar said in a shocked voice: ‘Oh, no, it is very handsome here! The furniture is good and the carpets – thick carpets everywhere – and there are lots of ornaments. Everything is very good quality and very, very rich!’

      ‘You’re right there,’ said Harry, grinning. He looked at her with amusement. ‘You know, I can’t help getting a kick out of seeing you in the midst —’

      He broke off as Lydia came rapidly into the room. She came straight to him.

      ‘How d’you do, Harry? I’m Lydia – Alfred’s wife.’ ‘How de do, Lydia.’ He shook hands, examining her intelligent mobile face in a swift glance and approving mentally of the way she walked – very few women moved well.

      Lydia in her turn took quick stock of him[77].

      She thought: ‘He looks a frightful tough – attractive though. I wouldn’t trust him an inch…[78]’

      She said smiling: ‘How does it look after all these years? Quite different, or very much the same?’

      ‘Pretty much the same.’ He looked round him. ‘This room’s been done over.’

      ‘Oh, many times.’

      He said: ‘I meant by you. You’ve made it – different.’

      ‘Yes, I expect so…’

      He grinned at her, a sudden impish grin that reminded her with a start of the old man upstairs.

      ‘It’s got more class about it now! I remember hearing that old Alfred had married a girl whose people came over with the Conqueror[79].’

      Lydia smiled. She said: ‘I believe they did. But they’ve rather run to seed[80] since those days.’

      Harry said: ‘How’s old Alfred? Just the same blessed old stick-in-the-mud as ever?’

      ‘I’ve no idea whether you will find him changed or not.’

      ‘How are the others? Scattered all over England?’

      ‘No – they’re all here for Christmas, you know.’

      Harry’s eyes opened. ‘Regular Christmas family reunion? What’s the matter with the old man? He used not to give a damn for sentiment[81]. Don’t remember his caring much for his family, either. He must have changed!’

      ‘Perhaps.’ Lydia’s voice was dry.

      Pilar was staring, her big eyes wide and interested.

      Harry said: ‘How’s old George? Still the same skinflint? How he used to howl if he had to part with a halfpenny of his pocket-money!’

      Lydia said: ‘George is in Parliament. He’s member for Westeringham.’

      ‘What? Pop-eye in Parliament? Lord, that’s good.’

      Harry threw back his head and laughed. It was rich stentorian laughter – it sounded uncontrolled and brutal in the confined space of the room. Pilar drew in her breath with a gasp. Lydia flinched a little.

      Then, at a movement behind him, Harry broke off his laugh and turned sharply. He had not heard anyone coming in, but Alfred was standing there quietly. He was looking at Harry with an odd expression on his face.

      Harry stood a minute, then a slow smile crept to his lips. He advanced a step. ‘Why[82],’ he said, ‘it’s Alfred!’

      Alfred nodded. ‘Hallo, Harry,’ he said.

      They stood staring at each other. Lydia caught her breath. She thought: ‘How absurd! Like two dogs – looking at each other…’

      Pilar’s gaze widened even further. She thought to herself: ‘How silly they look standing there… Why do they not embrace? No, of course the English do not do that. But they might say something. Why do they just look?’

      Harry said at last: ‘Well, well. Feels funny to be here again!’

      ‘I expect so – yes. A good many years since you – got out.’

      Harry threw up his head. He drew his finger along the line of his jaw. It was a gesture that was habitual with him. It expressed belligerence.

      ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m glad I have come’ – he paused to bring out the word with greater significance – ‘home…’

      II

      ‘I’ve been, I suppose, a very wicked man,’ said Simeon Lee.

      He was leaning back in his chair. His chin was raised and with one finger he was stroking his jaw reflectively. In front of him a big fire glowed and danced. Beside it sat Pilar, a little screen of papier-mâché[83]

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