Cat Among the Pigeons. Agatha Christie
But there were times when Lady Veronica gave her well-wishers the slip, tanked herself up and made a bee-line for her daughters to assure them of her maternal love. The twins had arrived by train early today, but no one had expected Lady Veronica.
Mrs Upjohn was still talking. But Miss Bulstrode was not listening. She was reviewing various courses of action, for she recognized that Lady Veronica was fast approaching the truculent stage. But suddenly, an answer to prayer, Miss Chadwick appeared at a brisk trot, slightly out of breath. Faithful Chaddy, thought Miss Bulstrode. Always to be relied upon, whether it was a severed artery or an intoxicated parent.
‘Disgraceful,’ said Lady Veronica to her loudly. ‘Tried to keep me away—didn’t want me to come down here—I fooled Edith all right. Went to have my rest—got out car—gave silly old Edith slip…regular old maid…no man would ever look at her twice…Had a row with police on the way…said I was unfit to drive car…nonshense…Going to tell Miss Bulstrode I’m taking the girls home—want ’em home, mother love. Wonderful thing, mother love—’
‘Splendid, Lady Veronica,’ said Miss Chadwick. ‘We’re so pleased you’ve come. I particularly want you to see the new Sports Pavilion. You’ll love it.’
Adroitly she turned Lady Veronica’s unsteady footsteps in the opposite direction, leading her away from the house.
‘I expect we’ll find your girls there,’ she said brightly. ‘Such a nice Sports Pavilion, new lockers, and a drying room for the swim suits—’ their voices trailed away.
Miss Bulstrode watched. Once Lady Veronica tried to break away and return to the house, but Miss Chadwick was a match for her. They disappeared round the corner of the rhododendrons, headed for the distant loneliness of the new Sports Pavilion.
Miss Bulstrode heaved a sigh of relief. Excellent Chaddy. So reliable! Not modern. Not brainy—apart from mathematics—but always a present help in time of trouble.
She turned with a sigh and a sense of guilt to Mrs Upjohn who had been talking happily for some time…
‘…though, of course,’ she was saying, ‘never real cloak and dagger stuff. Not dropping by parachute, or sabotage, or being a courier. I shouldn’t have been brave enough. It was mostly dull stuff. Office work. And plotting. Plotting things on a map, I mean—not the story telling kind of plotting. But of course it was exciting sometimes and it was often quite funny, as I just said—all the secret agents followed each other round and round Geneva, all knowing each other by sight, and often ending up in the same bar. I wasn’t married then, of course. It was all great fun.’
She stopped abruptly with an apologetic and friendly smile.
‘I’m sorry I’ve been talking so much. Taking up your time. When you’ve got such lots of people to see.’
She held out a hand, said goodbye and departed.
Miss Bulstrode stood frowning for a moment. Some instinct warned her that she had missed something that might be important.
She brushed the feeling aside. This was the opening day of summer term, and she had many more parents to see. Never had her school been more popular, more assured of success. Meadowbank was at its zenith.
There was nothing to tell her that within a few weeks Meadowbank would be plunged into a sea of trouble; that disorder, confusion and murder would reign there, that already certain events had been set in motion…
About two months earlier than the first day of the summer term at Meadowbank, certain events had taken place which were to have unexpected repercussions in that celebrated girls’ school.
In the Palace of Ramat, two young men sat smoking and considering the immediate future. One young man was dark, with a smooth olive face and large melancholy eyes. He was Prince Ali Yusuf, Hereditary Sheikh of Ramat, which, though small, was one of the richest states in the Middle East. The other young man was sandy haired and freckled and more or less penniless, except for the handsome salary he drew as private pilot to His Highness Prince Ali Yusuf. In spite of this difference in status, they were on terms of perfect equality. They had been at the same public school and had been friends then and ever since.
‘They shot at us, Bob,’ said Prince Ali almost incredulously.
‘They shot at us all right,’ said Bob Rawlinson.
‘And they meant it. They meant to bring us down.’
‘The bastards meant it all right,’ said Bob grimly.
Ali considered for a moment.
‘It would hardly be worth while trying again?’
‘We mightn’t be so lucky this time. The truth is, Ali, we’ve left things too late. You should have got out two weeks ago. I told you so.’
‘One doesn’t like to run away,’ said the ruler of Ramat.
‘I see your point. But remember what Shakespeare or one of these poetical fellows said about those who run away living to fight another day.’
‘To think,’ said the young Prince with feeling, ‘of the money that has gone into making this a Welfare State. Hospitals, schools, a Health Service—’
Bob Rawlinson interrupted the catalogue.
‘Couldn’t the Embassy do something?’
Ali Yusuf flushed angrily.
‘Take refuge in your Embassy? That, never. The extremists would probably storm the place—they wouldn’t respect diplomatic immunity. Besides, if I did that, it really would be the end! Already the chief accusation against me is of being pro-Western.’ He sighed. ‘It is so difficult to understand.’ He sounded wistful, younger than his twenty-five years. ‘My grandfather was a cruel man, a real tyrant. He had hundreds of slaves and treated them ruthlessly. In his tribal wars, he killed his enemies unmercifully and executed them horribly. The mere whisper of his name made everyone turn pale. And yet—he is a legend still! Admired! Respected! The great Achmed Abdullah! And I? What have I done? Built hospitals and schools, welfare, housing…all the things people are said to want. Don’t they want them? Would they prefer a reign of terror like my grandfather’s?’
‘I expect so,’ said Bob Rawlinson. ‘Seems a bit unfair, but there it is.’
‘But why, Bob? Why?’
Bob Rawlinson sighed, wriggled and endeavoured to explain what he felt. He had to struggle with his own inarticulateness.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘He put up a show—I suppose that’s it really. He was—sort of—dramatic, if you know what I mean.’
He looked at his friend who was definitely not dramatic. A nice quiet decent chap, sincere and perplexed, that was what Ali was, and Bob liked him for it. He was neither picturesque nor violent, but whilst in England people who are picturesque and violent cause embarrassment and are not much liked, in the Middle East, Bob was fairly sure, it was different.
‘But democracy—’ began Ali.
‘Oh, democracy—’ Bob waved his pipe. ‘That’s a word that means different things everywhere. One thing’s certain. It never means what the Greeks originally meant by it. I bet you anything you like that if they boot you out of here, some spouting hot air merchant will take over, yelling his own praises, building himself up into God Almighty, and stringing up, or cutting off the heads of anyone who dares to disagree with him in any way. And, mark you, he’ll say it’s a Democratic Government—of the people and for the people. I expect the people will like it too. Exciting for them. Lots of bloodshed.’
‘But