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  "Not at all, madam."

  He stood in the doorway, very correct and upright as

  she walked away down the street. She thought to herself:

  "He knows. He's sorry for me. He's one of the old lot

  too. He'd like me to have it--not a labour member, or

  a button manufacturer! We're dying out, our sort, but we

  hang together."

  In the end she decided not to go back to the agents. What

  THE LISTERDALE MYSTF. Y,.Y

  7

  was the good? She could afford the rent--but there were

  servants to be considered. There would have to be servants

  in a house like that.

  The next morning a letter lay by her plate. It was from

  the house agents. It offered her the tenancy of 7 Cheviot

  Place for six months at two guineas a week, and went on:

  "You have, I presume, taken into consideration the fact that

  the servants are remaining at the landlord's expense? It is

  really a unique offer."

  It was. So startled was she by it, that she read the letter

  out. A fire of questions followed and she described her visit

  of yesterday.

  "Secretive little Mums!" cried Barbara. "Is it really so

  lovely?"

  Rupert cleared his throat and began a judicial cross-questioning.

  "There's something behind all this. It's fishy, if you ask

  me. Decidedly fishy."

  "So's my egg," said Barbara, wrinkling her nose. "Ugh!

  Why should there be something behind it? That's just like

  you, Rupert, always making mysteries out of nothing. It's

  those dreadful detective stories you're always reading."

  'he rent's a joke," said Rupert. "In the city," he added

  importantly, "one gets wise to all sorts of queer things. I

  tell you, there's something very fishy about this business."

  "Nonsense," said Barbara. "House belongs to a man with

  lots of money, he's fond of it, and he wants it lived in by

  decent people while he's away. Something of that kind.

  Money's probably no object to him."

  "What did you say the address wasT' asked Rupert of

  his mother.

  "Seven Cheviot Place."

  "Whew!" He pushed back his chair. "I say, this is exciting.

  That's the house Lord Listerdale disappeared from."

  "Are you sure?" asked Mrs. St. Vincent doubtfully.

  "Positive. He's got a lot of other houses all over London,

  but this is the one he lived in. He walked out of it one

  evening saying he was going to his club, and nobody ever

  saw him again. Supposed to have done a bunk to East Africa

  or somewhere like that, but nobody knows why. Depend

  8

  Agatha Christie

  upon it, he was murdered in hat house. You say here's a

  lot of panelling?"

  "Ye-cs," said Mrs. St. Vincent faintly; "but--"

  Rupert gave her no time. He went on with immense

  enthusiasm. .

  "Panelling! There you are. Sure to be a secret recess

  somewhere. Body's been stuffed in there and has been there

  cvcr since. Perhaps it was embalmed first."

  "Rupert, dear, don't talk nonsense," said his mother.

  "Don't be a double-dyed idiot," said Barbara. "You've

  been taking that peroxide blonde to the pictures too much."

  Rupert rose with dignity--such dignity as his lanky and

  awkward age allowed, and delivered a final ultimatum.

  "You take that house, Mums. I'll ferret out the mystery.

  You see if I don't."

  Rupert departed hurriedly, in fear of being late at the

  office.

  The eyes of the two women met.

  "Could we, Mother?" murmured Barbara tremulously.

  "Oh! If we could."

  '°Pae servants," said Mrs. St. Vincent pathetically, "would eat, you know. I mean, of course, one would want them

  to--but that's the drawback. One can so easily--just do

  without things--when it's only oneself."

  She looked piteously at Barbara, and the girl nodded.

  "We must think it over," said the mother.

  But in reality her mind was made up. She had seen the

  sparkle in the girl's eyes. She thought to herself: "Jim Masterton

  must see her in proper surroundings. This is a chance--a

  wonderful chance. I must take it."

  She sat down and wrote to the agents accepting their

  offer.

  II

  "Quentin, where did the lilies come from? I really can't

  buy expensive flowers."

  "They were sent up from King's Cheviot, madam. It has

  always been the custom here."

  The butler withdrew. Mrs. St. Vincent heaved a sigh of

  THE LISTERDALE MYSTERY

  relief. What would she do without Quentin? He made everything so easy. She thought to herself: "It's too good to last.

  I shall wake up soon, I know I shall, and find it's been all

  a dream. I'm so happy here--two months already, and it's

  passed like a flash."

  Life indeed had been astonishingly pleasant. Quentin, the butler, had displayed himself the autocrat of 7 Cheviot

  Place. "If you will leave everything to me, madam," he had

  said respectfully. "You will find it the best way."

  Each week, he brought her the housekeeping books, their totals astonishingly low. There were only two other servants,

  a cook and a housemaid. They were pleasant in manner,

  and efficient in their duties, but it was Quentin who

  ran the house. Game and poultry appeared on the table

  sometimes, causing Mrs. St. Vincent solicitude. Quentin

  reassured her. Sent up from Lord Listerdale's country seat,

  King's Cheviot, or from his Yorkshire moor. "It has always

  been the custom, madam."

  Privately Mrs. St. Vincent doubted whether the absent Lord Listerdale would agree with those words. She was

  inclined to suspect Quentin of usurping his master's authority.

  It was clear that he had taken a fancy to them, and

  that in his eyes nothing was too good for them.

  Her curiosity aroused by Rupert's declaration, Mrs. St. Vincent had made a tentative reference to Lord Listerdale

  when she next interviewed the house agents. The white-haired

  old gentleman had responded immediately.

  Yes, Lord Listerdale was in East Africa, had been there for the last eighteen months.

  "Our client is rather an eccentric man," he had said, smiling broadly. "He left London in a most unconventional

  manner, as you may perhaps remember? Not a word to

  anyone. The newspapers got hold of it. There were actually

  inquiries on foot at Scotland Yard. Luckily, news was received

  from Lord Listerdale himself from East Africa. He

  invested his cousin, Colonel Carfax, with power of attorney.

  It is the latter who conducts all Lord Listerdale's affairs.

  Yes, rather eccentric, I fear. He has always been a great

  traveller in the wilds--it is quite on the cards that he may

  not return for years to England, though he is getting on in

  years."

  10 Agatha Christie

  "Surely lie is not so very old," said Mrs. St. Vincent,

  with a sudden memory of a bluff, bearded face, rather like an Elizabethan sailor, which she had once noticed in an

  illustrated magazine.

  "Middle-aged," said the white-haired gentleman. "Fifty-three, according to Debrett."

  This conversa
tion Mrs. St. Vincent had retailed to Rupert

  with the intention of rebuking that young gentleman. Rupert, however, was undismayed.

  "It looks fishier than ever to me," he had declared. "Who's this Colonel Carfax? Probably comes into the title if anything

  happens to Listerdale. The letter from East Africa was

  probably forged. In three years, or whatever it is, this Carfax

  will presume death, and take the title. Meantime, he's got

  all the handling of the estate. Very fishy, I call it."

  He had condescended graciously to approve the house. In his leisure moments he was inclined to tap the panelling

  and make elaborate measurements for the possible location

  of a secret room, but little by little his interest in the mystery

  of Lord Listerdale abated. He was also less enthusiastic on

  the subject of the tobacconist's daughter. Atmosphere tells.

  To Barbara the house had brought great satisfaction. Jim Masterton had come home, and was a frequent visitor. He

  and Mrs. St. Vincent got on splendidly together, and he

  said something to Barbara one day that startled her.

  "This house is a wonderful setting for your mother, you know."

  "For Mother?"

  "Yes. It was made for her! She belongs to it in an extraordinary way. You know there's something queer about

  this house altogether, something uncanny and haunting."

  "Don't get like Rupert," Barbara implored him. "He is convinced that the wicked Colonel Carfax murdered Lord

  Listerdale and hid his body under the floor."

  Masterton laughed.

  "I admire Rupert's detective zeal. No, I didn't mean anything of that kind. But there's something in the air, some

  atmosphere that one doesn't quite understand."

  They had been three months in Cheviot Place when Barbara came to her mother with a radiant face.

  "Jim and I-we're engaged. Yes--last night. Oh,

  THE LISTERDALE MYSTERY 1 1

  Mother! It all seems like a fairy tale come true." "Oh, my dear! I'm so glad--so glad."

  Mother and daughter clasped each other close.

  "You know Jim's almost as much in love with you as he is with me," said Barbara at last, with a mischievous

  laugh.

  Mrs. St. Vincent blushed very prettily.

  "He is,' persisted the girl. "You thought this house would make such a beautiful setting for me, and all the time it's

  really a setting for you. Rupert and I don't quite belong

  here. You do.,

  "Don't talk nonsense, darling."

  "It's not nonsense. There's a flavour of enchanted castle about it, with you as an enchanted princess and Quentin

  as--as--oh!--a benevolent magician."

  Mrs. St. Vincent laughed and admitted the last item.

  Rupert received the news of his sister's engagement very calmly.

  "I thought there was something of the kind in the wind," he observed sapiendy.

  He and his mother were dining alone together. Barbara was out with Jim.

  Quentin placed the port in front of him and withdrew noiselessly.

  "That's a mm old bird," said Rupert, nodding towards the closed door. "There's something odd about him, you

  know, something--"

  "Not fishy?" interrupted Mrs. St. Vincent, with a faint smile.

  "Why, Mother, how did you know what I was going to say?" demanded Rupert in all seriousness.

  "It's rather a word of yours, darling. You think everything is fishy. I suppose you have an idea that it was Quentin

  who did away with Lord Listerdale and put him under the

  floor?"

  "Behind the panelling," corrected Rupert. "You always get things a little bit wrong, Mother. No, I've inquired about

  that. Quentin was down at King's Cheviot at the time."

  Mrs. St. Vincent smiled at him, as she rose from the table and went up to the drawing room. In some ways Rupert

  was a long time growing up.

  12 Agatha Christie

  Yet a sudden wonder swept over her for the first time as to Lord Listerdale's reasons for leaving England so abruptly.

  There must be something behind it, to account for that

  sudden decision. She was still thinking the matter over when

  Quentin came in with the coffee tray, and she spoke out

  impulsively.

  "You have been with Lord Listerdale a long time, haven't you, Quentin?"

  "Yes, madam; since I was a lad of twenty-one. That was in the late lord's time. I started as third footman."

  "You must know Lord Listerdale very well. What kind of a man is he?"

  The butler turned the tray a little, so that she could help herself to sugar more conveniently, as he replied in even

  unemotional tones:

  "Lord Listerdale was a very selfish gentleman, madam; with no consideration for others."

  He removed the tray and bore it from the room. Mrs. St. Vincent sat with her coffee cup in her hand and a puzzled

  frown on her face. Something struck her as odd in the speech

  apart from the views it expressed. In another minute it

  flashed home to her.

  Quentin had used the word "was," not "is." But then, he must think--must believe---She pulled herself up. She

  was as bad as Rupert! But a very definite uneasiness assailed

  her. Afterwards she dated her first suspicions from that

  moment.

  With Barbara's happiness and future assured, she had time to think her own thoughts, and against her will, they

  began to centre round the mystery of Lord Listerdale. What

  was the real story? Whatever it was, Quentin knew something

  about it. Those had been odd words of his-"a very

  selfish gentleman--no consideration for others." What lay

  behind them? He had spoken as a judge might speak, detachedly

  and impartially.

  Was Quentin involved in Lord Listerdale's disappearance? Had he taken an active part in any tragedy there might

  have been? After all, ridiculous as Rupert's assumption had

  seemed at the time, that single letter with its power of

  attorney coming from East Africa was--well, open to suspicion.

  THE LISTERDALE MYSTERY 13

  But try as she would, she could not believe any real evil of Quentin. Quentin, she told herself over and over again,

  was good--she used the word as simply as a child might

  have done. Quentin was good. But he knew something!

  She never spoke with him again of his master. The subject was apparently forgotten. Rupert and Barbara had

  other things to think of, and there were no further discussions.

  It was towards the end of August that her vague surmises crystallized into realities. Rupert had gone for a fortnight's

  holiday with a friend who had a motorcycle and trailer. It

  was some ten days after his departure that Mrs. St. Vincent

  was startled to see him rush into the room where she sat

  writing.

  "Rupert!" she exclaimed.

  "I know, Mother. You didn't expect to see me for another three days. But something's happened. Anderson--my pal,

  you know--didn't much care where he went, so I suggested

  having a look in at King's Cheviot--"

  "King's Cheviot? But why--?"

  "You know perfectly well, Mother, that I've always scented something fishy about things here. Well, I had a

  look at the old place--it's let, you know--nothing there.

  Not that I actually expected to find anything--I was just

  nosing round, so to speak."

  Yes, she thought, Rupert was very like a dog at this moment. Hunting in circles for something vague and undefined,

  led by instinct, busy and happy.
<
br />   "It was when we were passing through a village about eight or nine miles away that it happened--that I saw him,

  I mean."

  "Saw whom?"

  "Quentin--just going into a little cottage. Something fishy here, I said to myself, and we stopped the bus, and I

  went back. I rapped on the door and he himself opened it." "But I don't understand. Quentin hasn't been away-"

  "I'm coming to that, Mother. If you'd only listen and

  not interrupt. It was Quentin, and it wasn't Quentin, if you

  know what I mean."

  Mrs. St. Vincent clearly did not know, so he elucidated matters further.

  ill

  14 Agatha Christie

  "It was Quentin all right, but it wasn't our Quentin. It

  was the real man."

  "Rupert!"

  "You listen. It was taken in myself at first, and said: 'It is Quentin, isn't it?' And the old johnny said: 'Quite right,

  sir, that is my name. What can I do for you?' And then I

  saw that it wasn't our man, though it was precious like him,

  voice and all. I asked a few questions, and it all came out.

  The old chap hadn't an idea of anything fishy being on.

  He'd been butler to Lord Listerdale, all right, and was retired

  on a pension and given this cottage just about the time that

  Lord Listerdale was supposed to have gone off to Africa.

  You see where that leads us. This man's an impostor--he's

  playing the part of Quentin for purposes of his own. My

  theory is that he came up to town that evening, pretending

  to be the butler from King's Cheviot, got an interview with

  Lord Listerdale, killed him and hid his body behind the

  panelling. It's an old house, there's sure to be a secret

  recess--"

  "Oh, don't let's go into all that again," interrupted Mrs. St. Vincent wildly. "I can't bear it. Why should he--that's

  what I want to know--why? If he did such a thing--which

  I don't believe for one minute, mind you--what was the reason for it all?"

  "You're right," said Rupert. "Motive--that's important. Now I've made inquiries. Lord Listerdale had a lot of house

  property. In the last two days I've discovered that practically