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TheListerdaleMystery

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THELISTERDALEMYSTERY

Mrs.St.Vincentwasaddingupfigures.Onceortwiceshesighed,andherhandstole to her aching forehead. She had always disliked arithmetic. It wasunfortunatethatnowadaysherlifeshouldseemtobecomposedentirelyofoneparticularkindofsum,theceaselessaddingtogetherofsmallnecessaryitemsofexpendituremakingatotalthatneverfailedtosurpriseandalarmher.

Surely it couldn’t come to that! She went back over the figures. She hadmadeatriflingerrorinthepence,butotherwisethefigureswerecorrect.

Mrs.St.Vincentsighedagain.Herheadachebynowwasverybad indeed.ShelookedupasthedooropenedandherdaughterBarbaracameintotheroom.BarbaraSt.Vincentwasaveryprettygirl,shehadhermother’sdelicatefeatures,andthesameproudturnofthehead,buthereyesweredarkinsteadofblue,andshehadadifferentmouth,asulkyredmouthnotwithoutattraction.

“Oh! Mother,” she cried. “Still juggling with those horrid old accounts?Throwthemallintothefire.”

“Wemustknowwhereweare,”saidMrs.St.Vincentuncertainly.Thegirlshruggedhershoulders.“We’realwaysinthesameboat,”shesaiddrily.“Damnedhardup.Downto

thelastpennyasusual.”Mrs.St.Vincentsighed.“Iwish—”shebegan,andthenstopped.“I must find something to do,” said Barbara in hard tones. “And find it

quickly.Afterall,Ihavetakenthatshorthandandtypingcourse.SohaveaboutonemillionothergirlsfromallIcansee!‘Whatexperience?’‘None,but—’‘Oh!thankyou,goodmorning.We’ll letyouknow.’But theyneverdo! Imust findsomeotherkindofajob—anyjob.”

“Notyet,dear,”pleadedhermother.“Waitalittlelonger.”Barbarawent to thewindowandstoodlookingoutwithunseeingeyes that

tooknonoteofthedingylineofhousesopposite.“Sometimes,”shesaidslowly,“I’msorryCousinAmytookmewithherto

Egyptlastwinter.Oh!IknowIhadfun—abouttheonlyfunI’veeverhadoram

likelytohaveinmylife.Ididenjoymyself—enjoyedmyselfthoroughly.Butitwasveryunsettling.Imean—comingbacktothis.”

Shesweptahandroundtheroom.Mrs.St.Vincentfolloweditwithhereyesand winced. The room was typical of cheap furnished lodgings. A dustyaspidistra, showily ornamental furniture, a gaudy wallpaper faded in patches.Thereweresignsthatthepersonalityofthetenantshadstruggledwiththatofthelandlady;oneor twopiecesofgoodchina,muchcrackedandmended, so thattheirsaleablevaluewasnil,apieceofembroiderythrownoverthebackofthesofa,awatercoloursketchofayounggirl in the fashionof twentyyearsago;nearenoughstilltoMrs.St.Vincentnottobemistaken.

“It wouldn’t matter,” continued Barbara, “if we’d never known anythingelse.ButtothinkofAnsteys—”

Shebrokeoff,nottrustingherselftospeakofthatdearlylovedhomewhichhadbelongedtotheSt.Vincentfamilyforcenturiesandwhichwasnowinthehandsofstrangers.

“Ifonlyfather—hadn’tspeculated—andborrowed—”“Mydear,”saidMrs.St.Vincent,“yourfatherwasnever,inanysenseofthe

word,abusinessman.”Shesaiditwithagracefulkindoffinality,andBarbaracameoverandgave

her an aimless sort of kiss, as she murmured, “Poor old Mums. I won’t sayanything.”

Mrs.St.Vincenttookupherpenagain,andbentoverherdesk.Barbarawentbacktothewindow.Presentlythegirlsaid:

“Mother.Iheardfrom—fromJimMastertonthismorning.Hewantstocomeoverandseeme.”

Mrs.St.Vincentlaiddownherpenandlookedupsharply.“Here?”sheexclaimed.“Well,wecan’taskhimtodinnerattheRitzverywell,”sneeredBarbara.Hermother lookedunhappy.Againshe lookedround the roomwith innate

distaste.“You’re right,” said Barbara. “It’s a disgusting place. Genteel poverty!

Sounds all right—a white-washed cottage, in the country, shabby chintzes ofgooddesign,bowlsofroses,crownDerbyteaservicethatyouwashupyourself.That’swhatit’slikeinbooks.Inreallife,withasonstartingonthebottomrungofoffice life, itmeansLondon.Frowsy landladies,dirtychildrenon thestairs,fellowlodgerswhoalwaysseemtobehalf-castes,haddocksforbreakfaststhat

aren’tquite—quiteandsoon.”“Ifonly—”beganMrs.St.Vincent.“But,really,I’mbeginningtobeafraid

wecan’taffordeventhisroommuchlonger.”“Thatmeans a bed-sitting room—horror!—for you andme,” saidBarbara.

“And a cupboardunder the tiles forRupert.Andwhen Jimcomes to call, I’llreceive him in that dreadful room downstairswith tabbies all round thewallsknitting,andstaringatus,andcoughingthatdreadfulkindofgulpingcoughtheyhave!”

Therewasapause.“Barbara,”saidMrs.St.Vincentatlast.“Doyou—Imean—wouldyou—?”Shestopped,flushingalittle.“You needn’t be delicate, Mother,” said Barbara. “Nobody is nowadays.

MarryJim,Isupposeyoumean?Iwouldlikeashotifheaskedme.ButI’msoawfullyafraidhewon’t.”

“Oh,Barbara,dear.”“Well,it’sonethingseeingmeouttherewithCousinAmy,moving(asthey

sayinnovelettes)inthebestsociety.Hedidtakeafancytome.Nowhe’llcomehereandseemeinthis!Andhe’safunnycreature,youknow,fastidiousandold-fashioned.I—Iratherlikehimforthat.ItremindsmeofAnsteysandthevillage—everythingahundredyearsbehindthetimes,butso—so—oh!Idon’tknow—sofragrant.Likelavender!”

She laughed,half-ashamedofhereagerness.Mrs.St.Vincentspokewithakindofearnestsimplicity.

“IshouldlikeyoutomarryJimMasterton,”shesaid.“Heis—oneofus.Heisverywelloff,also,butthatIdon’tmindaboutsomuch.”

“Ido,”saidBarbara.“I’msickofbeinghardup.”“But,Barbara,itisn’t—”“Onlyforthat?No.Idoreally.I—oh!Mother,can’tyouseeIdo?”Mrs.St.Vincentlookedveryunhappy.“Iwishhecouldseeyouinyourpropersetting,darling,”shesaidwistfully.“Oh,well!”saidBarbara.“Whyworry?Wemightaswelltryandbecheerful

aboutthings.SorryI’vehadsuchagrouch.Cheerup,darling.”Shebentoverhermother,kissedherforeheadlightly,andwentout.Mrs.St.

Vincent, relinquishing all attempts at finance, sat down on the uncomfortablesofa.Herthoughtsranroundincircleslikesquirrelsinacage.

“Onemaysaywhatonelikes,appearancesdoputamanoff.Notlater—not

iftheywerereallyengaged.He’dknowthenwhatasweet,deargirlsheis.Butit’ssoeasyforyoungpeopletotakethetoneoftheirsurroundings.Rupert,now,he’squitedifferentfromwhatheusedtobe.NotthatIwantmychildrentobestuckup.That’snot it abit.But I shouldhate it ifRupertgotengaged to thatdreadfulgirl in the tobacconist’s. Idaresayshemaybeaverynicegirl, really.Butshe’snotourkind.It’sallsodifficult.PoorlittleBabs.IfIcoulddoanything—anything. But where’s the money to come from?We’ve sold everything togiveRuperthisstart.Wereallycan’tevenaffordthis.”

TodistractherselfMrs.St.VincentpickeduptheMorningPost,andglanceddown the advertisements on the front page.Most of them she knew by heart.Peoplewhowantedcapital,peoplewhohadcapitalandwereanxioustodisposeof it on note of hand alone, people who wanted to buy teeth (she alwayswondered why), people who wanted to sell furs and gowns and who hadoptimisticideasonthesubjectofprice.

Suddenly she stiffened to attention. Again and again she read the printedwords.

“Togentle people only. Small house inWestminster, exquisitely furnished,offeredtothosewhowouldreallycareforit.Rentpurelynominal.Noagents.”

Averyordinaryadvertisement.Shehadreadmanythesameor—well,nearlythesame.Nominalrent,thatwaswherethetraplay.

Yet,sinceshewasrestlessandanxioustoescapefromherthoughtssheputonherhatstraightaway,andtookaconvenientbustotheaddressgivenintheadvertisement.

Itproved tobe thatofa firmofhouseagents.Notanewbustling firm—arather decrepit, old-fashioned place. Rather timidly she produced theadvertisement,whichshehadtornout,andaskedforparticulars.

Thewhite-hairedoldgentlemanwhowasattending toher strokedhis chinthoughtfully.

“Perfectly.Yes, perfectly,madam.That house, the housementioned in theadvertisementisNo.7CheviotPlace.Youwouldlikeanorder?”

“Ishouldliketoknowtherentfirst?”saidMrs.St.Vincent.“Ah!therent.Theexactfigureisnotsettled,butIcanassureyouthat it is

purelynominal.”“Ideasofwhatispurelynominalcanvary,”saidMrs.St.Vincent.Theoldgentlemanpermittedhimselftochucklealittle.“Yes, that’s anold trick—anold trick.Butyoucan takemyword for it, it

isn’tsointhiscase.Twoorthreeguineasaweek,perhaps,notmore.”Mrs.St.Vincentdecidedtohavetheorder.Not,ofcourse,thattherewasany

reallikelihoodofherbeingabletoaffordtheplace.But,afterall,shemightjustsee it.Theremustbe somegravedisadvantageattaching to it, tobeofferedatsuchaprice.

Butherheartgavealittlethrobasshelookedupattheoutsideof7CheviotPlace. A gem of a house. Queen Anne, and in perfect condition! A butleransweredthedoor,hehadgreyhairandlittlesidewhiskers,andthemeditativecalmofanarchbishop.Akindlyarchbishop,Mrs.St.Vincentthought.

Heacceptedtheorderwithabenevolentair.“Certainly, madam. I will show you over. The house is ready for

occupation.”Hewentbeforeher,openingdoors,announcingrooms.“Thedrawingroom,thewhitestudy,apowderclosetthroughhere,madam.”It was perfect—a dream. The furniture all of the period, each piece with

signsofwear, butpolishedwith lovingcare.The loose rugswereofbeautifuldim old colours. In each roomwere bowls of fresh flowers. The back of thehouse looked over the Green Park. The whole place radiated an old-worldcharm.

ThetearscameintoMrs.St.Vincent’seyes,andshefoughtthembackwithdifficulty.SohadAnsteyslooked—Ansteys....

Shewonderedwhetherthebutlerhadnoticedheremotion.Ifso,hewastoomuchtheperfectlytrainedservanttoshowit.Shelikedtheseoldservants,onefeltsafewiththem,atease.Theywerelikefriends.

“It isabeautifulhouse,”shesaidsoftly.“Verybeautiful.Iamgladtohaveseenit.”

“Isitforyourselfalone,madam?”“Formyselfandmysonanddaughter.ButI’mafraid—”Shebrokeoff.Shewanteditsodreadfully—sodreadfully.Shefeltinstinctivelythatthebutlerunderstood.Hedidnotlookather,ashe

saidinadetachedimpersonalway:“I happen to be aware,madam, that the owner requires above all, suitable

tenants.Therentisofnoimportancetohim.Hewantsthehousetobetenantedbysomeonewhowillreallycareforandappreciateit.”

“Ishouldappreciateit,”saidMrs.St.Vincentinalowvoice.Sheturnedtogo.

“Thankyouforshowingmeover,”shesaidcourteously.“Notatall,madam.”Hestoodinthedoorway,verycorrectanduprightasshewalkedawaydown

thestreet.Shethoughttoherself:“Heknows.He’ssorryforme.He’soneoftheold lot too. He’d like me to have it—not a labour member, or a buttonmanufacturer!We’redyingout,oursort,butwebandtogether.”

Intheendshedecidednottogobacktotheagents.Whatwasthegood?Shecould afford the rent—but therewere servants to be considered. Therewouldhavetobeservantsinahouselikethat.

Thenextmorningaletterlaybyherplate.Itwasfromthehouseagents.Itofferedherthetenancyof7CheviotPlaceforsixmonthsattwoguineasaweek,andwent on: “You have, I presume, taken into consideration the fact that theservantsareremainingatthelandlord’sexpense?Itisreallyauniqueoffer.”

It was. So startled was she by it, that she read the letter out. A fire ofquestionsfollowedandshedescribedhervisitofyesterday.

“SecretivelittleMums!”criedBarbara.“Isitreallysolovely?”Rupertclearedhisthroat,andbeganajudicialcross-questioning.“There’ssomethingbehindallthis.It’sfishyifyouaskme.Decidedlyfishy.”“So’smyegg,”saidBarbarawrinklinghernose.“Ugh!Whyshouldtherebe

somethingbehindit?That’sjustlikeyou,Rupert,alwaysmakingmysteriesoutofnothing.It’sthosedreadfuldetectivestoriesyou’realwaysreading.”

“The rent’s a joke,” saidRupert. “In the city,” he added importantly, “onegetswise to all sorts of queer things. I tell you, there’s something very fishyaboutthisbusiness.”

“Nonsense,”saidBarbara.“Housebelongstoamanwithlotsofmoney,he’sfondofit,andhewantsitlivedinbydecentpeoplewhilsthe’saway.Somethingofthatkind.Money’sprobablynoobjecttohim.”

“Whatdidyousaytheaddresswas?”askedRupertofhismother.“SevenCheviotPlace.”“Whew!”Hepushedbackhischair.“Isay,thisisexciting.That’sthehouse

LordListerdaledisappearedfrom.”“Areyousure?”askedMrs.St.Vincentdoubtfully.“Positive.He’sgotalotofotherhousesalloverLondon,butthisistheone

helivedin.Hewalkedoutofitoneeveningsayinghewasgoingtohisclub,andnobody ever saw him again. Supposed to have done a bunk toEastAfrica orsomewherelikethat,butnobodyknowswhy.Dependuponit,hewasmurdered

inthathouse.Yousaythere’salotofpanelling?”“Ye-es,”saidMrs.St.Vincentfaintly:“but—”Rupertgavehernotime.Hewentonwithimmenseenthusiasm.“Panelling! There you are. Sure to be a secret recess somewhere. Body’s

been stuffed in there and has been there ever since. Perhaps itwas embalmedfirst.”

“Rupert,dear,don’ttalknonsense,”saidhismother.“Don’t be a double-dyed idiot,” said Barbara. “You’ve been taking that

peroxideblondetothepicturestoomuch.”Rupert rose with dignity—such dignity as his lanky and awkward age

allowed,anddeliveredafinalultimatum.“Youtakethathouse,Mums.I’llferretoutthemystery.YouseeifIdon’t.”Rupertdepartedhurriedly,infearofbeinglateattheoffice.Theeyesofthetwowomenmet.“Couldwe,Mother?”murmuredBarbaratremulously.“Oh!ifwecould.”“Theservants,”saidMrs.St.Vincentpathetically,“wouldeat,youknow.I

mean,ofcourse,onewouldwantthemto—butthat’sthedrawback.Onecansoeasily—justdowithoutthings—whenit’sonlyoneself.”

ShelookedpiteouslyatBarbara,andthegirlnodded.“Wemustthinkitover,”saidthemother.Butinrealityhermindwasmadeup.Shehadseenthesparkleinthegirl’s

eyes. She thought to herself: “Jim Masterton must see her in propersurroundings.Thisisachance—awonderfulchance.Imusttakeit.”

Shesatdownandwrotetotheagentsacceptingtheiroffer.

“Quentin,wheredidtheliliescomefrom?Ireallycan’tbuyexpensiveflowers.”“Theywere sent up fromKing’s Cheviot,madam. It has always been the

customhere.”Thebutlerwithdrew.Mrs.St.Vincentheaveda sighof relief.Whatwould

she dowithoutQuentin?Hemade everything so easy. She thought to herself,“It’stoogoodtolast.Ishallwakeupsoon,IknowIshall,andfindit’sbeenalladream.I’msohappyhere—twomonthsalready,andit’spassedlikeaflash.”

Life indeed had been astonishingly pleasant. Quentin, the butler, haddisplayedhimselftheautocratof7CheviotPlace.“Ifyouwillleaveeverythingtome,madam,”hehadsaidrespectfully.“Youwillfinditthebestway.”

Eachweek,hebroughtherthehousekeepingbooks,theirtotalsastonishingly

low.Therewereonly twoother servants, a cookandahousemaid.Theywerepleasantinmanner,andefficientintheirduties,butitwasQuentinwhoranthehouse. Game and poultry appeared on the table sometimes, causing Mrs. St.Vincent solicitude. Quentin reassured her. Sent up from Lord Listerdale’scountry seat,King’sCheviot,or fromhisYorkshiremoor. “Ithasalwaysbeenthecustom,madam.”

PrivatelyMrs.St.VincentdoubtedwhethertheabsentLordListerdalewouldagree with those words. She was inclined to suspect Quentin of usurping hismaster’sauthority.Itwasclearthathehadtakenafancytothem,andthatinhiseyesnothingwastoogoodforthem.

HercuriosityarousedbyRupert’sdeclaration,Mrs.St.Vincenthadmakeatentative reference to Lord Listerdale when she next interviewed the houseagent.Thewhite-hairedoldgentlemanhadrespondedimmediately.

Yes,LordListerdalewasinEastAfrica,hadbeenthereforthelasteighteenmonths.

“Ourclientisratheraneccentricman,”hehadsaid,smilingbroadly.“HeleftLondoninamostunconventionalmanner,asyoumayperhapsremember?Notawordtoanyone.Thenewspapersgotholdofit.TherewereactuallyinquiriesonfootatScotlandYard.LuckilynewswasreceivedfromLordListerdalehimselffrom East Africa. He invested his cousin, Colonel Carfax, with power ofattorney. It is the latterwho conducts all Lord Listerdale’s affairs.Yes, rathereccentric,Ifear.Hehasalwaysbeenagreattravellerinthewilds—itisquiteonthecardsthathemaynotreturnforyearstoEngland,thoughheisgettingoninyears.”

“Surelyheisnotsoveryold,”saidMrs.St.Vincent,withasuddenmemoryof a bluff, bearded face, rather like anElizabethan sailor,which shehadoncenoticedinanillustratedmagazine.

“Middle-aged,” said thewhite-haired gentleman. “Fifty-three, according toDebrett.”

ThisconversationMrs.St.VincenthadretailedtoRupertwiththeintentionofrebukingthatyounggentleman.

Rupert,however,wasundismayed.“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. TheletterfromEastAfricawasprobablyforged.Inthreeyears,orwhateveritis,thisCarfaxwillpresumedeath,andtakethetitle.Meantime,he’sgotallthehandling

oftheestate.Veryfishy,Icallit.”He had condescended graciously to approve the house. In his leisure

momentshewasinclinedtotapthepanellingandmakeelaboratemeasurementsfor thepossible locationof a secret room,but little by little his interest in themysteryofLordListerdaleabated.Hewasalsolessenthusiasticonthesubjectofthetobacconist’sdaughter.Atmospheretells.

ToBarbarathehousehadbroughtgreatsatisfaction.JimMastertonhadcomehome, and was a frequent visitor. He andMrs. St. Vincent got on splendidlytogether,andhesaidsomethingtoBarbaraonedaythatstartledher.

“Thishouseisawonderfulsettingforyourmother,youknow.”“ForMother?”“Yes. Itwasmade forher!Shebelongs to it in an extraordinaryway.You

know there’s something queer about this house altogether, something uncannyandhaunting.”

“Don’t get likeRupert,” Barbara implored him. “He is convinced that thewicked Colonel Carfaxmurdered Lord Listerdale and hid his body under thefloor.”

Mastertonlaughed.“IadmireRupert’sdetectivezeal.No, Ididn’tmeananythingof thatkind.

But there’s something in the air, some atmosphere that one doesn’t quiteunderstand.”

They had been three months in Cheviot Place when Barbara came to hermotherwitharadiantface.

“JimandI—we’reengaged.Yes—lastnight.Oh,Mother!Itallseemslikeafairytalecometrue.”

“Oh,mydear!I’msoglad—soglad.”Motheranddaughterclaspedeachotherclose.“YouknowJim’salmostasmuch in lovewithyouashe iswithme,”said

Barbaraatlast,withamischievouslaugh.Mrs.St.Vincentblushedveryprettily.“He is,” persisted the girl. “You thought this house would make such a

beautifulsettingforme,andallthetimeit’sreallyasettingforyou.RupertandIdon’tquitebelonghere.Youdo.”

“Don’ttalknonsense,darling.”“It’snotnonsense.There’saflavourofenchantedcastleaboutit,withyouas

anenchantedprincessandQuentinas—as—oh!abenevolentmagician.”

Mrs.St.Vincentlaughedandadmittedthelastitem.Rupertreceivedthenewsofhissister’sengagementverycalmly.“I thought there was something of the kind in the wind,” he observed

sapiently.Heandhismotherwerediningalonetogether;BarbarawasoutwithJim.Quentinplacedtheportinfrontofhim,andwithdrewnoiselessly.“That’s a rum old bird,” said Rupert, nodding towards the closed door.

“There’ssomethingoddabouthim,youknow,something—”“Notfishy?”interruptedMrs.St.Vincent,withafaintsmile.“Why, Mother, how did you know what I was going to say?” demanded

Rupertinallseriousness.“It’sratherawordofyours,darling.Youthinkeverythingisfishy.Isuppose

youhaveanideathatitwasQuentinwhodidawaywithLordListerdaleandputhimunderthefloor?”

“Behindthepanelling,”correctedRupert.“Youalwaysgetthingsalittlebitwrong, Mother. No, I’ve inquired about that. Quentin was down at King’sCheviotatthetime.”

Mrs.St.Vincent smiled at him, as she rose from table andwent up to thedrawingroom.InsomewaysRupertwasalongtimegrowingup.

YetasuddenwondersweptoverherforthefirsttimeastoLordListerdale’sreasonsforleavingEnglandsoabruptly.Theremustbesomethingbehindit,toaccount for that sudden decision. Shewas still thinking thematter overwhenQuentincameinwiththecoffeetray,andshespokeoutimpulsively.

“YouhavebeenwithLordListerdalealongtime,haven’tyou,Quentin?”“Yes,madam;since Iwasa ladof twenty-one.Thatwas in the lateLord’s

time.Istartedasthirdfootman.”“YoumustknowLordListerdaleverywell.Whatkindofamanishe?”Thebutlerturnedthetrayalittle,sothatshecouldhelpherselftosugarmore

conveniently,asherepliedinevenunemotionaltones:“Lord Listerdale was a very selfish gentleman, madam: with no

considerationforothers.”Heremovedthetrayandboreitfromtheroom.Mrs.St.Vincentsatwithher

coffeecupinherhand,andapuzzledfrownonherface.Somethingstruckherasoddinthespeechapartfromtheviewsitexpressed.Inanotherminuteitflashedhometoher.

Quentinhadused theword“was”not “is.”But then, hemust think—must

believe—Shepulledherselfup.ShewasasbadasRupert!Butaverydefiniteuneasiness assailed her. Afterwards she dated her first suspicions from thatmoment.

WithBarbara’shappinessandfutureassured,shehadtimetothinkherownthoughts,andagainstherwill, theybegan tocentre round themysteryofLordListerdale.Whatwas therealstory?Whatever itwasQuentinknewsomethingabout it. Those had been odd words of his—“a very selfish gentleman—noconsideration for others.” What lay behind them? He had spoken as a judgemightspeak,detachedlyandimpartially.

WasQuentininvolvedinLordListerdale’sdisappearance?Hadhetakenanactive part in any tragedy there might have been? After all, ridiculous asRupert’sassumptionhadseemedatthetime,thatsingleletterwithitspowerofattorneycomingfromEastAfricawas—well,opentosuspicion.

Buttryasshewould,shecouldnotbelieveanyrealevilofQuentin.Quentin,shetoldherselfoverandoveragain,wasgood—sheusedthewordassimplyasachildmighthavedone.Quentinwasgood.Butheknewsomething!

Shenever spokewithhimagainofhismaster.The subjectwasapparentlyforgotten.Rupert andBarbara had other things to think of, and therewere nofurtherdiscussions.

Itwas towards the endofAugust that hervague surmises crystallized intorealities. Rupert had gone for a fortnight’s holiday with a friend who had amotorcycle and trailer. It was some ten days after his departure thatMrs. St.Vincentwasstartledtoseehimrushintotheroomwhereshesatwriting.

“Rupert!”sheexclaimed.“I know,Mother.You didn’t expect to seeme for another three days.But

something’shappened.Anderson—mypal,youknow—didn’tmuchcarewherehewent,soIsuggestedhavingalookinatKing’sCheviot—”

“King’sCheviot?Butwhy—?”“Youknowperfectlywell,Mother,thatI’vealwaysscentedsomethingfishy

about things here. Well, I had a look at the old place—it’s let, you know—nothing there.Not that Iactuallyexpected to findanything—Iwas justnosinground,sotospeak.”

Yes, she thought. Rupert was very like a dog at this moment. Hunting incirclesforsomethingvagueandundefined,ledbyinstinct,busyandhappy.

“Itwaswhenwewere passing through a village about eight or ninemilesawaythatithappened—thatIsawhim,Imean.”

“Sawwhom?”“Quentin—just going into a little cottage. Something fishy here, I said to

myself,andwestopped thebus,andIwentback. I rappedon thedoorandhehimselfopenedit.”

“ButIdon’tunderstand.Quentinhasn’tbeenaway—”“I’mcoming to that,Mother. Ifyou’donly listen,andnot interrupt. Itwas

Quentin,anditwasn’tQuentin,ifyouknowwhatImean.”Mrs.St.Vincentclearlydidnotknow,soheelucidatedmattersfurther.“ItwasQuentinallright,butitwasn’tourQuentin.Itwastherealman.”“Rupert!”“Youlisten.Iwastakeninmyselfatfirst,andsaid:‘ItisQuentin,isn’tit?’

And theoldJohnnysaid: ‘Quite right, sir, that ismyname.Whatcan Ido foryou?’And then I saw that itwasn’tourman, though itwasprecious likehim,voiceandall.Iaskedafewquestions,anditallcameout.Theoldchaphadn’tanideaofanythingfishybeingon.He’dbeenbutlertoLordListerdaleallright,andwasretiredonapensionandgiventhiscottagejustaboutthetimethatLordListerdalewassupposedtohavegoneofftoAfrica.Youseewherethatleadsus.Thisman’s an impostor—he’s playing the part ofQuentin for purposes of hisown.My theory is thathecameup to town that evening,pretending tobe thebutler fromKing’sCheviot, got an interviewwith Lord Listerdale, killed himand hid his body behind the panelling. It’s an old house, there’s sure to be asecretrecess—”

“Oh,don’tlet’sgointoallthatagain,”interruptedMrs.St.Vincentwildly.“Ican’tbearit.Whyshouldhe—that’swhatIwanttoknow—why?Ifhedidsuchathing—which Idon’tbelieve foroneminute,mindyou—whatwas the reasonforitall?”

“You’re right,” said Rupert. “Motive—that’s important. Now I’ve madeinquiries.LordListerdalehadalotofhouseproperty.Inthelast twodaysI’vediscovered thatpracticallyeveryoneof thesehousesofhishasbeen let in thelast eighteenmonths to people like ourselves for amerely nominal rent—andwith the proviso that the servants should remain. And in every case Quentinhimself—themancallinghimselfQuentin, Imean—hasbeen there for part ofthetimeasbutler.Thatlooksasthoughthereweresomething—jewels,orpapers—secretedinoneofLordListerdale’shouses,andthegangdoesn’tknowwhich.I’m assuming a gang, but of course this fellow Quentin may be in it single-handed.There’sa—”

Mrs.St.Vincentinterruptedhimwithacertainamountofdetermination:“Rupert! Do stop talking for one minute. You’re making my head spin.

Anyway,whatyouaresayingisnonsense—aboutgangsandhiddenpapers.”“There’sanother theory,”admittedRupert. “ThisQuentinmaybe someone

thatLordListerdalehasinjured.TherealbutlertoldmealongstoryaboutamancalledSamuelLowe—anunder-gardenerhewas,andaboutthesameheightandbuildasQuentinhimself.He’dgotagrudgeagainstListerdale—”

Mrs.St.Vincentstarted.“With no consideration for others.” The words came back to her mind in

theirpassionless,measuredaccents.Inadequatewords,butwhatmighttheynotstandfor?

InherabsorptionshehardlylistenedtoRupert.Hemadearapidexplanationofsomethingthatshedidnottakein,andwenthurriedlyfromtheroom.

Thenshewokeup.WherehadRupertgone?Whatwashegoingtodo?Shehadnotcaughthislastwords.Perhapshewasgoingforthepolice.Inthatcase....

She rose abruptly and rang the bell. With his usual promptness, Quentinansweredit.

“Yourang,madam?”“Yes.Comein,please,andshutthedoor.”The butler obeyed, and Mrs. St. Vincent was silent a moment whilst she

studiedhimwithearnesteyes.Shethought:“He’sbeenkindtome—nobodyknowshowkind.Thechildren

wouldn’tunderstand.Thiswild storyofRupert’smaybeallnonsense—on theother hand, theremay—yes, theremay—be something in it.Why should onejudge?Onecan’tknow.Therightsandwrongsofit,Imean...AndI’dstakemylife—yes,Iwould!—onhisbeingagoodman.”

Flushedandtremulous,shespoke.“Quentin,Mr.Ruperthasjustgotback.HehasbeendowntoKing’sCheviot

—toavillagenearthere—”Shestopped,noticingthequickstarthewasnotabletoconceal.“Hehas—seensomeone,”shewentoninmeasuredaccents.Shethoughttoherself:“There—he’swarned.Atanyrate,he’swarned.”After that first quick start, Quentin had resumed his unruffled demeanour,

buthiseyeswerefixedonherface,watchfulandkeen,withsomethinginthemshehadnotseen therebefore.Theywere, for thefirst time, theeyesofaman

andnotofaservant.He hesitated for a minute, then said in a voice which also had subtly

changed:“Whydoyoutellmethis,Mrs.St.Vincent?”Before she could answer, the door flew open and Rupert strode into the

room.Withhimwasadignifiedmiddle-agedmanwithlittlesidewhiskersandtheairofabenevolentarchbishop.Quentin!

“Hereheis,”saidRupert.“TherealQuentin.Ihadhimoutsideinthetaxi.Now,Quentin,lookatthismanandtellme—isheSamuelLowe?”

It was for Rupert a triumphant moment. But it was short-lived, almost atonce he scented something wrong. For while the real Quentin was lookingabashed and highly uncomfortable the second Quentin was smiling, a broadsmileofundisguisedenjoyment.

Heslappedhisembarrassedduplicateontheback.“It’sallright,Quentin.Gottoletthecatoutofthebagsometime,Isuppose.

Youcantell’emwhoIam.”Thedignifiedstrangerdrewhimselfup.“This, sir,” he announced, in a reproachful tone, “is my master, Lord

Listerdale,sir.”

Thenextminutebeheldmanythings.First,thecompletecollapseofthecocksureRupert. Before he knew what was happening, his mouth still open from theshockofthediscovery,hefoundhimselfbeinggentlymanoeuvredtowardsthedoor,afriendlyvoicethatwas,andyetwasnot,familiarinhisear.

“It’squiteallright,myboy.Nobonesbroken.ButIwantawordwithyourmother.Verygoodworkofyours,toferretmeoutlikethis.”

Hewasoutsideonthelandinggazingattheshutdoor.TherealQuentinwasstandingbyhisside,agentlestreamofexplanationflowingfromhislips.InsidetheroomLordListerdalewasconfrontingMrs.St.Vincent.

“Let me explain—if I can! I’ve been a selfish devil all my life—the factcamehome tomeoneday. I thought I’d trya littlealtruismforachange,andbeing a fantastic kind of fool, I started my career fantastically. I’d sentsubscriptions to odd things, but I felt the need of doing something—well,somethingpersonal.I’vebeensorryalwaysfortheclassthatcan’tbeg,thatmustsufferinsilence—poorgentlefolk.Ihavealotofhouseproperty.Iconceivedtheideaofleasingthesehousestopeoplewho—well,neededandappreciatedthem.

Youngcoupleswiththeirwaytomake,widowswithsonsanddaughtersstartingin theworld.Quentinhasbeenmore thanbutler tome,he’sa friend.Withhisconsentandassistance Iborrowedhispersonality. I’vealwayshada talent foracting.Theideacametomeonmywaytotheclubonenight,andIwentstraightofftotalkitoverwithQuentin.WhenIfoundtheyweremakingafussaboutmydisappearance,IarrangedthatalettershouldcomefrommeinEastAfrica.Init,Igavefullinstructionstomycousin,MauriceCarfax.And—well,that’sthelongandshortofit.”

Hebrokeoffratherlamely,withanappealingglanceatMrs.St.Vincent.Shestoodverystraight,andhereyesmethissteadily.

“Itwasakindplan,”shesaid.“Averyunusualone,andonethatdoesyoucredit. I am—most grateful. But—of course, you understand that we cannotstay?”

“I expected that,” he said. “Your pride won’t let you accept what you’dprobablystyle‘charity.’”

“Isn’tthatwhatitis?”sheaskedsteadily.“No,”heanswered.“BecauseIasksomethinginexchange.”“Something?”“Everything.”Hisvoicerangout,thevoiceofoneaccustomedtodominate.“WhenIwastwenty-three,”hewenton,“ImarriedthegirlIloved.Shedied

ayearlater.SincethenIhavebeenverylonely.IhavewishedverymuchIcouldfindacertainlady—theladyofmydreams....”

“AmIthat?”sheasked,verylow.“Iamsoold—sofaded.”Helaughed.“Old?Youareyounger thaneitherofyour children.Now I amold, if you

like.”Butherlaughrangoutinturn.Asoftrippleofamusement.“You?Youareaboystill.Aboywholovestodressup.”Sheheldoutherhandsandhecaughttheminhis.

AbouttheAuthor

AGATHACHRISTIEisthemostwidelypublishedauthorofalltime,outsoldonly by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her books have soldmore than a billioncopiesinEnglishandanotherbillioninahundredforeignlanguages.Shediedin1976.

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Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’simaginationandarenottobeconstruedasreal.Anyresemblancetoactualeventsorpersons,livingordead,isentirelycoincidental.

AGATHACHRISTIE®THEGOLDENBALLANDOTHER STORIES™ are registered trademarks ofAgathaChristieLimitedintheUKandelsewhere.Allrightsreserved.

“The ListerdaleMystery”was previously published as part ofTheGolden Ball andOther Stories shortstorycollection,copyright©1971AgathaChristieLimited.AllrightsreservedunderInternationalandPan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted thenonexclusive,nontransferablerighttoaccessandreadthetextofthise-bookonscreen.Nopartofthistextmay be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into anyinformationstorageandretrievalsystem,inanyformorbyanymeans,whetherelectronicormechanical,nowknownorhereinafterinvented,withouttheexpresswrittenpermissionofHarperCollinse-books.

EPubEditionOCTOBER2013ISBN:9780062302274

10987654321

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