Lord Edgware Dies (hp-8) by Agatha Christie

Author:Agatha Christie [Christie, Agatha]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: det_classic
ISBN: ISBN-10: 042509961X
Publisher: Berkley
Published: 1986-03-19T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 15. Sir Montagu Corner

It was about ten o’clock when we reached Sir Montagu Corner’s house on the river at Chiswick. It was a big house standing back in its own grounds. We were admitted into a beautifully-panelled hall. On our right, through an open door, we saw the dining-room with its long polished table lit with candles.

‘Will you come this way, please?’

The butler led the way up a broad staircase and into a long room on the first floor overlooking the river.

‘M. Hercule Poirot,’ announced the butler.

It was a beautifully-proportioned room, and had an old-world air with its carefully-shaded dim lamps. In one corner of the room was a bridge table, set near the open window, and round it sat four people. As we entered the room one of the four rose and came towards us.

‘It is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance, M. Poirot.’

I looked with some interest at Sir Montagu Corner. He had a distinctly Jewish cast of countenance, very small intelligent black eyes and a carefully-arranged toupee. He was a short man – five foot eight at most, I should say. His manner was affected to the last degree.

‘Let me introduce you. Mr and Mrs Widburn.’

‘We’ve met before,’ said Mrs Widburn brightly.

‘And Mr Ross.’

Ross was a young fellow of about twenty-two with a pleasant face and fair hair.

‘I disturb your game. A million apologies,’ said Poirot.

‘Not at all. We have not started. We were commencing to deal the cards only. Some coffee, M. Poirot?’

Poirot declined but accepted an offer of old brandy. It was brought us in immense goblets.

As we sipped it, Sir Montagu discoursed.

He spoke of Japanese prints, of Chinese lacquer, of Persian carpets, of the French Impressionists, of modern music and of the theories of Einstein.

Then he sat back and smiled at us beneficently. He had evidently thoroughly enjoyed his performance. In the dim light he looked like some genie of the mediaeval age. All around the room were exquisite examples of art and culture.

‘And now, Sir Montagu,’ said Poirot, ‘I will trespass on your kindness no longer but will come to the object of my visit.’

Sir Montagu waved a curious claw-like hand.

‘There is no hurry. Time is infinite.’

‘One always feels that in this house,’ sighed Mrs Widburn. ‘So wonderful.’

‘I would not live in London for a million pounds,’ said Sir Montagu. ‘Here one is in the old-world atmosphere of peace that – alas! – we have put behind us in these jarring days.’

A sudden impish fancy flashed over me that if someone were really to offer Sir Montagu a million pounds, old-world peace might go to the wall, but I trod down such heretical sentiments.

‘What is money, after all?’ murmured Mrs Widburn.

‘Ah!’ said Mr Widburn thoughtfully, and rattled some coins absent-mindedly in his trouser pocket.

‘Charles,’ said Mrs Widburn reproachfully.

‘Sorry,’ said Mr Widburn and stopped.

‘To speak of crime in such an atmosphere, is, I feel, unpardonable,’ began Poirot apologetically.

‘Not at all.’ Sir Montagu waved a gracious hand. ‘A crime can be a work of art.

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