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Authors: Agatha Christie
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some good portraits there. A Raeburn, two Lawrences, a Gainsborough, a Lely, two rather dubious Vandykes. A couple of Turners, too. Some of them had had to be sold to provide the family with money. He still enjoyed when visiting there strolling about and studying the family pictures.
His Aunt Matilda was a great chatterbox but she always enjoyed his visits. He was fond of her in a desultory way, but he was not quite sure why it was that he had suddenly wanted to visit her now. And what it was that had brought family portraits into his mind? Could it have been because there was a portrait of his sister Pamela by one of the leading artists of the day twenty years ago. He would like to see that portrait of Pamela and look at it more closely. See how close the resemblance had been between the stranger who had disrupted his life in this really outrageous fashion an his sister.
He picked up the Festival Hall programme again with some irritation and began to hum the pencilled notes. Tum tum, ti tum -
Then it came to him and he knew what it was - it was the Siegfried motif. Siegfried's Horn. The young Siegfried motif. That was what the woman had said last night Not apparently to him, not apparently to anybody. But it had been the message, a message that would have mean nothing to anyone around since it would have seemed to refer to the music that had just been played. And the motif had been written on his programme also in musical terms.
The Young Siegfried. It must have meant something. Well, perhaps further enlightenment would come. The Young Siegfried. What the hell did that mean? Why and how and when and what? Ridiculous! All those questioning words. He rang the telephone and obtained Aunt Matilda's number.
'But of course, Staffy dear, it will be lovely to have you. Take the four-thirty train, it still runs, you know, but it gets here an hour and a half later. And it leaves Paddington later - five-fifteen. That's what they mean by improving the railways, I suppose. Stops at several most absurd stations on the way. All right. Horace will meet you at King's Marston.'
'He's still there then?'
'Of course he's still there.'
'I suppose he is,' said Sir Stafford Nye.
Horace, once a groom, then a coachman, had survived as a chauffeur, and apparently was still surviving. 'He must be at least eighty,' said Sir Stafford. He smiled to himself.
Passenger to Frankfurt
Chapter 6
PORTRAIT OF A LADY
'You look very nice and brown, dear,' said Aunt Matilda surveying him appreciatively. 'That's Malaya, I suppose. It was Malaya you went to? Or was it Siam or Thailand? They change the names of all these places and really it makes it very difficult. Anyway, it wasn't Vietnam, was it? You know, I don't like the sound of Vietnam at all. It's all very confusing. North Vietnam and South Vietnam and the Viet-Cong and the Viet - whatever the other thing is - and all wanting to fight each other and nobody wanting to stop. They won't go to Paris or wherever it is and sit round tables and talk sensibly. Don't you think really, dear -
'I've been thinking it over and I thought it would be a very nice solution - couldn't you make a lot of football fields and then they could all go and fight each other there, but with less lethal weapons. Not that nasty palm burning stuff. You know. Just hit each other and punch each other and all that. They'd enjoy it, everyone would enjoy it and you could charge admission for people to go and see them do it. I do think really that we don't understand giving people the things they really want.'
'I think it's a very fine idea of yours, Aunt Matilda,' said Sir Stafford Nye as he kissed a pleasantly perfumed, pale pink wrinkled cheek. 'And how are you, my dear?'
'Well, I'm old,' said Lady Matilda Cleckheaton. 'Yes, I'm old. Of course you don't know what it is to be old. If it isn't one thing it's another. Rheumatism or arthritis or a nasty bit of asthma or a sore throat or an ankle you've turned.
'Always something,
His Aunt Matilda was a great chatterbox but she always enjoyed his visits. He was fond of her in a desultory way, but he was not quite sure why it was that he had suddenly wanted to visit her now. And what it was that had brought family portraits into his mind? Could it have been because there was a portrait of his sister Pamela by one of the leading artists of the day twenty years ago. He would like to see that portrait of Pamela and look at it more closely. See how close the resemblance had been between the stranger who had disrupted his life in this really outrageous fashion an his sister.
He picked up the Festival Hall programme again with some irritation and began to hum the pencilled notes. Tum tum, ti tum -
Then it came to him and he knew what it was - it was the Siegfried motif. Siegfried's Horn. The young Siegfried motif. That was what the woman had said last night Not apparently to him, not apparently to anybody. But it had been the message, a message that would have mean nothing to anyone around since it would have seemed to refer to the music that had just been played. And the motif had been written on his programme also in musical terms.
The Young Siegfried. It must have meant something. Well, perhaps further enlightenment would come. The Young Siegfried. What the hell did that mean? Why and how and when and what? Ridiculous! All those questioning words. He rang the telephone and obtained Aunt Matilda's number.
'But of course, Staffy dear, it will be lovely to have you. Take the four-thirty train, it still runs, you know, but it gets here an hour and a half later. And it leaves Paddington later - five-fifteen. That's what they mean by improving the railways, I suppose. Stops at several most absurd stations on the way. All right. Horace will meet you at King's Marston.'
'He's still there then?'
'Of course he's still there.'
'I suppose he is,' said Sir Stafford Nye.
Horace, once a groom, then a coachman, had survived as a chauffeur, and apparently was still surviving. 'He must be at least eighty,' said Sir Stafford. He smiled to himself.
Passenger to Frankfurt
Chapter 6
PORTRAIT OF A LADY
'You look very nice and brown, dear,' said Aunt Matilda surveying him appreciatively. 'That's Malaya, I suppose. It was Malaya you went to? Or was it Siam or Thailand? They change the names of all these places and really it makes it very difficult. Anyway, it wasn't Vietnam, was it? You know, I don't like the sound of Vietnam at all. It's all very confusing. North Vietnam and South Vietnam and the Viet-Cong and the Viet - whatever the other thing is - and all wanting to fight each other and nobody wanting to stop. They won't go to Paris or wherever it is and sit round tables and talk sensibly. Don't you think really, dear -
'I've been thinking it over and I thought it would be a very nice solution - couldn't you make a lot of football fields and then they could all go and fight each other there, but with less lethal weapons. Not that nasty palm burning stuff. You know. Just hit each other and punch each other and all that. They'd enjoy it, everyone would enjoy it and you could charge admission for people to go and see them do it. I do think really that we don't understand giving people the things they really want.'
'I think it's a very fine idea of yours, Aunt Matilda,' said Sir Stafford Nye as he kissed a pleasantly perfumed, pale pink wrinkled cheek. 'And how are you, my dear?'
'Well, I'm old,' said Lady Matilda Cleckheaton. 'Yes, I'm old. Of course you don't know what it is to be old. If it isn't one thing it's another. Rheumatism or arthritis or a nasty bit of asthma or a sore throat or an ankle you've turned.
'Always something,
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