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Authors: Agatha Christie
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it?”
Frances Cloade turned sharply. Unlike Adela Marchmont she had not deliberately tried to find Rosaleen alone. The sum needed was sufficiently large to make it unlikely that Rosaleen would hand it over without consulting her brother.
Actually, Frances would far rather have discussed the matter with David and Rosaleen together, than have David feel that she had tried to get money out of Rosaleen during his absence from the house.
She had not heard him come through the window, absorbed as she was in the presentation of a plausible case. The interruption startled her, and she realised also that David Hunter was, for some reason, in a particularly ugly mood.
“Oh, David,” she said easily, “I'm glad you've come. I've just been telling Rosaleen. Gordon's death has left Jeremy in no end of a hole, and I'm wondering if she could possibly come to the rescue. It's like this -”
Her tongue flowed on swiftly - the large sum involved - Gordon's backing - promised verbally - Government restrictions - mortgages -
A certain admiration stirred in the darkness of David's mind. What a damned good liar the woman was! Plausible, the whole story. But not the truth. No, he'd take his oath on that. Not the truth! What, he wondered, was the truth? Jeremy been getting himself into Queer Street? It must be something pretty desperate, if he was allowing Frances to come and try this stunt. She was a proud woman, too -
He said, “Ten thousand?”
Rosaleen murmured in an awed voice:
“That's a lot of money.”
Frances said swiftly:
“Oh, I know it is. I wouldn't come to you if it wasn't such a difficult sum to raise. But Jeremy would never have gone into the deal if it hadn't been for Gordon's backing. It's so dreadfully unfortunate that Gordon should have died so suddenly -”
“Leaving you all out in the cold?” David's voice was unpleasant. “After a sheltered life under his wing.”
There was a faint flash in Frances' eyes as she said:
“You put things so picturesquely!”
“Rosaleen can't touch the capital, you know. Only the income. And she pays about nineteen and six in the pound income tax.”
“Oh, I know. Taxation's dreadful these days. But it could be managed, couldn't it? We'd repay -”
He interrupted:
“It could be managed. But it won't be!”
Frances turned swiftly to Rosaleen.
“Rosaleen, you're such a generous -”
David's voice cut across her speech.
“What do you Cloades think Rosaleen is - a milk cow? All of you at her - hinting, asking, begging. And behind her back? Sneering at her, patronising her, resenting her, hating her, wishing her dead -”
“That's not true,” Frances cried.
“Isn't it? I tell you I'm sick of you all! She's sick of you all. You'll get no money out of us, so you can stop coming and whining for it? Understand?”
His face was black with fury.
Frances stood up. Her face was wooden and expressionless. She drew on a wash-leather glove absently, yet with attention, as though it was a significant action.
“You make your meaning quite plain, David,” she said.
Rosaleen murmured:
“I'm sorry. I'm really sorry...”
Frances paid no attention to her. Rosaleen might not have been in the room.
She took a step towards the window and paused, facing David.
“You have said that I resent Rosaleen. That is not true. I have not resented Rosaleen - but I do resent - you!”
“What do you mean?”
He scowled at her.
“Women must live. Rosaleen married a very rich man, years older than herself. Why not? But you! You must live on your sister, live on the fat of the land, live softly - on her.”
“I stand between her and harpies.”
They stood looking at each other. He was aware of her anger and the thought flashed across him that Frances Cloade was a dangerous enemy, one who could be both unscrupulous and reckless.
When she opened her mouth to speak, he even felt a moment's apprehension. But what she said was singularly noncommittal.
“I shall remember what you
Frances Cloade turned sharply. Unlike Adela Marchmont she had not deliberately tried to find Rosaleen alone. The sum needed was sufficiently large to make it unlikely that Rosaleen would hand it over without consulting her brother.
Actually, Frances would far rather have discussed the matter with David and Rosaleen together, than have David feel that she had tried to get money out of Rosaleen during his absence from the house.
She had not heard him come through the window, absorbed as she was in the presentation of a plausible case. The interruption startled her, and she realised also that David Hunter was, for some reason, in a particularly ugly mood.
“Oh, David,” she said easily, “I'm glad you've come. I've just been telling Rosaleen. Gordon's death has left Jeremy in no end of a hole, and I'm wondering if she could possibly come to the rescue. It's like this -”
Her tongue flowed on swiftly - the large sum involved - Gordon's backing - promised verbally - Government restrictions - mortgages -
A certain admiration stirred in the darkness of David's mind. What a damned good liar the woman was! Plausible, the whole story. But not the truth. No, he'd take his oath on that. Not the truth! What, he wondered, was the truth? Jeremy been getting himself into Queer Street? It must be something pretty desperate, if he was allowing Frances to come and try this stunt. She was a proud woman, too -
He said, “Ten thousand?”
Rosaleen murmured in an awed voice:
“That's a lot of money.”
Frances said swiftly:
“Oh, I know it is. I wouldn't come to you if it wasn't such a difficult sum to raise. But Jeremy would never have gone into the deal if it hadn't been for Gordon's backing. It's so dreadfully unfortunate that Gordon should have died so suddenly -”
“Leaving you all out in the cold?” David's voice was unpleasant. “After a sheltered life under his wing.”
There was a faint flash in Frances' eyes as she said:
“You put things so picturesquely!”
“Rosaleen can't touch the capital, you know. Only the income. And she pays about nineteen and six in the pound income tax.”
“Oh, I know. Taxation's dreadful these days. But it could be managed, couldn't it? We'd repay -”
He interrupted:
“It could be managed. But it won't be!”
Frances turned swiftly to Rosaleen.
“Rosaleen, you're such a generous -”
David's voice cut across her speech.
“What do you Cloades think Rosaleen is - a milk cow? All of you at her - hinting, asking, begging. And behind her back? Sneering at her, patronising her, resenting her, hating her, wishing her dead -”
“That's not true,” Frances cried.
“Isn't it? I tell you I'm sick of you all! She's sick of you all. You'll get no money out of us, so you can stop coming and whining for it? Understand?”
His face was black with fury.
Frances stood up. Her face was wooden and expressionless. She drew on a wash-leather glove absently, yet with attention, as though it was a significant action.
“You make your meaning quite plain, David,” she said.
Rosaleen murmured:
“I'm sorry. I'm really sorry...”
Frances paid no attention to her. Rosaleen might not have been in the room.
She took a step towards the window and paused, facing David.
“You have said that I resent Rosaleen. That is not true. I have not resented Rosaleen - but I do resent - you!”
“What do you mean?”
He scowled at her.
“Women must live. Rosaleen married a very rich man, years older than herself. Why not? But you! You must live on your sister, live on the fat of the land, live softly - on her.”
“I stand between her and harpies.”
They stood looking at each other. He was aware of her anger and the thought flashed across him that Frances Cloade was a dangerous enemy, one who could be both unscrupulous and reckless.
When she opened her mouth to speak, he even felt a moment's apprehension. But what she said was singularly noncommittal.
“I shall remember what you
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