every one of these houses of his have been let in the last
eighteen months to people like ourselves for a merely nominal
rent--and with the proviso that the servants should
remain. And in every case Quentin himself--the man calling
himself Quentin, I mean--has been there for part of
the time as butler. That looks as though there were some-thing--jewels,
or papers--secreted in one of Lord Lister-dale's
houses, and the gang doesn't know which. I'm
assuming a gang, but of course this fellow Quentin may be
in it single-handed. There's a---"
Mrs. St. Vincent interrupted him with a certain amount of determination:
"Rupert! Do stop talking for one minute. You're making my head spin. Anyway, what you are saying is nonsense--
THE LISTERDALE MYSTERY 15
about gangs and hidden papers."
"There's another theory," admitted Rupert. "This Quentin may be someone that Lord Listerdale has injured. The
real butler told me a long story about a man called Samuel
Lowe--an undergardener he was, and about the same height
and build as Quentin himself. He'd got a grudge against
Listerdale--"
Mrs. St. Vincent started.
"With no consideration for others." The words came back to her mind in their passionless, measured accents. Inadequate
words, but what might they not stand for?
In her absorption she hardly listened to Rupert. He made a rapid explanation of something that she did not take in,
and went hurriedly from the room.
Then she woke up. Where had Rupert gone? What was he going to do? She had not caught his last words. Perhaps
he was going for the police. In that case--
She rose abruptly and rang the bell. With his usual
promptness, Quentin answered it.
"You rang, madam.'?"
"Yes. Come in, please, and shut the door."
The butler obeyed, and Mrs. St. Vincent was silent a moment while she studied him with earnest eyes.
She thought: "He's been kind to me--nobody knows how kind. The children wouldn't understand. This wild story
of Rupert's may be all nonsense-- On the other hand, there
may--yes, there may--be something in it. Why should
one judge? One can't know. The rights and wrongs of it, I
mean .... And I'd stake my life--yes, I would!--on his
being a good man."
Flushed and tremulous, she spoke.
"Quentin, Mr. Rupert has just got back. He has been down to King's Cheviot--to a village near there---"
She stopped, noticing the quick start he was not able to conceal.
"He has--seen someone," she went on in measured accents.
She thought to herself: "There--he's warned. At any rate, he's warned."
After that first quick start, Quentin had resumed his unruffled demeanour, but his eyes were fixed on her face,
16 Agatha Christie
watchful and keen, with something in them she had not seen there before. They were, for the first time, the eyes of a
man and not of a servant.
He hesitated for a minute, then said in a voice which also had subtly changed:
"Why do you tell me this, Mrs. St. Vincent?"
Before she could answer, the door flew open and Rupert strode into the room. With him was a dignified middle-aged
man with little side whiskers and the air of a benevolent
archbishop. Quentin!
"Here he is," said Rupert. "The real Quentin. I had him outside in the taxi. Now, Quentin, look at this man and tell
me--is he Samuel Lowe?"
It was for Rupert a triumphant moment. But it was short-lived; almost at once he scented something wrong. For while
the real Quentin was looking abashed and highly uncomfortable,
the second Quentin was smiling a broad smile of
undisguised enjoyment.
He slapped his embarrassed duplicate on the back.
"It's all right, Quentin. Got to let the cat out of the bag
sometime, I suppose. You can tell 'em who I am."
The dignified stranger drew himself up.
"This, sir," he announced in a reproachful tone, "is my master, Lord Listerdale, sir."
The next minute beheld many things. First, the complete collapse of the cocksure Rupert. Before he knew what was
happening, his mouth still open from the shock of the discovery,
he found himself being gently manoeuvred towards
the door, a friendly voice that was, and yet was not, familiar
in his ear.
"It's quite all right, my boy. No bones broken. But I want a word with your mother. Very good work of yours,
to ferret me out like this."
He was outside on the landing gazing at the shut door. The real Quentin was standing by his side, a gentle stream
of explanation flowing from his lips. Inside the room Lord
Listerdale was fronting Mrs. St. Vincent.
"Let me explain--if I can! I've been a selfish devil all my life--the fact came home to me one day. I thought I'd
try a little altruism for a change, and being a fantastic kind
THE LISTERDALE MYSTERY 17
of fool, I started my career fantastically. I'd sent subscriptions to odd things, but I felt the need of loing
something--well, something personal. I've been sorry
always for the class that can't beg, that must suffer in
silence--poor gentlefolk. I have a lot of house property.
I conceived the idea of leasing these houses to people
who--well, needed and appreciated them. Young couples
with their way to make, widows with sons and daughters
starting in the world. Quentin has been more than butler
to me; he's a friend. With his consent and assistance I
borrowed his personality. I've always had a talent for
acting. The idea came to me on my way to the club one
night, and I went straight off to talk it over with Quentin.
When I found they were making a fuss about my disappearance,
I arranged that a letter should come from me
in East Africa. In it, I gave full instructions to my cousin,
M,a, urice Carfax. And--well, that's the long and short of
it.'
He broke off rather lamely, with an appealing glance at Mrs. St. Vincent. She stood very straight, and her eyes met
his steadily.
"It was a kind plan," she said. "A very unusual one, and one that does you credit. I am--most grateful. But--of
course, you understand that we cannot stay?"
"I expected that," he said. "Your pride won't let you accept what you'd probably style 'charity.'"
"Isn't that what it is?" she asked steadily.
"No,'" he answered. "Because I ask something in exchange."
"Something?"
"Everything." His voice rang out, the voice of one accustomed to dominate.
"When I was twenty-three," he went on, "I married the girl I loved. She died a year later. Since then I have been
very lonely. I have wished very much I could find a certain
lady--the lady of my dreams .... "
"Am I that?" she asked, very low. "I am so old--so faded."
He laughed.
"Old? You are younger than either of your children. Now I am old, if you like."
18 Agatha Christie
But her laugh rang out in turn, a soft ripple of amusement.
"You? You arc a boy still. A boy who loves to dress
up!"
She held out her hands and he caught them in his.
The Girl
in Train
"And that's that!" observed George Rowland ruefully, as he gazed up at the imposi
ng smoke-grimed facade of the
building he had just quitted.
It might be said to represent very aptly the power of Money--and Money, in the person of William Rowland,
uncle to the aforementioned George, had just spoken its
mind very freely. In the course of a brief ten minutes, from
being the apple of his uncle's eye, the heir to his wealth,
and a young man with a promising business career in front
of him, George had suddenly become one of the vast army
of the unemployed.
"And in these clothes they won't even give me the dole," reflected Mr. Rowland gloomily, "and as for writing poems and selling them at the door at twopence (or 'what you care
to give, lydy') I simply haven't got the brains."
It was true that George embodied a veritable triumph of the tailor's art. He was exquisitely and beautifully arrayed.
Solomon and the lilies of the field were simply not in it
with George. But man cannot live by clothes alone--unless
he has had some considerable training in the art--and Mr.
Rowland was painfully aware of the fact.
"And all because of that rotten show last night," he reflected sadly.
The rotten show last night had been a Covent Garden Ball. Mr. Rowland had returned from it at a somewhat
late--or rather early--hour--as a matter of fact, he could
not strictly say that he remembered returning at all. Rogers,
his uncle's butler, was a helpful fellow, and could doubtless
give more details on the matter. A splitting head, a cup of
strong tea, and an arrival at the office at five minutes to
twelve instead of half-past nine had precipitated the catas-
19
20 Agatha Christie
trophe Mr. Rowland, senior, who for twenty-four years
had condoned and paid up as a tactful relative should, had
suddenly abandoned these tactics and revealed hims61f in a
totally new light. The inconsequence of George's replies
(the young man's head was still opening and shutting like
some mediaeval instrument of the Inquisition) had displeased
him still further. William Rowland was nothing if not thorough.
He cast his nephew adrift upon the world in a few
short succinct words, and then settled down to his interrupted
survey of some oil fields in Peru.
George Rowland shook the dust of his uncle's office from
off his feet, and stepped out into the City of London. George
was a practical fellow. A good lunch, he considered, was
essential to a review of the situation. He had it. Then he
retraced his steps to the family mansion. Rogers opened the
door. His well-trained face expressed no surprise at seeing
George at this unusual hour.
"Good afternoon, Rogers. Just pack up my things for
me, will you? I'm leaving here."
"yes, sir. Just for a short visit, sir?"
"For good, Rogers. I am going to the colonies this afternoon."
"Indeed, sir?"
"Yes. That is, if there is a suitable boat. Do you know
anything about the boats, Rogers?"
"Which colony were you thinking of visiting, sir?"
"I'm not particular. Any of 'em will do. Let's say Australia.
What do you think of the idea, Rogers?"
Rogers coughed discreetly.
"Well, sir, I've certainly heard it said that there's room
out there for anyone who really wants to work."
Mr. Rowland gazed at him with interest and admiration.
"Very neatly put, Rogers. Just what I was thinking myself.
I shan't go to Australia--not today, at any rate. Fetch
me an ABC, will you? We will select something nearer at
hand."
Rogers brought the required volume. George opened it
at random and turned the pages with a rapid hand.
"Perth--too far away--Putney Bridge--too near at hand.
Ramsgate? I think not. Reigate also leaves me cold. Why--what
an extraordinary thing! There's actually a place called
THE GIRL IN THE TRAIN
2 l
Rowland's Castle. Ever heard of it, Rogers?"
"I fancy, sir, that you go there from Waterloo."
"What an extraordinary fellow you are, Rogers. You
know everything. Well, well, Rowland's Castle! I wonder
what sort of a place it is.'
"Not much of a place, I should say, sir."
"All the better; there'll be less competition. These quiet
little country hamlets have a lot of the old feudal spirit
knocking about. The last of the original Rowlands ought to
meet with instant appreciation. I shouldn't wonder if they
elected me mayor in a week."
He shut up the ABC with a bang.
"The die is cast. Pack me a small suitcase, will you,
Rogers? Also my compliments to the cook, and will she
oblige me with a loan of the cat. Dick Whittington, you
know. When you set out to become a Lord Mayor, a cat is
essential."
"I'm sorry, sir, but the cat is not available at the present
moment."
"How is that?"
"A family of eight, sir. Arrived this morning."
"You don't say so. I thought its name was Peter."
"So it is, sir. A great surprise to alt of us."
"A case of careless christening and the deceitful sex, eh?
Well, well, I shall have to go catless. Pack up those things
at once, will you?"
"Very good, sir."
Rogers withdrew, to reappear ten minutes later.
"Shall I call a taxi, sir?"
"Yes, please."
Rogers hesitated, then advanced a little farther into the
room.
"You'll excuse the liberty, sir, but if I was you, I shouldn't
take too much notice of anything Mr. Rowland said this
morning. He was at one of those city dinners last night
and---"
"Say no more," said George. "I understand."
"And being inclined to gout--"
"I know, I know. Rather a strenuous evening for you,
Rogers, with two of us, eh? But I've set my heart on distinguishing
myself at Rowland's Castle--the cradle of my
22
historic
A wire to me
ing paperS,
is in
said on
Waterloo
afternoon.
would take
guished tcair
seemed
carriage to
now it
and only the
silence.
And then,
A girl
jumped ia, 1
ously near a r
oh! Please hi
George
son why, his
to hide irt a
seconds the
negligently
soon. An
"My niece
George, a
deep in the
edition.
himself from
"I beg
"My
Acting on
defence,
"What the
creditable
The other
fierceness.
he had rur
Christie
go well in a speech, woulq ,
liscreet advertisenent in th t it?
at any time if a fricassee haorn
Waterloo!--as
Well!F vea1
battle."
IlagtoO
not at its brightest and b
/> discovered a tr !t that
but it was an ur ih that
train--a train that r istint
Mr. Rowland had a firs tlbody
t the front of.the train. Af¢ xclas
way over the mere wa
The platform was de, :olis
of the egine bro] :rted
e the
things began to happe
will
wrenched open the doe Rowland
from something } and
:as she did so: "Oh! Hide :nril
man of action--his not t
etc. There is only one yrea
the
seat. In ablace
and George's suiteven
covered her retreat. Non,ese,
ared at the carriage wi,n,c too
here. I want my niece. low.
was reclining in the cOer
of the evening paper, one-tlxt] ,
the air of a man recalairty
fling
he said politely.
done with her?"
attack is always better t.than
tnean?" he cried, with a v
uncle's manner.
,ery
taken aback by this
still panting a little as
was cut en brosse, and
he
.
THE GIRL IN THE TRAIN
23
had a moustache of the Hohenzollern persuasion. His accents were decidedly guttural, and the stiffness of his carriage
denoted that he was more at home in uniform than
out of it. George had the trueborn Briton's prejudice against
foreigners--and an especial distaste for German-looking
foreigners.
"What the devil do you mean, sir? he repeated angrily.
"She came in here," said the other. "I saw her. What have you done with herT"
George flung aside the paper and thrust his head and shoulders through the window.
"So that's it, is itT' he roared. "Blackmail. But you've tried it on the wrong person. I read all about you in the Daily Mail this morning. Here, guard, guard!"