At Bertram's Hotel

by Agatha Christie

  It was a fine night and he walked home to Bertram’s Hotel after first getting into a bus which took him in the opposite direction. It was midnight when he got in and Bertram’s Hotel at midnight usually preserved a decorous appearance of everyone having gone to bed. The lift was on a higher floor so the Canon walked up the stairs. He came to his room, inserted the key in the lock, threw the door open and entered!

  Good gracious, was he seeing things? But who—how—he saw the upraised arm too late….

  Stars exploded in a kind of Guy Fawkes’ display within his head….

  Chapter Eight

  I

  The Irish Mail rushed through the night. Or, more correctly, through the darkness of the early morning hours.

  At intervals the diesel engine gave its weird banshee warning cry. It was travelling at well over eighty miles an hour. It was on time.

  Then, with some suddenness, the pace slackened as the brakes came on. The wheels screamed as they gripped the metals. Slower…slower…The guard put his head out of the window noting the red signal ahead as the train came to a final halt. Some of the passengers woke up. Most did not.

  One elderly lady, alarmed by the suddenness of the deceleration, opened the door and looked out along the corridor. A little way along one of the doors to the line was open. An elderly cleric with a thatch of thick white hair was climbing up from the permanent way. She presumed he had previously climbed down to the line to investigate. The morning air was distinctly chilly. Someone at the end of the corridor said: “Only a signal.” The elderly lady withdrew into her compartment and tried to go to sleep again.

  Farther up the line, a man waving a lantern was running towards the train from a signal box. The fireman climbed down from the engine. The guard who had descended from the train came along to join him. The man with the lantern arrived, rather short of breath and spoke in a series of gasps.

  “Bad crash ahead…Goods train derailed….”

  The engine driver looked out of his cab, then climbed down also to join the others.

  At the rear of the train, six men who had just climbed up the embankment boarded the train through a door left open for them in the last coach. Six passengers from different coaches met them. With well-rehearsed speed, they proceeded to take charge of the postal van, isolating it from the rest of the train. Two men in Balaclava helmets at front and rear of the compartment stood on guard, coshes in hand.

  A man in railway uniform went forward along the corridor of the stationary train, uttering explanations to such as demanded them.

  “Block on the line ahead. Ten minutes’ delay, maybe, not much more….” It sounded friendly and reassuring.

  By the engine, the driver and the fireman lay neatly gagged and trussed up. The man with the lantern called out:

  “Everything OK here.”

  The guard lay by the embankment, similarly gagged and tied.

  The expert cracksmen in the postal van had done their work. Two more neatly trussed bodies lay on the floor. The special mailbags sailed out to where other men on the embankment awaited them.

  In their compartments, passengers grumbled to each other that the railways were not what they used to be.

  Then, as they settled themselves to sleep again, there came through the darkness the roar of an exhaust.

  “Goodness,” murmured a woman. “Is that a jet plane?”

  “Racing car, I should say.”

  The roar died away….

  II

  On the Bedhampton Motorway, nine miles away, a steady stream of night lorries was grinding its way north. A big white racing car flashed past them.

  Ten minutes later, it turned off the motorway.

  The garage on the corner of the B road bore the sign CLOSED. But the big doors swung open and the white car was driven straight in, the doors closing again behind it. Three men worked at lightning speed. A fresh set of number plates were attached. The driver changed his coat and cap. He had worn white sheepskin before. Now he wore black leather. He drove out again. Three minutes after his departure, an old Morris Oxford, driven by a clergyman, chugged out onto the road and proceeded to take a route through various turning and twisting country lanes.

  A station wagon, driven along a country road, slowed up as it came upon an old Morris Oxford stationary by the hedge, with an elderly man standing over it.

  The driver of the station wagon put out a head.

  “Having trouble? Can I help?”

  “Very good of you. It’s my lights.”

  The two drivers approached each other—listened. “All clear.”

  Various expensive American-style cases were transferred from the Morris Oxford to the station wagon.

  A mile or two farther on, the station wagon turned off on what looked like a rough track but which presently turned out to be the back way to a large and opulent mansion. In what had been a stableyard, a big white Mercedes car was standing. The driver of the station wagon opened its boot with a key, transferred the cases to the boot, and drove away again in the station wagon.

  In a nearby farmyard a cock crowed noisily.

  Chapter Nine

  I

  Elvira Blake looked up at the sky, noted that it was a fine morning and went into a telephone box. She dialled Bridget’s number in Onslow Square. Satisfied by the response, she said:

  “Hallo? Bridget?”

  “Oh Elvira, is that you?” Bridget’s voice sounded agitated.

  “Yes. Has everything been all right?”

  “Oh no. It’s been awful. Your cousin, Mrs. Melford, rang up Mummy yesterday afternoon.”

  “What, about me?”

  “Yes. I thought I’d done it so well when I rang her up at lunchtime. But it seems she got worried about your teeth. Thought there might be something really wrong with them. Abscesses or something. So she rang up the dentist herself and found, of course, that you’d never been there at all. So then she rang up Mummy and unfortunately Mummy was right there by the telephone. So I couldn’t get there first. And naturally Mummy said she didn’t know anything about it, and that you certainly weren’t staying here. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Pretended I knew nothing about it. I did say that I thought you’d said something about going to see some friends at Wimbledon.”

  “Why Wimbledon?”

  “It was the first place came into my head.”

  Elvira sighed. “Oh well, I suppose I’ll have to cook up something. An old governess, perhaps, who lives at Wimbledon. All this fussing does make things so complicated. I hope Cousin Mildred doesn’t make a real fool of herself and ring up the police or something like that.”

  “Are you going down there now?”

  “Not till this evening. I’ve got a lot to do first.”

  “You got to Ireland. Was it—all right?”

  “I found out what I wanted to know.”

  “You sound—sort of grim.”

  “I’m feeling grim.”

  “Can’t I help you, Elvira? Do anything?”

  “Nobody can help me really…It’s a thing I have to do myself. I hoped something wasn’t true, but it is true. I don’t know quite what to do about it.”

  “Are you in danger, Elvira?”

  “Don’t be melodramatic, Bridget. I’ll have to be careful, that’s all. I’ll have to be very careful.”

  “Then you are in danger.”

  Elvira said after a moment’s pause, “I expect I’m just imagining things, that’s all.”

  “Elvira, what are you going to do about that bracelet?”

  “Oh, that’s all right. I’ve arranged to get some money from someone, so I can go and—what’s the word—redeem it. Then just take it back to Bollards.”

  “D’you think they’ll be all right about it?—No, Mummy, it’s just the laundry. They say we never sent that sheet. Yes, Mummy, yes, I’ll tell the manageress. All right then.”

  At the other end of the line Elvira grinned
and put down the receiver. She opened her purse, sorted through her money, counted out the coins she needed and arranged them in front of her and proceeded to put through a call. When she got the number she wanted she put in the necessary coins, pressed Button A and spoke in a small rather breathless voice.

  “Hallo, Cousin Mildred. Yes, it’s me…I’m terribly sorry…Yes, I know…well I was going to…yes it was dear old Maddy, you know our old Mademoiselle…yes I wrote a postcard, then I forgot to post it. It’s still in my pocket now…well, you see she was ill and there was no one to look after her and so I just stopped to see she was all right. Yes, I was going to Bridget’s but this changed things…I don’t understand about the message you got. Someone must have jumbled it up…Yes, I’ll explain it all to you when I get back…yes, this afternoon. No, I shall just wait and see the nurse who’s coming to look after old Maddy—well, not really a nurse. You know one of those—er—practical aid nurses or something like that. No, she would hate to go to hospital…But I am sorry, Cousin Mildred, I really am very, very sorry.” She put down the receiver and sighed in an exasperated manner. “If only,” she murmured to herself, “one didn’t have to tell so many lies to everybody.”

  She came out of the telephone box, noting as she did so the big newspaper placards—BIG TRAIN ROBBERY. IRISH MAIL ATTACKED BY BANDITS.

  II

  Mr. Bollard was serving a customer when the shop door opened. He looked up to see the Honourable Elvira Blake entering.

  “No,” she said to an assistant who came forward to her. “I’d rather wait until Mr. Bollard is free.”

  Presently Mr. Bollard’s customer’s business was concluded and Elvira moved into the vacant place.

  “Good morning, Mr. Bollard,” she said.

  “I’m afraid your watch isn’t done quite as soon as this, Miss Elvira,” said Mr. Bollard.

  “Oh, it’s not the watch,” said Elvira. “I’ve come to apologize. A dreadful thing happened.” She opened her bag and took out a small box. From it she extracted the sapphire and diamond bracelet. “You will remember when I came in with my watch to be repaired that I was looking at things for a Christmas present and there was an accident outside in the street. Somebody was run over I think, or nearly run over. I suppose I must have had the bracelet in my hand and put it into the pocket of my suit without thinking, although I only found it this morning. So I rushed along at once to bring it back. I’m so terribly sorry, Mr. Bollard, I don’t know how I came to do such an idiotic thing.”

  “Why, that’s quite all right, Miss Elvira,” said Mr. Bollard, slowly.

  “I suppose you thought someone had stolen it,” said Elvira.

  Her limpid blue eyes met him.

  “We had discovered its loss,” said Mr. Bollard. “Thank you very much, Miss Elvira, for bringing it back so promptly.”

  “I felt simply awful about it when I found it,” said Elvira. “Well, thank you very much, Mr. Bollard, for being so nice about it.”

  “A lot of strange mistakes do occur,” said Mr. Bollard. He smiled at her in an avuncular manner. “We won’t think of it anymore. But don’t do it again, though.” He laughed with the air of one making a genial little joke.

  “Oh no,” said Elvira, “I shall be terribly careful in future.”

  She smiled at him, turned and left the shop.

  “Now I wonder,” said Mr. Bollard to himself, “I really do wonder….”

  One of his partners, who had been standing near, moved nearer to him.

  “So she did take it?” he said.

  “Yes. She took it all right,” said Mr. Bollard.

  “But she brought it back,” his partner pointed out.

  “She brought it back,” agreed Mr. Bollard. “I didn’t actually expect that.”

  “You mean you didn’t expect her to bring it back?”

  “No, not if it was she who’d taken it.”

  “Do you think her story is true?” his partner inquired curiously. “I mean, that she slipped it into her pocket by accident?”

  “I suppose it’s possible,” said Bollard, thoughtfully.

  “Or it could be kleptomania, I suppose.”

  “Or it could be kleptomania,” agreed Bollard. “It’s more likely that she took it on purpose…But if so, why did she bring it back so soon? It’s curious—”

  “Just as well we didn’t notify the police. I admit I wanted to.”

  “I know, I know. You haven’t got as much experience as I have. In this case, it was definitely better not.” He added softly to himself, “The thing’s interesting, though. Quite interesting. I wonder how old she is? Seventeen or eighteen I suppose. She might have got herself in a jam of some kind.”

  “I thought you said she was rolling in money.”

  “You may be an heiress and rolling in money,” said Bollard, “but at seventeen you can’t always get your hands on it. The funny thing is, you know, they keep heiresses much shorter of cash than they keep the more impecunious. It’s not always a good idea. Well, I don’t suppose we shall ever know the truth of it.”

  He put the bracelet back in its place in the display case and shut down the lid.

  Chapter Ten

  The offices of Egerton, Forbes & Wilborough were in Bloomsbury, in one of those imposing and dignified squares which have as yet not felt the wind of change. Their brass plate was suitably worn down to illegibility. The firm had been going for over a hundred years and a good proportion of the landed gentry of England were their clients. There was no Forbes in the firm anymore and no Wilboroughs. Instead there were Atkinsons, father and son, and a Welsh Lloyd and a Scottish McAllister. There was, however, still an Egerton, descendant of the original Egerton. This particular Egerton was a man of fifty-two and he was adviser to several families which had in their day been advised by his grandfather, his uncle, and his father.

  At this moment he was sitting behind a large mahogany desk in his handsome room on the first floor, speaking kindly but firmly to a dejected looking client. Richard Egerton was a handsome man, tall, dark with a touch of grey at the temples and very shrewd grey eyes. His advice was always good advice, but he seldom minced his words.

  “Quite frankly you haven’t got a leg to stand upon, Freddie,” he was saying. “Not with those letters you’ve written.”

  “You don’t think—” Freddie murmured dejectedly.

  “No, I don’t,” said Egerton. “The only hope is to settle out of court. It might even be held that you’ve rendered yourself liable to criminal prosecution.”

  “Oh, look here, Richard, that’s carrying things a bit far.”

  There was a small discreet buzz on Egerton’s desk. He picked up the telephone receiver with a frown.

  “I thought I said I wasn’t to be disturbed.”

  There was a murmur at the other end. Egerton said, “Oh. Yes—Yes, I see. Ask her to wait, will you.”

  He replaced the receiver and turned once more to his unhappy looking client.

  “Look here, Freddie,” he said, “I know the law and you don’t. You’re in a nasty jam. I’ll do my best to get you out of it, but it’s going to cost you a bit. I doubt if they’d settle for less than twelve thousand.”

  “Twelve thousand!” The unfortunate Freddie was aghast. “Oh, I say! I haven’t got it, Richard.”

  “Well, you’ll have to raise it then. There are always ways and means. If she’ll settle for twelve thousand, you’ll be lucky, and if you fight the case it’ll cost you a lot more.”

  “You lawyers!” said Freddie. “Sharks, all of you!”

  He rose to his feet. “Well,” he said, “do your bloody best for me, Richard old boy.”

  He took his departure, shaking his head sadly. Richard Egerton put Freddie and his affairs out of his mind, and thought about his next client. He said softly to himself, “The Honourable Elvira Blake. I wonder what she’s like…” He lifted his receiver. “Lord Frederick’s gone. Send up Miss Blake, will you.”

  As he waited he ma
de little calculations on his desk pad. How many years since—? She must be fifteen—seventeen—perhaps even more than that. Time went so fast. “Coniston’s daughter,” he thought, “and Bess’s daughter. I wonder which of them she takes after?”

  The door opened, the clerk announced Miss Elvira Blake and the girl walked into the room. Egerton rose from his chair and came towards her. In appearance, he thought, she did not resemble either of her parents. Tall, slim, very fair, Bess’s colouring but none of Bess’s vitality, with an old-fashioned air about her; though that was difficult to be sure of, since the fashion in dress happened at the moment to be ruffles and baby bodices.

  “Well, well,” he said, as he shook hands with her. “This is a surprise. Last time I saw you, you were eleven years old. Come and sit here.” He pulled forward a chair and she sat down.

  “I suppose,” said Elvira, a little uncertainly, “that I ought to have written first. Written and made an appointment. Something like that, but I really made up my mind very suddenly and it seemed an opportunity, since I was in London.”

  “And what are you doing in London?”

  “Having my teeth seen to.”

  “Beastly things, teeth,” said Egerton. “Give us trouble from the cradle to the grave. But I am grateful for the teeth, if it gives me an opportunity of seeing you. Let me see now; you’ve been in Italy, haven’t you, finishing your education there at one of these places all girls go to nowadays?”

  “Yes,” said Elvira, “the Contessa Martinelli. But I’ve left there now for good. I’m living with the Melfords in Kent until I make up my mind if there’s anything I’d like to do.”

  “Well, I hope you’ll find something satisfactory. You’re not thinking of a university or anything like that?”