Crooked House by Agatha Christie Page A

plain with no special luxury fitting and no array of cosmetics. The kitchen was bare, spotlessly clean, and well equipped with labour saving devices of a practical kind. Then we came to a door which Clemency opened saying: “This is my husband's special room.”
    “Come in,” said Roger. “Come in.”
    I drew a faint breath of relief. Something in the spotless austerity elsewhere had been getting me down. This was an intensely personal room. There was a large roll top desk untidily covered with papers, old pipes and tobacco ash. There were big shabby easy chairs. Persian rugs covered the floor.
    On the walls were groups, their photography somewhat faded. School groups, cricket groups, military groups. Water colour sketches of deserts and minarets, and of sailing boats and sea effects and sunsets. It was, somehow, a pleasant room, the room of a lovable friendly companionable man.
    Roger, clumsily, was pouring out drinks from a tantalus, sweeping books and papers off one of the chairs.
    “Place is in a mess. I was turning out. Clearing up old papers. Say when.” The Inspector declined a drink. I accepted.
    “You must forgive me just now,” went on Roger. He brought my drink over to me, turning his head to speak to Taverner as he did so. “My feelings ran away with me.”
    He looked around almost guiltily, but Clemency Leonides had not accompanied us into the room.
    “She's so wonderful,” he said. “My wife, I mean. All through this, she's been splendid - splendid! I can't tell you how I admire that woman. And she's had such a hard time - a terrible time. I'd like to tell you about it. Before we were married, I mean. Her first husband was a fine chap - fine mind, I mean - but terribly delicate - tubercular as a matter of fact. He was doing some very valuable research work on crystallography, I believe. Poorly paid and very exacting, but he wouldn't give up. She slaved for him, practically kept him, knowing all the time that he was dying. And never a complaint - never a murmur of wanness. She always said she was happy. Then he died, and she was terribly cut up. At last she agreed to marry me. I was glad to be able to give her some rest, some happiness, I wished she would stop working, but of course she felt it her duty in war time, and she still seems to feel she should go on. She's been a wonderful wife - the most wonderful wife a man ever had. Gosh, I've been lucky! I'd do anything for her.”
    Taverner made a suitable rejoinder. Then he embarked once more on the familiar routine questions. When had he first heard of his father's illness?
    "Brenda had rushed over to call me. My father was ill - she said he had had a seizure of some sort.
    “I'd been sitting with the dear old boy only about half an hour earlier. He'd been perfectly all right then. I rushed over. He was blue in the face, gasping. I dashed down to Philip. He rang up the doctor. I - we couldn't do anything. Of course I never dreamed for a moment then that there had been any funny business. Funny? Did I say funny? God, what a word to use.”
    With a little difficulty, Taverner and I disentangled ourselves from the emotional atmosphere of Roger Leonides's room and found ourselves outside the door, once more at the top of the stairs.
    “Whew!” said Taverner. “What a contrast from the other brother.” He added, rather inconsequently “Curious things, rooms. Tell you quite a lot about the people who live in them.”
    I agreed and he went on.
    “Curious the people who marry each other, too, isn't it?”
    I was not quite sure if he was referring to Clemency and Roger, or to Philip and Magda. His words applied equally well to either. Yet it seemed to me that both the marriages might be classed as happy ones. Roger's and Clemency's certainly was.
    “I shouldn't say he was a poisoner, would you?” asked Taverner. “Not off hand, I wouldn't. Of course, you never know. Now she's more the type. Remorseless sort of woman. Might be a bit mad.”
    Again I