Читать «Crooked House / Скрюченный домишко. Книга для чтения на английском языке» онлайн - страница 13

I nodded.

‘That’s one kind of ruthlessness,’ went on Sophia, ‘and then there was my grandmother. I only just remember her, but I’ve heard a good deal about her. I think she might have had the ruthlessness that comes from having no imagination whatever. All those fox-hunting forebears—and the old Generals, the shoot-’em-down type. Full of rectitude and arrogance, and not a bit afraid of taking responsibility in matters of life and death.’

‘Isn’t that a bit far-fetched?’

‘Yes, I dare say—but I’m always rather afraid of that type. It’s full of rectitude but it is ruthless. And then there’s my own mother—she’s an actress—she’s a darling, but she’s got absolutely no sense of proportion. She’s one of those unconscious egoists who can only see things in relation to how it affects them. That’s rather frightening, sometimes, you know. And there’s Clemency, Uncle Roger’s wife. She’s a scientist—she’s doing some kind of very important research—she’s ruthless too, in a kind of cold-blooded impersonal way. Uncle Roger’s the exact opposite—he’s the kindest and most lovable person in the world, but he’s got a really terrific temper. Things make his blood boil and then he hardly knows what he’s doing. And there’s father—’

She made a long pause.

‘Father,’ she said slowly, ‘is almost too well controlled. You never know what he’s thinking. He never shows any emotion at all. It’s probably a kind of unconscious self-defence against mother’s absolute orgies of emotion, but sometimes—it worries me a little.’

‘My dear child,’ I said, ‘you’re working yourself up unnecessarily. What it comes to in the end is that everybody, perhaps, is capable of murder.’

‘I suppose that’s true. Even me.’

‘Not you!’

‘Oh yes, Charles, you can’t make me an exception. I suppose I could murder someone…’ She was silent a moment or two, then added, ‘But if so, it would have to be for something really worth while!’

I laughed then. I couldn’t help it. And Sophia smiled.

‘Perhaps I’m a fool,’ she said, ‘but we’ve got to find out the truth about grandfather’s death. We’ve got to. If only it was Brenda…’

I felt suddenly rather sorry for Brenda Leonides.

Chapter 5

Along the path towards us came a tall figure walking briskly. It had on a battered old felt hat, a shapeless skirt, and a rather cumbersome jersey.

‘Aunt Edith,’ said Sophia.

The figure paused once or twice, stooping to the flower borders, then it advanced upon us. I rose to my feet.

‘This is Charles Hayward, Aunt Edith. My aunt, Miss de Haviland.’

Edith de Haviland was a woman of about seventy. She had a mass of untidy grey hair, a weather-beaten face and a shrewd and piercing glance.

‘How d’ye do?’ she said. ‘I’ve heard about you. Back from the East. How’s your father?’

Rather surprised, I said he was very well.

‘Knew him when he was a boy,’ said Miss de Haviland. ‘Knew his mother very well. You look rather like her. Have you come to help us—or the other thing?’