Free Peril at End House by Agatha Christie Page A

Great-Great-Great-Uncle Timothy from his travels.’
    ‘It’s a beauty—a real beauty. You wouldn’t find another to match it if you tried.’
    ‘It’s warm,’ said Nick. ‘It’ll be nice when we’re watching the fireworks. And it’s gay. I—I hate black.’
    ‘Yes,’ said Frederica. ‘I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you in a black dress before, Nick. Why did you get it?’
    ‘Oh! I don’t know.’ The girl flung aside with a petulant gesture, but I had caught a curious curl of her lips as though of pain. ‘Why does one do anything?’
    We went in to dinner. A mysterious manservant had appeared—hired, I presume, for the occasion. The food was indifferent. The champagne, on the other hand, was good.
    ‘George hasn’t turned up,’ said Nick. ‘A nuisance his having to go back to Plymouth last night. He’ll get over this evening sometime or other, I expect. In time for the dance anyway. I’ve got a man for Maggie. Presentable, if not passionately interesting.’
    A faint roaring sound drifted in through the window.
    ‘Oh! curse that speedboat,’ said Lazarus. ‘I get so tired of it.’
    ‘That’s not the speedboat,’ said Nick. ‘That’s a sea-plane.’
    ‘I believe you’re right.’
    ‘Of course I’m right. The sound’s quite different.’
    ‘When are you going to get your Moth, Nick?’
    ‘When I can raise the money,’ laughed Nick.
    ‘And then, I suppose you’ll be off to Australia like that girl—what’s her name?’
    ‘I’d love to—’
    ‘I admire her enormously,’ said Mrs Rice, in her tired voice. ‘What marvellous nerve! All by herself too.’
    ‘I admire all these flying people,’ said Lazarus. ‘If Michael Seton had succeeded in his flight round the world he’d have been the hero of the day—and rightly so. A thousand pities he’s come to grief. He’s the kind of man England can’t afford to lose.’
    ‘He may still be all right,’ said Nick.
    ‘Hardly. It’s a thousand to one against by now. Poor Mad Seton.’
    ‘They always called him Mad Seton, didn’t they?’ asked Frederica.
    Lazarus nodded.
    ‘He comes of rather a mad family,’ he said. ‘His uncle, Sir Matthew Seton, who died about a week ago—he was as mad as a hatter.’
    ‘He was the mad millionaire who ran bird sanctuaries, wasn’t he?’ asked Frederica.
    ‘Yes. Used to buy up islands. He was a great woman-hater. Some girl chucked him once, I believe, and he took to Natural History by way of consoling himself.’
    ‘Why do you say Michael Seton is dead?’ persisted Nick. ‘I don’t see any reason for giving up hope—yet.’
    ‘Of course, you knew him, didn’t you?’ said Lazarus. ‘I forgot.’
    ‘Freddie and I met him at Le Touquet last year,’ said Nick. ‘He was too marvellous, wasn’t he, Freddie?’
    ‘Don’t ask me, darling. He was your conquest, not mine. He took you up once, didn’t he?’
    ‘Yes—at Scarborough. It was simply too wonderful.’
    ‘Have you done any flying, Captain Hastings?’ Maggie asked of me in polite conversational tones.
    I had to confess that a trip to Paris and back was the extent of my acquaintance with air travel.
    Suddenly, with an exclamation, Nick sprang up.
    ‘There’s the telephone. Don’t wait for me. It’s getting late. And I’ve asked lots of people.’
    She left the room. I glanced at my watch. It was just nine o’clock. Dessert was brought, and port. Poirot and Lazarus were talking Art. Pictures, Lazarus was saying, were a great drug in the market just now. They went on to discuss new ideas in furniture and decoration.
    I endeavoured to do my duty by talking to Maggie Buckley, but I had to admit that the girl was heavy in hand. She answered pleasantly, but without throwing the ball back. It was uphill work.
    Frederica Rice sat dreamily silent, her elbows on the table and the smoke from her cigarette curling round her fair head. She looked like a meditative angel.
    It was just twenty past nine when Nick put her