This left only two chairs unoccupied. Arnold Laurier had not yet arrived, and I worked out that the other empty chair would soon be taken by Enid Surtees, who had appeared in the doorway with a large serving bowl that looked twice as heavy as her. I considered standing up and offering to take it from her. What stopped me was the expression on the face of the man I assumed was her husband, Terence Surtees. He was watching Enid with what looked like paralyzed anxiety—as if he were afraid she might not be able to get the bowl all the way to the table, but even more reluctant to help in any way.
Had Maddie not said that Terence Surtees was Frellingsloe House’s gardener? If so, then this had to be him. He had the dirtiest fingernails I had ever seen on hands that were otherwise clean, and fingers that brought to mind swollen sausages. His hair was white, and as thick as his wife’s was thin. It had something of the shape of a lion’s mane about it.
I saw that Poirot, in spite of being engaged in conversation with Mother, had also noticed Terence Surtees’ look of frozen consternation. No one else in the room seemed to be aware of it.
Enid placed the heavy bowl on the table next to the tower of clean plates. Relief washed over me that our dinner had not ended up splattered all over the floor. Then, a fewseconds later, I wished that it had. Enid had pulled the plates toward her and was serving up a species of stew which was quite the most unappetizing thing I had ever seen slopped onto a plate. It had a shiny surface and a lumpy texture. Even the smell of it was vile.
“Shall we wait for Arnold?” Vivienne said.
“It will go cold,” was Enid’s curt reply. The ladling out of the lumps continued. It might even have picked up pace, though I could not swear to it.
“I am sure he will be here any second now,” said Vivienne in a strained voice. I guessed that she was not happy to have her wishes ignored. This was the problem with turning your sons’ mother-in-law into your cook, I supposed. To an employee who played no other role in one’s life, one could give clear orders. It was much harder when dealing with a close friend in such a role. Though, come to think of it, the stilted atmosphere between Vivienne Laurier and Enid Surtees did not suggest to me that friendly feelings flowed freely between them. Presumably Enid and Terence were not being paid a wage for their cook and gardener services. Mother had definitely said that the paid servants had been dismissed in order to save money.
“Could something have delayed Monsieur Laurier?” Poirot asked Vivienne. “Catchpool, perhaps you could go and find out.”
“No,” said Vivienne. “Nobody needs to do anything. Arnold will be down shortly. I am not worried about him. I simply thought it would be nice to... But Enid is right. We should eat the food while it is hot.”
Once each plate had a pile of the grey lumpy matter at its center, Enid dripped globules of other unidentifiable substances around the edges from the other serving dishes. There was something dark green and wet, and a sludge-like substance the color of rust. I restrained a shudder when the same serving spoon was used for all the different pots of slurry.
Soon everyone present had an individual portion of this collage of culinary offence in front of them. Enid sat down opposite me and between the two youngest men at the table. These were obviously Douglas and Jonathan Laurier, sons of Arnold and Vivienne. Douglas, I guessed, was the one who had Maddie on his right-hand side. He was handsome in a rakish way, with slightly unkempt dark hair that was almost black and eyes the same color. Despite his smart attire—he was impeccably turned out—his slouched posture and lopsided, mischievous smile created a dissolute impression. His brother, Jonathan, had lighter brown hair and was rounder and not quite so handsome. A teddy bear, I thought, and a remarkably cross one. He had not smiled once, at anybody, since I had entered the room—not even when he had nodded at me in greeting.
His wife, Janet, was small and delicate like her mother, and beautiful. It was as if a china doll had been placed among humans. She had an oval-shaped face, blue eyes, golden hair and a mouth like a small pink bow which produced very brief smiles now and then. She was engaged in conversation with Dr. Osgood and her father, Terence Surtees, though her role in the proceedings seemed confined to listening and nodding occasionally as she ate.
There was no sibling resemblance between her and her sister; the two women could not have looked any less alike. Maddie was handsome, buxom and not at all doll-like. I was pleased to note that she was no longer draped in all kinds of ill-matched clothes. Apart from my mother, who was still busy boring Poirot and enjoying her own performance as much as she always did, Maddie and Douglas were the only people at the table who seemed to be having fun. They were teasing each other and laughing. I wondered if Poirot had noticed that Maddie, Janet and their parents were the only ones eating. No one who was not a Surtees—now or by birth—had touched their food yet.
Arnold’s plate awaited him on the table in front of the one remaining empty chair, its contents slowly solidifying. Enid must have wanted to do all the serving at once, or she would surely have left Arnold’s food in the large lidded bowls where it could have stayed warm. Vivienne was pushing food around her plate with her fork, her eyes fixed on Arnold’s untouched meal. Without warning, she stood up and started to pour wine and water from the jugs on the table. She had not got very far when Enid sprang up out of her chair and said brusquely, “Leave that. Let me do it.”
“No, I will do it,” was Vivienne’s quiet but firm reply. Enid sat down again.
I had not been wrong: there was a hostility between these two women. Something about Vivienne’s manner silently implied that the drinks ought to have been taken care of already, and not by her. We waited and watched insilence as she filled all twenty-six glasses: thirteen with wine and thirteen with water.
“Well, this is jolly!” said Maddie. She raised her wine glass. “Chin-chin, everyone!” Douglas snorted and raised an eyebrow. Jolly, then, was not the word he would have used. I had to concur. The atmosphere was so strained that I was sure Maddie’s remark had been deliberately sarcastic.
“Madame,” Poirot addressed Vivienne Laurier. “Are you sure you would not like Catchpool to ascertain the whereabouts of your husband?”
“I am sure. Thank you,” she replied. “If Arnold is not here by now, then he is likely to have fallen asleep. I would rather not disturb him.”
“Catchpool could open the door quietly,” Poirot pressed her.
I tried to catch his eye so that I could send him a questioning look. He sounded concerned that something untoward might have happened to Arnold Laurier, and I could not work out why. Was his anxiety related to Laurier’s illness, or driven by something else?
“I could also open my father’s door quietly,” said Jonathan Laurier. “Would that suit you just as well, Monsieur Poirot? I am only the son and heir, mind. You might prefer it if the check were carried out by your Scotland Yard lackey who only met my father yesterday.”
“Jonnells!” Douglas laughed. “I have never heard you say something so rude that was not addressed to me.”
“Do not call me that,” said Jonathan.
“Oh, boys, do stop,” said Mother. “Douglas, do not goadhim. Jonathan, resist the temptation to rise to the bait. As for you, Monsieur Poirot: do not entertain the notion that you might be offended by what has just occurred—that will do you no good whatsoever.”
I waited for her to add that I should also not take offence, but no such direction came. I decided to make the most of this opportunity to do whatever I wanted, uncoerced by Mother, and aimed the most condemnatory look I could muster at Jonathan Laurier.
“It was my brother’s childhood nickname.” Douglas turned to me with a grin. “You should call him Jonnells every time he calls you a lackey. I would.”
Jonathan, whose face was beetroot red, said to me, “I’m sorry, Inspector Catchpool. I did not mean... You did not deserve that. Please accept my heartfelt apology.”
“Edward has a very forgiving nature,” Mother told him. “You needn’t fret.”
I made a non-committal noise and busied myself by sampling the congealing greyness on my plate. It had no flavor at all, which was a welcome surprise. I had expected it to taste hideous.
