First published in , this collection of Agatha Christie short stories features 12 ingenious tales involving mystery and adventure, from a stolen rajah’s emerald. The Listerdale Mystery (Agatha Christie Collection) [Agatha Christie] on Amazon. com. *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. A selection of mysteries, some. Editorial Reviews. Review. “They are, without exception, the work of an experienced and artful The Listerdale Mystery (Agatha Christie Collection) Kindle Edition. by.
Search the history of over billion web pages on the Internet. Once or twice she sighed, and her hand stole to her aching forehead. She had always disliked arithmetic.
It was unfortunate that nowadays her life should seem to be composed entirely of one particular kind of sum, the ceaseless adding together of small necessary items of expenditure making a total that never failed to surprise and alarm her. Surely it couldn’t come to that! She went back over the figures.
She had made a trifling error in the pence, but otherwise the figures were correct. Mrs St Vincent sighed again. Her headache by now was very bad indeed. She looked up as the door opened and her daughter Barbara came into the room. Barbara St Vincent was a very pretty girl; she had her mother’s delicate features, and the same proud turn of the head, but her eyes were dark instead of blue, and she had a different mouth, a sulky red mouth not without attraction.
Throw them all into the fire. The girl shrugged her shoulders. Down to the last penny as usual. After all, I have taken that shorthand and typing course. So have about one million other girls from all I can see! Thank you, good morning. We’ll let you know. I must find some other kind of a job – any job.
I know I had fun – about the only fun I’ve ever had or am likely to have in my life. I did enjoy myself – enjoyed myself thoroughly. But it was very unsettling. I mean – coming back to this.
Mrs St Vincent followed it with her eyes and winced. The room was typical of cheap furnished lodgings. A dusty aspidistra, showily ornamental furniture, a gaudy wallpaper faded in patches. There were signs that the personality of the tenants had struggled with that of the landlady; one or two pieces of good china, much cracked and mended, so that their saleable value was nil, a piece of embroidery thrown over the back of the sofa, a water colour sketch of a young girl in the fashion of twenty years ago, near enough still to Mrs St Vincent not to be mistaken.
But to think of Ansteys She broke off, not trusting chrisie to speak of that dearly loved home which had belonged to the St Vincent family for centuries and which was now in the hands of strangers.
The Listerdale Mystery And Eleven Other Stories
I won’t say anything. Barbara went back to the window. Presently the girl said: I heard from – from Jim Masterton this morning. He wants to come and see me. Again she looked round the room with innate distaste. Sounds all right – a whitewashed cottage in the country, shabby chintzes of good design, bowls of roses, crown Derby tea service that you wash up yourself.
That’s what it’s like in books. In real life, with a son starting on the bottom rung of office life, it means London. Frowsy landladies, dirty children on the stairs, haddocks for breakfasts that aren’t quite – quite and so on. And when Jim comes to call, I’ll receive him in that dreadful room downstairs with tabbies all round the walls knitting, and stating at us, and coughing that dreadful kind of gulping cough they have!
Marry him, I suppose you mean? I would like a shot if he asked me. But I’m so awfully afraid he won’t. He did take a fancy to me. Now he’ll come here and see me in this! And he’s a funny creature, you know, fastidious and old-fashioned. I – 1 rather like him for that. It reminds me of Ansteys and the village – everything a hundred years behind the times, but so-so – oh! I don’t know – so fragrant.
Mrs Vincent spoke with a kind of earnest simplicity. He is very well off, also, but that I don’t mind about so much. Mother, can’t you see I do? We might as well try and be cheerful about things. Sorry I’ve had such a grouch. Mrs St Vincent, relinquishing all attempts at finance, sat down on the uncomfortable sofa.
Her thoughts ran round in circles like squirrels in a cage. Not later – not if they were really engaged. He’d know then what a sweet, dear girl she is. But it’s so easy for young people to take the tone of their surroundings. Lixterdale, now, he’s quite different from what he used to be. Mystedy that I want my children to be stuck-up.
That’s not it a bit. But 1 should hate it if Rupert got engaged to that dreadful girl in the tobacconist’s. I daresay she may be a very nice girl, really. But she’s not our kind.
It’s all so difficult. If I could do anything – anything. But where’s the money to come from? We’ve sold everything to give Rupert his start. We really can’t even afford this.
Most of them she knew by heart. People who wanted capital, people who had capital and were anxious to dispose of it on note of hand alone, people who wanted to buy teeth she always wondered whypeople who wanted to sell furs and gowns and who had optimistic ideas on the subject of price. Suddenly she stiffened to attention. Again and again she read the printed words. Small house in Listerdaale, exquisitely furnished, offered to those who would really care for it.
She had read many nystery same or thee well, nearly the same. Nominal rent, that was where the trap lay. Yet, since she was restless and anxious to escape from her thoughts, she put on her hat straightaway and took a convenient bus to the address given in the advertisement. It proved to be that of a firm of house agents. Not a new bustling firm – a rather decrepit, old-fashioned place. Rather timidly she produced the advertisement, which she had torn out, and asked for particulars.
The white-haired old gentleman who was attending to her stroked his chin thoughtfully. That house, the house mentioned in the advertisement, is No. You would like an order?
The exact figure is not setded, but I can assure you mystrry it is chriztie nominal. The old gentleman permitted himself to chuckle a litde. But you can take my word for it, it isn’t so in this case. Two or three guineas a week, perhaps, not more.
Not, of course, that there was any real likelihood of her being able to afford the place. But, after all, she might just see it.
The Listerdale Mystery And Eleven Other Stories by Agatha Christie
There must be some listersale disadvantage attaching to it, to be offered at such a price. But her heart gave a litde throb as she looked up at the outside of 7 Cheviot Place. A gem of a house. Queen Anne, and in perfect condition! A buder answered the door. He had grey hair and litde side whiskers, and the meditative calm of an archbishop. A kindly archbishop, Mrs St Vincent thought. He accepted the order with a benevolent air. The house is ready for occupation. The furniture avatha of the period, each piece with signs of wear, but polished with loving care.
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