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Автор Агата Кристи
Prologue - SUMMER TERM
It was the opening day of the summer term at Meadowbank school. The late afternoon sun shone down on the broad gravel sweep in front of the house. The front door was flung hospitably wide and, just within it, admirably suited to irs Georgian proportions, stood Miss Vansittart, every hair in place, wearing an impeccably cut coat and skirt.
Some parents who knew no better had taken her for the great Miss Bulstrode herself, not knowing that it was Miss Bulstrode's custom to retire to a kind of holy of holies to which only a selected and privileged few were taken.
To one side of Miss Vansittart, operating on a slightly different plane, was Miss Chadwick, comfortable, knowledgeable, and so much a part of Meadowbank that it would have been impossible to imagine Meadowbank without her. It never had been without her. Miss Bulstrode and Miss Chadwick had started Meadowbank school together. Miss Chadwick wore pince-nez, stooped, was dowdily dressed, amiably vague in speech, and happened to be a brilliant mathematician.
Various welcoming words and phrases, uttered graciously by Miss Vansittart, floated through the house.
"How do you do, Mrs. Arnold? Well, Lydia, did you enjoy your Hellenic cruise? What a wonderful opportunity! Did you get some good photographs?
"Yes, Lady Garnett, Miss Bulstrode had your letter about the art classes and everything's been arranged.
"How are you, Mrs. Bird? Well? I don't think Miss Bulstrode will have time today to discuss the point. Miss Rowan is somewhere about if you'd like to talk to her about it.
"We've moved your bedroom, Pamela. You're in the far wing by the apple tree...
"Yes, indeed, Lady Violet, the weather has been terrible so far this spring. Is this your youngest? What is his name? Hector? What a nice aeroplane you have, Hector.
"Très heureuse de vous voir, Madame. Ah, je regrette, ce ne serait pas possible, cette après-midi. Mademoiselle Bulstrode est tellement occupée.
"Good afternoon, Professor. Have you been digging up some more interesting things?"
II
In a small room on the first floor, Ann Shapland, Miss Bulstrode's secretary, was typing with speed and efficiency. Ann was a nice-looking young woman of thirty-five, with hair that fitted her like a black satin cap. She could be attractive when she wanted to be, but life had taught her that efficiency and competence often paid better results, and avoided painful complications. At the moment she was concentrating on being everything that a secretary to a headmistress of a famous girls' school should be.
From time to time, as she inserted a fresh sheet in her machine, she looked out of the window and registered interest in the arrivals.
"Goodness!" said Ann to herself, awed, "I didn't know there were so many chauffeurs left in England!"
Then she smiled in spite of herself, as a majestic Rolls moved away and a very small Austin of battered age drove up. A harassed looking father emerged from it with a daughter who looked far calmer than he did.
As he paused uncertainly, Miss Vansittart emerged from the house and took charge.
