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  Also available in Large Print

  by Agatha Christie:

  The A.B.C. Murders

  The Body in the Library

  The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

  The Secret Adversary

  Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

  AGATHA

  GHRJSTTE

  CROOKED HOUSE

  G.K.HALL&CO.

  Boston, Massachusetts

  1988

  The characters, places, incidents and situations in I this hook are imaginary and have no relation to any

  person, place, or actual happening

  Copyright 1948, 1949 by Agatha Christie MaUowan.

  ? renewed 1976, 1977 by Agatha Christie Limited.

  All rights reserved.

  Published in Large Print by arrangement with

  Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.

  G.K. Hall Large Print Book Series.

  Set in 18 pt Plantin.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Christie, Agatha, 18901976.

  Crooked house / Agatha Christie.

  p. cm.--(G.K. Hall large print book series)

  ISBN 0-8161-4463-X (Ig. print)

  ISBN 0-8161-4502-4 (Ig. print.-pb)

  1. Large type books. I. Tide.

  [PR6005.H66C76 1988]

  823'.912--dcl9 87-32146

  CIP

  To PUNKIE,

  who likes an orthodox detective story,

  murder, inquest, and suspicion

  falling on everyone in turn!

  %

  CROOKED HOUSE

  ^

  One

  I first came to know Sophia Leonides in

  Egypt towards the end of the war. She held

  a fairly high administrative post in one of

  the Foreign Office departments out there.

  I knew her first in an official capacity, and

  I soon appreciated the efficiency that had

  brought her to the position she held, in

  spite of her youth (she was at that time just

  twenty two). 4

  Besides being extremely easy to look at,

  she had a clear mind and a dry sense of

  humour that I found very delightful. We

  became friends. She was a person whom it

  was extraordinarily easy to talk to and we

  enjoyed our dinners and occasional dances

  very much.

  All this I knew; it was not until I was

  ordered East at the close of the European

  war that I knew something else ? that I

  loved Sophia and that I wanted to marry

  her.

  We were dining at Shepheard's when I

  made this discovery. It did not come to me

  with any shock of surprise, but more as the

  recognition of a fact with which I had been

  long familiar. I looked at her with new eyes

  -- but I saw what I had already known for

  a long time. I liked everything I saw. The

  dark crisp hair that sprang up proudly from

  her forehead, the vivid blue eyes, the small

  square fighting chin, and the straight nose.

  I liked the well cut light grey tailormade, and the crisp white shirt. She looked

  refreshingly English and that appealed to

  me strongly after three years without seeing

  my native land. Nobody, I thought, could

  be more English -- and even as I was

  thinking exactly that, I suddenly wondered

  if, in fact, she was, or indeed could be, as

  English as she looked. Does the real thing

  ever have the perfection of a stage performance?

  I realised that much and freely as we had

  talked together, discussing ideas, our likes

  and dislikes, the future, our immediate

  friends and acquaintances -- Sophia had

  never mentioned her home or her family.

  She knew all about me (she was, as I have

  indicated, a good listener) but about her I

  knew nothing. She had, I supposed, the

  usual background, but she had never talked

  about it. And until this moment I had never

  realised the fact.

  Sophia asked me what I was thinking

  about.

  I replied truthfully: "You."

  "I see," she said. And she sounded as

  though she did see.

  "We may not meet again for a couple of

  years," I said. "I don't know when I shall

  get back to England. But as soon as I do

  get back, the first thing I shall do will be

  to come and see you and ask you to marry

  me."

  She took it without batting an eyelash.

  She sat there, smoking, not looking at me.

  For a moment or two I was nervous that

  she might not understand.

  "Listen," I said. "The one thing I'm

  determined not to do, is to ask you to marry

  me now. That wouldn't work out anyway.

  First you might turn me down, and then

  I'd go off miserable and probably tie up

  with some ghastly woman just to restore

  my vanity. And if you didn't turn me down

  what could we do about it? Get married

  and part at once? Get engaged and settle

  down to a long waiting period. I couldn't

  stand your doing that. You might meet

  someone else and feel bound to be 'loyal5 to me. We've been living in a queer hectic

  get-on-with-it-quickly atmosphere. Marriages

  and love affairs making and breaking

  all round us. I'd like to feel you'd gone

  home, free and independent, to look round f you and size up the new post-war world

  and decide what you want out of it. What

  is between you and me, Sophia, has got to

  be permanent. I've no use for any other

  kind of marriage."

  "No more have I," said Sophia.

  "On the other hand," I said, "I think I

  I'm entitled to let you know how I -- well

  --how I feel."

  "But without undue lyrical expression?"

  murmured Sophia.

  "Darling -- don't you understand? I've

  tried not to say I love you --"

  She stopped me.

  "I do understand, Charles. And I like

  your funny way of doing things. And you

  may come and see me when you come back

  -- if you still want to --"

  It was my turn to interrupt.

  "There's do doubt about that."

  "There's always a doubt about everything,

  Charles. There may always be some

  incalculable factor that upsets the apple

  cart. For one thing, you don't know much

  about me, do you?"

  "I don't even know where you live in

  England."

  "I live at Swinly Dean."

  I I nodded at the mention of the wellknown

  outer suburb of London which

  boasts three excellent golf courses for the

  city financier.

  She added softly in a musing voice: "In

  a little crooked house ..."

  I must have looked slightly startled, for

  she seemed amused, and explained by

  elaborating the quotation " 'And they all

  lived together in a little crooked house.' That's

  us. Not really such a little house either.

  But definitely cr
ooked ? running to gables

  and halftimbering!" ^

  "Are you one of a large family? Brothers

  and sisters?"

  "One brother, one sister, a mother, a

  father, an uncle, an aunt by marriage, a

  grandfather, a great aunt and a step

  grandmother."

  "Good gracious!" I exclaimed, slightly

  overwhelmed.

  She laughed.^

  "Of course we don't normally all live

  together. The war and blitzes have brought

  that about ? but I don't know ?" she

  frowned reflectively ? "perhaps spiritually

  the family has always lived together ?

  under my grandfather's eye and protection.

  He's rather a Person, my grandfather. He's

  over eighty, about four foot ten, and

  everybody else looks rather dim beside

  him."

  "He sounds interesting," I said.

  "He is interesting. He's a Greek from

  Smyrna. Aristide Leonides." She added,

  with a twinkle, "He's extremely rich."

  "Will anybody be rich after this is over?"

  "My grandfather will," said Sophia with

  assurance. "No Soak-the-rich tactics would

  have any effect on him. He'd just soak the

  soakers.

  "I wonder," she added, "if you'll like

  him?"

  "Do you?" I asked.

  "Better than anyone in the world," said

  Sophia.

  Two

  It was over two years before I returned to

  England. They were not easy years. I wrote

  to Sophia and heard from her fairly frequently.

  Her letters, like mine, were not

  love letters. They were letters written to

  each other by close friends -- they dealt

  with ideas and thoughts and with comments

  on the daily trend of life. Yet I know that

  as far as I was concerned, and I believed as

  far as Sophia was concerned too, our feeling

  for each other grew and strengthened.

  I returned to England on a soft grey day

  in September. The leaves on the trees were

  golden in the evening light. There were

  playful gusts of wind. From the airfield I

  sent a telegram to Sophia.

  "Just arrived back. Will you dine this evening

  Mario's nine o'clock Charles^

  A couple of hours later I was sitting

  reading the Times; and scanning the Births

  Marriages and Death column my eye was

  caught by the name Leonides:

  On Sept. 19th, at Three Gables, Swinly

  Dean, Aristide Leonides, beloved husband

  of Brenda Leonides 5 in his eighty fifth

  year. Deeply regretted.

  There was another announcement immediately

  below:

  Leonides. Suddenly, at his residence

  Three Gables, Swinly Dean, Aristide Leonides.

  Deeply mourned by his loving

  children and grandchildren. Flowers to St.

  Eldred's Church, Swinly Dean.

  I found the two announcements rather

  curious. There seemed to have been some

  faulty staff work resulting in overlapping.

  But my main preoccupation was Sophia. I

  hastily sent her a second telegram:

  "Just seen news of your grandfather's death.

  Very sorry. Let me know when I can see you.

  Charles."

  A telegram from Sophia reached me at

  six o'clock at my father's house. It said:

  "Will be at Mario's nine o'clock. Sophia."

  The thought of meeting Sophia again

  made me both nervous and excited. The

  time crept by with maddening slowness. I

  was at Mario's waiting twenty minutes too

  early. Sophia herself was only five minutes

  late.

  It is always a shock to meet again someone

  whom you have not seen for a long time

  but who has been very much present in

  your mind during that period. When at last

  Sophia came through the swing doors our

  meeting seemed completely unreal. She was

  wearing black, and that, in some curious

  way, startled me! Most other women were

  wearing black, but I got it into my head

  that it was definitely mourning -- and it

  surprised me that Sophia should be the

  kind of person who did wear black -- even

  for a near relative.

  We had cocktails -- then went and

  found our table. We talked rather fast and

  feverishly -- asking after old friends of the

  Cairo days. It was artificial conversation

  but it tided us over the first awkwardness.

  I expressed commiseration for her grandfather's

  death and Sophia said quietly that

  it had been "very sudden." Then we started

  off again reminiscing. I began to feel,

  uneasily, that something was the matter --

  something, I mean, other than the first

  natural awkwardnesses of meeting again.

  There was something wrong, definitely

  wrong, with Sophia herself. Was she,

  perhaps, going to tell me that she had found

  some other man whom she cared for more

  than she did for me? That her feeling for

  me had been "all a mistake"?

  Somehow I didn't think it was that ? I

  didn't know what it was. Meanwhile we

  continued our artificial talk.

  Then, quite suddenly, as the waiter placed

  coffee on the table and retired bowing,

  everything swung into focus. Here were

  Sophia and I sitting together as so often

  before at a small table in a restaurant. The

  years of our separation might never have

  been. -

  "Sophia," I said.

  And immediately she said, "Charles!"

  I drew a deep breath of relief.

  "Thank goodness that's over," I said.

  "What's been the matter with us?"

  "Probably my fault. I was stupid."

  "But it's all right now?"

  "Yes, it's all right now."

  We smiled at each other.

  "Darling!" I said. And then: "How soon

  will you marry me?"

  Her smile died. The something, whatever

  it was, was back.

  "I don't know," she said. "I'm not sure,

  Charles, that I can ever marry you."

  "But, Sophia! Why not? Is it because

  you feel I'm a stranger? Do you want time

  to get used to me again? Is there someone

  else? No ?" I broke off. "I'm a fool. It's

  none of those things."

  "No, it isn't." She shook her head. I

  waited. She said in a low voice:

  "It's my grandfather's death."

  "Your grandfather's death? But why?

  What earthly difference can that make? You

  don't mean ? surely you can't imagine ?

  is it money? Hasn't he left any? But surely,

  dearest?"

  "It isn't money." She gave a fleeting

  smile. "I think you'd be quite willing to

  'take me in my shift' as the old saying goes.

  And grandfather never lost any money in

  his life."

  "Then what is it?"

  "It's just his death ? you see, I think,

  Charles, that he didn't just ? die. I think

  he may have been ? killed ..."

  I stared at her.

/>   "But ? what a fantastic idea. What made

  you think of it?"

  "I didn't think of it. The doctor was

  queer to begin with. He wouldn't sign a

  certificate. They're going to have a post

  mortem. It's quite clear that they suspect

  something is wrong."

  I didn't dispute that with her. Sophia

  had plenty of brains; any conclusions she

  had drawn could be relied upon.

  Instead I said earnestly:

  "Their suspicions may be quite unjustified.

  But putting that aside, supposing that

  they are justified, how does that affect you

  and me?"

  "It might under certain circumstances.

  You're in the Diplomatic Service. They're

  rather particular about wives. No -- please

  don't say all the things that you're just

  bursting to say. You're bound to say them

  -- and I believe you really think them --

  and theoretically I quite agree with them.

  But I'm proud -- I'm devilishly proud. I

  want our marriage to be a good thing for

  everyone -- I don't want to represent one

  half of a sacrifice for love! And, as I say, it

  may be all right ..."

  "You mean the doctor -- may have made

  a mistake?"

  "Even if he hasn't made a mistake, it

  won't matter -- so long as the right person

  killed him."

  "What do you mean, Sophia?" J

  "It was a beastly thing to say. But, after

  all, one might as well be honest."

  She forestalled my next words.

  "No, Charles, I'm not going to say any

  more. I've probably said too much already.

  But I was determined to come and meet

  you tonight -- to see you myself and make

  you understand. We can't settle anything

  until this is cleared up."

  "At least tell me about it."

  &
  "I don't want to."

  "But--Sophia--" r m u

  "No, Charles. I don't want you to see us

  from my angle. I want you to see us unbiassed

  from the outside point of view."

  "And how am I to do that?"

  She looked at me, a queer light in her

  brilliant blue eyes.

  "You'll get that from your father," she

  said.

  I had told Sophia in Cairo that my father

  was Assistant Commissioner of Scotland

  Yard. He still held that office. At her

  words, I felt a cold weight settling down

  on me.

  "It's as bad as that, then?"

  "I think so. Do you see a man sitting at

  a table by the door all alone -- rather a

  nice-looking stolid ex-Army type?"

  "Yes."

  "He was on Swinly Dean platform this

  evening when I got into the train."

  "You mean he's followed you here?"

  "Yes. I think we're all -- how does one

  put it? -- under observation. They more or

  less hinted that we'd all better not leave the

  house. But I was determined to see you."

  Her small square chin shot out pugnaciously.

  "I got out of the bathroom window

  and shinned down the water pipe."

  "Darling!"

  "But the police are very efficient. And of

  course there was the telegram I sent you.

  Well -- never mind -- we're here --

  together . . . But from now on, we've both

  got to play a lone hand."

  She paused and then added:

  "Unfortunately -- there's no doubt --

  about our loving each other."

  "No doubt at all," I said. "And don't

  say unfortunately. You and I have survived

  a world war, we've had plenty of near

  escapes from sudden death -- and I don't

  see why the sudden death of just one old

  man -- how old was he, by the way?"

  "Eighty five."

  "Of course. It was in the Times. If you |

  ask me, he just died of old age, and any

  self-respecting G.P. would accept the fact."

  "If you'd known my grandfather," said

  Sophia, "you'd have been surprised at his

  dying of anything!"

  Three

  I'd always taken a certain amount of interest

  in my father's police work, but nothing had

  prepared me for the moment when I should

  come to take a direct and personal interest

  in it.

  I had not yet seen the Old Man. He had

  been out when I arrived, and after a bath,

  a shave and a change I had gone out to

  meet Sophia. When I returned to the house,

  however. Glover told me that he was in his

  study.

  He was at his desk, frowning over a lot

  of papers. He jumped up when I came

  in.

  "Charles! Well, well, it's been a long

  time."

  Our meeting, after five years of war,

  would have disappointed a Frenchman.

  Actually all the emotion of reunion was

  there all right. The Old Man and I are very

  fond of each other, and we understand each

  other pretty well.

  "I've got some whisky," he said. "Say

  when. Sorry I was out when you got here.

  I'm up to the ears in work. Hell of a case

  just unfolding."

  I leaned back in my chair and lit a

  cigarette.

  "Aristide Leonides?" I asked.

  His brows came down quickly over his

  eyes. He shot me a quick appraising glance.

  His voice was polite and steely.

  "Now what makes you say that, Charles?"

  "I'm right then?"

  "How did you know about this?"

  "Information received.''

  The Old Man waited.

  "My information," I said, "came from

  the stable itself."

  "Come on, Charles, let's have it."

  "You mayn't like it," I said. "I met

  Sophia Leonides out in Cairo. I fell in love

  with her. I'm going to marry her. I met

  her tonight. She dined with me."

  "Dined with you? In London? I wonder

  just how she managed to do that? The