Crooked House by Agatha Christie

balanced my impressions of Magda. Neither in the peach-coloured negligee nor in the tailored suit had she conveyed any suggestion of Jezebel, but I was willing to believe that there were other Magdas that I had not yet seen.
    “Perhaps not,” I said cautiously.
    “Grandfather always said it would be a flop. He said he wouldn't put up any money for one of these historical religious plays. He said it would never be a box office success. But mother was frightfully keen. I didn't like it much myself. It wasn't really a bit like the story in the Bible. I mean, Jezebel wasn't wicked like she is in the Bible. She was all patriotic and really quite nice. That made it dull. Still, the end was all right. They threw her out of the window. Only no dogs came and ate her. I think that was a pity, don't you? I like the part about the dogs eating her best. Mother says you can't have dogs on the stage but I don't see why. You could have performing dogs.”
    She quoted with gusto: “'And they ate her all but the palms of her hands.' Why didn't they eat the palms of her hands?”
    “I've really no idea,” I said.
    “You wouldn't think, would you, that dogs were so particular. Our dogs aren't. They eat simply anything.”
    I pondered on this Biblical mystery for some seconds.
    “I'm sorry the play was a flop,” I said.
    “Yes. Mother was terribly upset. The notices were simply frightful. When she read them, she burst into tears and cried all day and she threw her breakfast tray at Gladys, and Gladys gave notice. It was rather fun.”
    “I perceive that you like drama, Josephine,” I said.
    “They did a post mortem on grandfather,” said Josephine. “To find out what he had died of. A P.M., they call it, but I think that's rather confusing, don't you? Because P.M. stands for Prime Minister too. And for afternoon,” she added, thoughtfully.
    “Are you sorry your grandfather is dead?” I asked.
    “Not particularly. I didn't like him much. He stopped me learning to be a ballet dancer.”
    “Did you want to learn ballet dancing?”
    “Yes, and mother was willing for me to learn, and father didn't mind, but grandfather said I'd be no good.”
    She slipped off the arm of the chair, kicked off her shoes and endeavoured to get onto what are called technically, I believe, her points.
    “You have to have the proper shoes, of course,” she explained, “and even then you get frightful abscesses sometimes on the ends of your toes.” She resumed her shoes and inquired casually: “Do you like this house?”
    “I'm not quite sure,” I said.
    “I suppose it will be sold now. Unless Brenda goes on living in it. And I suppose Uncle Roger and Aunt Clemency won't be going away now.”
    “Were they going away?” I asked with a faint stirring of interest.
    “Yes. They were going on Tuesday. Abroad, somewhere. They were going by air. Aunt Clemency bought one of those new featherweight cases.”
    “I hadn't heard they were going abroad,” I said.
    “No,” said Josephine. “Nobody knew. It was a secret. They weren't going to tell anyone until after they'd gone. They were going to leave a note behind for grandfather.”
    She added:
    “Not pinned to the pincushion. That's only in very old-fashioned books and wives do it when they leave their husbands. But it would be silly now because nobody has pincushions any more.”
    “Of course they don't. Josephine, do you know why your Uncle Roger was - going away?”
    She shot me a cunning sideways glance. “I think I do. It was something to do with Uncle Roger's office in London. I rather think - but I'm not sure - that he'd embezzled something.”
    “What makes you think that?”
    Josephine came nearer and breathed heavily in my face.
    “The day that grandfather was poisoned Uncle Roger was shut up in his room with him ever so long. They were talking and talking. And Uncle Roger was saying that he'd never been any good, and that he'd let grandfather down - and that it wasn't the money so