Текст книги "Смерть на Ниле / Death on the Nile"

Автор книги: Агата Кристи

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He heard a movement and Linnet Doyle stood by his side. Her fingers twisted and untwisted themselves; she looked as he had never yet seen her look. There was about her the air of a bewildered child. She said:

‘Monsieur Poirot, I’m afraid – I’m afraid of everything. I’ve never felt like this before. All these wild rocks and the awful grimness and starkness. Where are we going? What’s going to happen? I’m afraid, I tell you. Everyone hates me. I’ve never felt like that before. I’ve always been nice to people – I’ve done things for them – and they hate me – lots of people hate me. Except for Simon, I’m surrounded by enemies… It’s terrible to feel – that there are people who hate you…’

‘But what is all this, Madame?’

She shook her head.

‘I suppose – it’s nerves… I just feel that – everything’s unsafe all round me.’

She cast a quick nervous glance over his shoulder. Then she said abruptly: ‘How will all this end? We’re caught here. Trapped. There’s no way out. We’ve got to go on. I–I don’t know where I am.’

She slipped down on to a seat. Poirot looked down on her gravely; his glance was not untinged with compassion.

She said:

‘How did she know we were coming on this boat? How could she have known?’

Poirot shook his head as he answered:

‘She has brains, you know.’

‘I feel as though I shall never escape from her.’

Poirot said: ‘There is one plan you might have adopted. In fact I am surprised that it did not occur to you. After all, with you, Madame, money is no object. Why did you not engage in your own private dahabeeyah?’

Linnet shook her head rather helplessly.

‘If we’d known about all this – but you see we didn’t – then. And it was difficult…’ She flashed out with sudden impatience: ‘Oh! you don’t understand half my difficulties. I’ve got to be careful with Simon… He’s – he’s absurdly sensitive – about money. About my having so much! He wanted me to go to some little place in Spain with him – he – he wanted to pay all our honeymoon expenses himself. As if it mattered! Men are stupid! He’s got to get used to – to – living comfortably. The mere idea of a dahabeeyah upset him – the – the needless expense. I’ve got to educate him – gradually.’

She looked up, bit her lip vexedly, as though feeling that she had been led into discussing her difficulties rather too unguardedly.

She got up.

‘I must change. I’m sorry, Monsieur Poirot. I’m afraid I’ve been talking a lot of foolish nonsense.’

Chapter 7

Mrs Allerton, looking quiet and distinguished in her simple black lace evening gown, descended two decks to the dining room. At the door of it her son caught her up.

‘Sorry, darling. I thought I was going to be late.’

‘I wonder where we sit.’

The saloon was dotted with little tables. Mrs Allerton paused till the steward, who was busy seating a party of people, could attend to them.

‘By the way,’ she added, ‘I asked little Hercule Poirot to sit at our table.’

‘Mother, you didn’t!’ Tim sounded really taken aback and annoyed.

His mother stared at him in surprise. Tim was usually so easy going.

‘My dear, do you mind?’

‘Yes, I do. He’s an unmitigated little bounder!’

‘Oh, no, Tim! I don’t agree with you.’

‘Anyway, what do we want to get mixed up with an outsider for? Cooped up like this on a small boat, that sort of thing is always a bore. He’ll be with us morning, noon and night.’

‘I’m sorry, dear.’ Mrs Allerton looked distressed. ‘I thought really it would amuse you. After all, he must have had a varied experience. And you love detective stories.’

Tim grunted:

‘I wish you wouldn’t have these bright ideas, Mother. We can’t get out of it now, I suppose?’

‘Really, Tim, I don’t see how we can.’

‘Oh, well, we shall have to put up with it, I suppose.’

The steward came to them at this minute and led them to a table. Mrs Allerton’s face wore rather a puzzled expression as she followed him. Tim was usually so easy-going and good-tempered. This outburst was quite unlike him. It wasn’t as though he had the ordinary Britisher’s dislike – and mistrust – of foreigners. Tim was very cosmopolitan. Oh, well – she sighed. Men were incomprehensible! Even one’s nearest and dearest had unsuspected reactions and feelings.

As they took their places, Hercule Poirot came quickly and silently into the dining-saloon. He paused with his hand on the back of the third chair.

‘You really permit, Madame, that I avail myself of your kind suggestion?’

‘Of course. Sit down, Monsieur Poirot.’

‘You are most amiable.’

She was uneasily conscious that as he seated himself he shot a swift glance at Tim, and that Tim had not quite succeeded in masking a somewhat sullen expression.

Mrs Allerton set herself to produce a pleasant atmosphere. As they drank their soup, she picked up the passenger list which had been placed beside her plate.

‘Let’s try and identify everybody,’ she suggested cheerfully. ‘I always think that’s rather fun.’ She began reading. ‘Mrs Allerton, Mr T. Allerton. That’s easy enough! Miss de Bellefort. They’ve put her at the same table as the Otterbournes, I see. I wonder what she and Rosalie will make of each other. Who comes next? Dr Bessner. Dr Bessner? Who can identify Dr Bessner?’ She bent her glance on a table at which four men sat together. ‘I think he must be the fat one with the closely shaved head and the moustache. A German, I should imagine. He seems to be enjoying his soup very much.’ Certain succulent noises floated across to them.

Mrs Allerton continued:

‘Miss Bowers? Can we make a guess at Miss Bowers? There are three or four women – no, we’ll leave her for the present. Mr and Mrs Doyle. Yes, indeed, the lions of this trip. She really is very beautiful, and what a perfectly lovely frock she is wearing.’

Tim turned round in his chair. Linnet and her husband and Andrew Pennington had been given a table in the corner. Linnet was wearing a white dress and pearls.

‘It looks frightfully simple to me,’ said Tim. ‘Just a length of stuff with a kind of cord round the middle.’

‘Yes, darling,’ said his mother. ‘A very nice manly description of an eighty-guinea model.’

‘I can’t think why women pay so much for their clothes,’ Tim said. ‘It seems absurd to me.’

Mrs Allerton proceeded with her study of her fellow passengers.

‘Mr Fanthorp must be the intensely quiet young man who never speaks, at the same table as the German. Rather a nice face, cautious but intelligent.’

Poirot agreed.

‘He is intelligent – yes. He does not talk, but he listens very attentively and he also watches. Yes, he makes good use of his eyes Not quite the type you would expect to find travelling for pleasure in this part of the world. I wonder what he is doing here.’

‘Mr Ferguson,’ read Mrs Allerton. ‘I feel that Ferguson must be our anti-capitalist friend. Mrs Otterbourne, Miss Otterbourne. We know all about them. Mr Pennington? Alias Uncle Andrew. He’s a good-looking man, I think-’

‘Now, Mother,’ said Tim.

‘I think he’s very good-looking in a dry sort of way,’ said Mrs Allerton. ‘Rather a ruthless jaw. Probably the kind of man one reads about in the paper, who operates on Wall Street – or is it in Wall Street? I’m sure he must be extremely rich. Next – Monsieur Hercule Poirot – whose talents are really being wasted. Can’t you get up a crime for Monsieur Poirot, Tim?’

But her well-meant banter only seemed to annoy her son anew. He scowled and Mrs Allerton hurried on.

‘Mr Richetti. Our Italian archaeological friend. Then Miss Robson and last of all Miss Van Schuyler. The last’s easy. The very ugly old American lady who obviously feels herself the queen of the boat and who is clearly going to be very exclusive and speak to nobody who doesn’t come up to the most exacting standards! She’s rather marvellous, isn’t she, really? A kind of period piece. The two women with her must be Miss Bowers and Miss Robson – perhaps a secretary, the thin one with pince-nez, and a poor relation, the rather pathetic young woman who is obviously enjoying herself in spite of being treated like a slave. I think Robson’s the secretary woman and Bowers is the poor relation.’

‘Wrong, Mother,’ said Tim, grinning. He had suddenly recovered his good humour.

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I was in the lounge before dinner and the old bean said to the companion woman: “Where’s Miss Bowers? Fetch her at once, Cornelia.” And away trotted Cornelia like an obedient dog.’

‘I shall have to talk to Miss Van Schuyler,’ mused Mrs Allerton.

Tim grinned again.

‘She’ll snub you, Mother.’

‘Not at all. I shall pave the way by sitting near her and conversing in low (but penetrating) well-bred tones about any titled relations and friends I can remember. I think a casual mention of your second cousin once removed, the Duke of Glasgow, would probably do the trick.’

‘How unscrupulous you are, Mother!’

Events after dinner were not without their amusing side to a student of human nature.

The socialistic young man (who turned out to be Mr Ferguson as deduced) retired to the smoking room, scorning the assemblage of passengers in the observation saloon on the top deck.

Miss Van Schuyler duly secured the best and most undraughty position there by advancing firmly on a table at which Mrs Otterbourne was sitting and saying:

‘You’ll excuse me, I am sure, but I think my knitting was left here!’

Fixed by a hypnotic eye, the turban rose and gave ground. Miss Van Schuyler established herself and her suite. Mrs Otterbourne sat down nearby and hazarded various remarks, which were met with such chilling politeness that she soon gave up. Miss Van Schuyler then sat in glorious isolation. The Doyles sat with the Allertons. Dr Bessner retained the quiet Mr Fanthorp as a companion. Jacqueline de Bellefort sat by herself with a book. Rosalie Otterbourne was restless. Mrs Allerton spoke to her once or twice and tried to draw her into their group, but the girl responded ungraciously.

M. Hercule Poirot spent his evening listening to an account of Mrs Otterbourne’s mission as a writer.

On his way to his cabin that night he encountered Jacqueline de Bellefort. She was leaning over the rail and as she turned her head he was struck by the look of acute misery on her face. There was now no insouciance, no malicious defiance, no dark flaming triumph.

‘Good night, Mademoiselle.’

‘Good night, Monsieur Poirot.’ She hesitated, then said: ‘You were surprised to find me here?’

‘I was not so much surprised as sorry – very sorry…’ He spoke gravely.

‘You mean sorry – for me?’

‘That is what I meant. You have chosen, Mademoiselle, the dangerous course… As we here in this boat have embarked on a journey, so you too have embarked on your own private journey – a journey on a swiftmoving river, between dangerous rocks, and heading for who knows what currents of disaster…’

‘Why do you say this?’

‘Because it is true… You have cut the bonds that moored you to safety. I doubt now if you could turn back if you would.’

She said very slowly: ‘That is true…’ Then she flung her head back. ‘Ah, well – one must follow one’s star – wherever it leads.’

‘Beware, Mademoiselle, that it is not a false star…’

She laughed and mimicked the parrot cry of the donkey boys:

‘That very bad star, sir! That star fall down…’

He was just dropping off to sleep when the murmur of voices awoke him. It was Simon Doyle’s voice he heard, repeating the same words he had used when the steamer left Shellal.

‘We’ve got to go through with it now…’

‘Yes,’ thought Hercule Poirot to himself, ‘we have got to go through with it now…’

He was not happy.

Chapter 8

The steamer arrived early next morning at Ez-Zebua. Cornelia Robson, her face beaming, a large flapping hat on her head, was one of the first to hurry on shore. Cornelia was not good at snubbing people. She was of an amiable disposition and disposed to like all her fellow creatures. The sight of Hercule Poirot, in a white suit, pink shirt, large black bow tie and a white topee, did not make her wince as the aristocratic Miss Van Schuyler would assuredly have winced. As they walked together up an avenue of sphinxes, she responded readily to his conventional opening,

‘Your companions are not coming ashore to view the temple?’

‘Well, you see, Cousin Marie – that’s Miss Van Schuyler – never gets up very early. She has to be very, very careful of her health. And of course she wanted Miss Bowers, that’s her hospital nurse, to do things for her. And she said, too, that this isn’t one of the best temples – but she was frightfully kind and said it would be quite all right for me to come.’

‘That was very gracious of her,’ said Poirot dryly.

The ingenuous Cornelia agreed unsuspectingly.

‘Oh, she’s very kind. It’s simply wonderful of her to bring me on this trip. I do feel I’m a lucky girl. I just could hardly believe it when she suggested to Mother that I should come too.’

‘And you have enjoyed it – yes?’

‘Oh, it’s been wonderful. I’ve seen Italy – Venice and Padua and Pisa – and then Cairo – only Cousin Marie wasn’t very well in Cairo, so I couldn’t get around much, and now this wonderful trip up to Wadi Halfa and back.’

Poirot said, smiling:

‘You have the happy nature, Mademoiselle.’

He looked thoughtfully from her to the silent, frowning Rosalie, who was walking ahead by herself.

‘She’s very nice looking, isn’t she?’ said Cornelia, following his glance. ‘Only kind of scornful looking. She’s very English, of course. She’s not as lovely as Mrs Doyle. I think Mrs Doyle’s the loveliest, the most elegant woman I’ve ever seen! And her husband just worships the ground she walks on, doesn’t he? I think that greyhaired lady is kind of distinguished looking, don’t you? She’s a cousin of a duke, I believe. She was talking about him right near us last night. But she isn’t actually titled herself, is she?’

She prattled on until the dragoman in charge called a halt and began to intone:

‘This temple was dedicated to Egyptian God Amon and the Sun God Re-Harakhte – whose symbol was hawk’s head…’

It droned on. Dr Bessner, Baedeker in hand, mumbled to himself in German. He preferred the written word.

Tim Allerton had not joined the party. His mother was breaking the ice with the reserved Mr Fanthorp. Andrew Pennington, his arm through Linnet Doyle’s, was listening attentively, seemingly most interested in the measurements as recited by the guide.

‘Sixty-five feet high, is that so? Looks a little less to me. Great fellow, this Rameses. An Egyptian live wire.’

‘A big business man, Uncle Andrew.’

Andrew Pennington looked at her appreciatively.

‘You look fine this morning, Linnet. I’ve been a mite worried about you lately. You’ve looked kind of peaky.’

Chatting together, the party returned to the boat. Once more the Karnak glided up the river. The scenery was less stern now. There were palms, cultivation.

It was as though the change in the scenery had relieved some secret oppression that had brooded over the passengers. Tim Allerton had got over his fit of moodiness. Rosalie looked less sulky. Linnet seemed almost light hearted.

Pennington said to her: ‘It’s tactless to talk business to a bride on her honeymoon, but there are just one or two things-’

‘Why, of course, Uncle Andrew.’ Linnet at once became businesslike. ‘My marriage has made a difference, of course.’

‘That’s just it. Some time or other I want your signature to several documents.’

‘Why not now?’

Andrew Pennington glanced round. Their corner of the observation saloon was quite untenanted. Most of the people were outside on the deck space between the observation saloon and the cabin. The only occupants of the saloon were Mr Ferguson – who was drinking beer at a small table in the middle, his legs encased in their dirty flannel trousers stuck out in front of him, whilst he whistled to himself in the intervals of drinking – M. Hercule Poirot, who was sitting before him, and Miss Van Schuyler, who was sitting in a corner reading a book on Egypt.

‘That’s fine,’ said Andrew Pennington. He left the saloon.

Linnet and Simon smiled at each other – a slow smile that took a few minutes to come to full fruition.

He said: ‘All right, sweet?’

‘Yes, still all right… Funny how I’m not rattled any more.’

Simon said with deep conviction in his tone: ‘You’re marvellous.’

Pennington came back. He brought with him a sheaf of closely written documents.

‘Mercy!’ cried Linnet. ‘Have I got to sign all these?’

Andrew Pennington was apologetic.

‘It’s tough on you, I know. But I’d just like to get your affairs put in proper shape. First of all there’s the lease of the Fifth Avenue property… then there are the Western Land Concessions…’

He talked on, rustling and sorting the papers. Simon yawned.

The door to the deck swung open and Mr Fanthorp came in. He gazed aimlessly round, then strolled forward and stood by Poirot looking out at the pale blue water and the yellow enveloping sands…

‘-you sign just there,’ concluded Pennington, spreading a paper before Linnet and indicating a space.

Linnet picked up the document and glanced through it. She turned back once to the first page, then, taking up the fountain pen Pennington had laid beside her, she signed her name Linnet Doyle…

Pennington took away the paper and spread out another. Fanthorp wandered over in their direction. He peered out through the side window at something that seemed to interest him on the bank they were passing.

‘That’s just the transfer,’ said Pennington. ‘You needn’t read it.’

But Linnet took a brief glance through it. Pennington laid down a third paper. Again Linnet perused it carefully.

‘They’re all quite straightforward,’ said Andrew. ‘Nothing of interest. Only legal phraseology.’

Simon yawned again.

‘My dear girl, you’re not going to read the whole lot through, are you? You’ll be at it till lunch time and longer.’

‘I always read everything through,’ said Linnet. ‘Father taught me to do that. He said there might be some clerical error.’

Pennington laughed rather harshly.

‘You’re a grand woman of business, Linnet.’

‘She’s much more conscientious than I’d be,’ said Simon, laughing. ‘I’ve never read a legal document in my life. I sign where they tell me to sign on the dotted line – and that’s that.’

‘That’s frightfully slipshod,’ said Linnet disapprovingly.

‘I’ve no business head,’ said Simon cheerfully. ‘Never had. A fellow tells me to sign – I sign. It’s much the simplest way.’

Andrew Pennington was looking at him thoughtfully. He said dryly, stroking his upper lip,

‘A little risky sometimes, Doyle?’

‘Nonsense,’ replied Simon. ‘I’m not one of those people who believe the whole world is out to do one down. I’m a trusting kind of fellow – and it pays, you know. I’ve hardly ever been let down.’

Suddenly, to everyone’s surprise, the silent Mr Fanthorp swung around and addressed Linnet.

‘I hope I’m not butting in, but you must let me say how much I admire your businesslike capacity. In my profession – er – I am a lawyer – I find ladies sadly unbusinesslike. Never to sign a document unless you read it through is admirable – altogether admirable.’

He gave a little bow. Then, rather red in the face, he turned once more to contemplate the banks of the Nile.

Linnet said rather uncertainly, ‘Er – thank you…’ She bit her lip to repress a giggle. The young man had looked so preternaturally solemn. Andrew Pennington looked seriously annoyed. Simon Doyle looked uncertain whether to be annoyed or amused.

The backs of Mr Fanthorp’s ears were bright crimson.

‘Next, please,’ said Linnet, smiling up at Pennington.

But Pennington looked decidedly ruffled.

‘I think perhaps some other time would be better,’ he said stiffly. ‘As – er – Doyle says, if you have to read through all these we shall be here till lunch time. We mustn’t miss enjoying the scenery. Anyway those first two papers were the only urgent ones. We’ll settle down to business later.’

Linnet said: ‘It’s frightfully hot in here. Let’s go outside.’

The three of them passed through the swing door. Hercule Poirot turned his head. His gaze rested thoughtfully on Mr Fanthorp’s back; then it shifted to the lounging figure of Mr Ferguson, who had his head thrown back and was still whistling softly to himself.

Finally Poirot looked over at the upright figure of Miss Van Schuyler in her corner. Miss Van Schuyler was glaring at Mr Ferguson.

The swing door on the port side opened and Cornelia Robson hurried in.

‘You’ve been a long time,’ snapped the old lady. ‘Where’ve you been?’

‘I’m so sorry, Cousin Marie. The wool wasn’t where you said it was. It was in another case altogther-’

‘My dear child, you are perfectly hopeless at finding anything! You are willing, I know, my dear, but you must try to be a little cleverer and quicker. It only needs concentration.’

‘I’m so sorry, Cousin Marie. I’m afraid I am very stupid.’

‘Nobody need be stupid if they try, my dear. I have brought you on this trip, and I expect a little attention in return.’

Cornelia flushed.

‘I’m very sorry, Cousin Marie.’

‘And where is Miss Bowers? It was time for my drops ten minutes ago. Please go and find her at once. The doctor said it was most important-’

But at this stage Miss Bowers entered, carrying a small medicine glass.

‘Your drops, Miss Van Schuyler.’

‘I should have had them at eleven,’ snapped the old lady. ‘If there’s one thing I detest it’s unpunctuality.’

‘Quite,’ said Miss Bowers. She glanced at her wristwatch. ‘It’s exactly half a minute to eleven.’

‘By my watch it’s ten past.’

‘I think you’ll find my watch is right. It’s a perfect timekeeper. It never loses or gains.’ Miss Bowers was quite imperturbable.

Miss Van Schuyler swallowed the contents of the medicine glass.

‘I feel definitely worse,’ she snapped.

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Van Schuyler.’

Miss Bowers did not sound sorry. She sounded completely uninterested. She was obviously making the correct reply mechanically.

‘It’s too hot in here,’ snapped Miss Van Schuyler. ‘Find me a chair on the deck, Miss Bowers. Cornelia, bring my knitting. Don’t be clumsy or drop it. And then I shall want you to wind some wool.’

The procession passed out.

Mr Ferguson sighed, stirred his legs and remarked to the world at large:

‘Gosh, I’d like to scrag that dame.’

Poirot asked interestedly:

‘She is a type you dislike, eh?’

‘Dislike? I should say so. What good has that woman ever been to anyone or anything? She’s never worked or lifted a finger. She’s just battened on other people. She’s a parasite – and a damned unpleasant parasite. There are a lot of people on this boat I’d say the world could do without.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. That girl in here just now, signing share transfers and throwing her weight about. Hundreds and thousands of wretched workers slaving for a mere pittance to keep her in silk stockings and useless luxuries. One of the richest women in England, so someone told me – and never done a hand’s turn in her life.’

‘Who told you she was one of the richest women in England?’

Mr Ferguson cast a belligerent eye at him.

‘A man you wouldn’t be seen speaking to! A man who works with his hands and isn’t ashamed of it! Not one of your dressed-up, foppish good-for-nothings.’

His eye rested unfavourably on the bow tie and pink shirt.

‘Me, I work with my brains and am not ashamed of it,’ said Poirot, answering the glance.

Mr Ferguson merely snorted.

‘Ought to be shot – the lot of them!’ he asserted.

‘My dear young man,’ said Poirot, ‘what a passion you have for violence!’

‘Can you tell me of any good that can be done without it? You’ve got to break down and destroy before you can build up.’

‘It is certainly much easier and much noisier and much more spectacular.’

‘What do you do for a living? Nothing at all, I bet. Probably call yourself a middle man.’

‘I am not a middle man. I am a top man,’ said Hercule Poirot with a slight arrogance.

‘What are you?’

‘I am a detective,’ said Hercule Poirot with the modest air of one who says ‘I am a king.’

‘Good God!’ The young man seemed seriously taken aback. ‘Do you mean that girl actually totes about a dumb dick? Is she as careful of her precious skin as that?’

‘I have no connection whatever with Monsieur and Madame Doyle,’ said Poirot stiffly. ‘I am on a holiday.’

‘Enjoying a vacation – eh?’

‘And you? Is it not that you are on holiday also?’

‘Holiday!’ Mr Ferguson snorted. Then he added cryptically: ‘I’m studying conditions.’

‘Very interesting,’ murmured Poirot and moved gently out on to the deck.

Miss Van Schuyler was established in the best corner. Cornelia knelt in front of her, her arms outstretched with a skein of grey wool upon them. Miss Bowers was sitting very upright reading the Saturday Evening Post.

Poirot wandered gently onward down the starboard deck. As he passed round the stern of the boat he almost ran into a woman who turned a startled face towards him – a dark, piquant, Latin face. She was neatly dressed in black and had been standing talking to a big burly man in uniform – one of the engineers, by the look of him. There was a queer expression on both their faces – guilt and alarm. Poirot wondered what they had been talking about.

He rounded the stern and continued his walk along the port side. A cabin door opened and Mrs Otterbourne emerged and nearly fell into his arms. She was wearing a scarlet satin dressing gown.

‘So sorry,’ she apologized. ‘Dear Mr Poirot – so very sorry. The motion – just the motion, you know. Never did have any sea legs. If the boat would only keep still…’ She clutched at his arm. ‘It’s the pitching I can’t stand… Never really happy at sea… And left all alone here hour after hour. That girl of mine – no sympathy – no understanding of her poor old mother who’s done everything for her…’ Mrs Otterbourne began to weep. ‘Slaved for her I have – worn myself to the bone – to the bone. A grande amoureuse – that’s what I might have been – a grande amoureuse – sacrificed everything – everything… And nobody cares! But I’ll tell everyone – I’ll tell them now – how she neglects me – how hard she is – making me come on this journey – bored to death… I’ll go and tell them now-’

She surged forward. Poirot gently repressed the action.

‘I will send her to you, Madame. Re-enter your cabin. It is best that way-’

‘No. I want to tell everyone – everyone on the boat-’

‘It is too dangerous, Madame. The sea is too rough. You might be swept overboard.’

Mrs Otterbourne looked at him doubtfully.

‘You think so. You really think so?’

‘I do.’

He was successful. Mrs Otterbourne wavered, faltered and re-entered her cabin.

Poirot’s nostrils twitched once or twice. Then he nodded and walked on to where Rosalie Otterbourne was sitting between Mrs Allerton and Tim.

‘Your mother wants you, Mademoiselle.’

She had been laughing quite happily. Now her face clouded over. She shot a quick suspicious look at him and hurried along the deck.

‘I can’t make that child out,’ said Mrs Allerton. ‘She varies so. One day she’s friendly – the next day, she’s positively rude.’

‘Thoroughly spoilt and bad-tempered,’ said Tim.

Mrs Allerton shook her head.

‘No. I don’t think it’s that. I think she’s unhappy.’

Tim shrugged his shoulders.

‘Oh, well, I suppose we’ve all got our private troubles.’ His voice sounded hard and curt.

A booming noise was heard.

‘Lunch,’ cried Mrs Allerton delightedly. ‘I’m starving.’

That evening, Poirot noticed that Mrs Allerton was sitting talking to Miss Van Schuyler. As he passed, Mrs Allerton closed one eye and opened it again.

She was saying, ‘Of course at Calfries Castle – the dear Duke-’

Cornelia, released from attendance, was out on the deck. She was listening to Dr Bessner, who was instructing her somewhat ponderously in Egyptology as culled from the pages of Baedeker. Cornelia listened with rapt attention.

Leaning over the rail Tim Allerton was saying:

‘Anyhow, it’s a rotten world…’

Rosalie Otterbourne answered:

‘It’s unfair… some people have everything.’

Poirot sighed. He was glad that he was no longer young.