Towards Zero. Агата Кристи
‘It’s a long time. Wonder you haven’t gone completely native.’
‘Perhaps I have.’
‘You always did belong to Our Dumb Friends rather than to the human race! Planned out your leave?’
‘Well—yes—partly.’
The bronze impassive face took a sudden and a deeper brick-red tinge.
Allen Drake said with lively astonishment:
‘I believe there’s a girl! Damn it all, you are blushing!’
Thomas Royde said rather huskily: ‘Don’t be a fool!’
And he drew very hard on his ancient pipe.
He broke all previous records by continuing the conversation himself.
‘Dare say,’ he said, ‘I shall find things a bit changed.’
Allen Drake said curiously:
‘I’ve always wondered why you chucked going home last time. Right at the last minute, too.’
Royde shrugged his shoulders.
‘Thought that shooting trip might be interesting. Bad news from home about then.’
‘Of course. I forgot. Your brother was killed—in that motoring accident.’
Thomas Royde nodded.
Drake reflected that, all the same, it seemed a curious reason for putting off a journey home. There was a mother—he believed a sister also. Surely at such a time—then he remembered something. Thomas had cancelled his passage before the news of his brother’s death arrived.
Allen looked at his friend curiously. Dark horse, old Thomas!
After a lapse of three years he could ask:
‘You and your brother great pals?’
‘Adrian and I? Not particularly. Each of us always went his own way. He was a barrister.’
‘Yes,’ thought Drake, ‘a very different life. Chambers in London, parties—a living earned by the shrewd use of the tongue.’ He reflected that Adrian Royde must have been a very different chap from old Silent Thomas.
‘Your mother’s alive, isn’t she?’
‘The mater? Yes.’
‘And you’ve got a sister, too.’
Thomas shook his head.
‘Oh, I thought you had. In that snapshot—’
Royde mumbled, ‘Not a sister. Sort of distant cousin or something. Brought up with us because she was an orphan.’
Once more a slow tide of colour suffused the bronzed skin.
Drake thought, ‘Hello—o—?’
He said: ‘Is she married?’
‘She was. Married that fellow Nevile Strange.’
‘Fellow who plays tennis and racquets and all that?’
‘Yes. She divorced him.’
‘And you’re going home to try your luck with her,’ thought Drake.
Mercifully he changed the subject of the conversation.
‘Going to get any fishing or shooting?’
‘Shall go home first. Then I thought of doing a bit of sailing down at Saltcreek.’
‘I know it. Attractive little place. Rather a decent old-fashioned hotel there.’
‘Yes. The Balmoral Court. May stay there, or may put up with friends who’ve got a house there.’
‘Sounds all right to me.’
‘Ah hum. Nice peaceful place, Saltcreek. Nobody to hustle you.’
‘I know,’ said Drake. ‘The kind of place where nothing ever happens.’
May 29th
‘It is really most annoying,’ said old Mr Treves. ‘For twenty-five years now I have been to the Marine Hotel at Leahead—and now, would you believe it, the whole place is being pulled down. Widening the front or some nonsense of that kind. Why they can’t let these seaside places alone—Leahead always had a peculiar charm of its own—Regency—pure Regency.’
Rufus Lord said consolingly:
‘Still, there are other places to stay there, I suppose?’
‘I really don’t feel I can go to Leahead at all. At the Marine, Mrs Mackay understood my requirements perfectly. I had the same rooms every year—and there was hardly ever a change in the service. And the cooking was excellent—quite excellent.’
‘What about trying Saltcreek? There’s rather a nice old-fashioned hotel there. The Balmoral Court. Tell you who keeps it. Couple of the name of Rogers. She used to be cook to old Lord Mounthead—he had the best dinners in London. She married the butler and they run this hotel now. It sounds to me just your kind of place. Quiet—none of these jazz bands—and first-class cooking and service.’
‘It’s an idea—it’s certainly an idea. Is there a sheltered terrace?’
‘Yes—a covered-in verandah and a terrace beyond. You can get sun or shade as you prefer. I can give you some introductions in the neighbourhood, too, if you like. There’s old Lady Tressilian—she lives almost next door. A charming house and she herself is a delightful woman in spite of being very much of an invalid.’
‘The judge’s widow, do you mean?’
‘That’s it.’
‘I used to know Matthew Tressilian, and I think I’ve met her. A charming woman—though, of course, that’s a long time ago. Saltcreek is near St Loo, isn’t it? I’ve several friends in that part of the world. Do you know, I really think Saltcreek is a very good idea. I shall write and get particulars. The middle of August is when I wish to go there—the middle of August to the middle of September. There is a garage for the car, I suppose? And my chauffeur?’
‘Oh yes. It’s thoroughly up-to-date.’
‘Because, as you know, I have to be careful about walking uphill. I should prefer rooms on the ground floor, though I suppose there is a lift.’
‘Oh yes, all that sort of thing.’
‘It sounds,’ said Mr Treves, ‘as though it would solve my problem perfectly. And I should enjoy renewing my acquaintance with Lady Tressilian.’
July 28th
Kay Strange, dressed in shorts and a canary-coloured woolly, was leaning forward watching the tennis players. It was the semi-final of the St Loo tournament, men’s singles, and Nevile was playing young Merrick, who was regarded as the coming star in the tennis firmament. His brilliance was undeniable—some of his serves quite unreturnable—but he occasionally struck a wild patch when the older man’s experience and court crafts won the day.
The score was three all in the final set.
Slipping on to a seat next to Kay, Ted Latimer observed in a lazy ironic voice:
‘Devoted wife watches her husband slash his way to victory!’
Kay started.
‘How you startled me. I didn’t know you were there.’
‘I am always there. You should know that by this time.’
Ted Latimer was twenty-five