Agatha Christie - Murder in the mews

Pamela sighed.

‘Hasn’t she got a lovely figure?’

But Poirot was looking at her face—the face of a woman of thirty-nine who had been famous since sixteen for her beauty.

He knew, as everyone knew, all about Valentine Chantry. She had been famous for many things—for her caprices, for her wealth, for her enormous sapphire-blue eyes, for her matrimonial ventures and adventures. She had had five husbands and innumerable lovers. She had in turn been the wife of an Italian count, of an American steel magnate, of a tennis professional, of a racing motorist. Of these four the American had died, but the others had been shed negligently in the divorce court. Six months ago she had married a fifth time—a commander in the navy.

He it was who came striding down the beach behind her. Silent, dark—with a pugnacious jaw and a sullen manner. A touch of the primeval ape about him.

She said:

‘Tony darling—my cigarette case…’

He had it ready for her—lighted her cigarette—helped her to slip the straps of the white bathing-dress from her shoulders. She lay, arms outstretched in the sun. He sat by her like some wild beast that guards its prey.

Pamela said, her voice just lowered sufficiently:

‘You know they interest me frightfully … He’s such a brute! So silent and—sort of glowering . I suppose a woman of her kind likes that. It must be like controlling a tiger! I wonder how long it will last. She gets tired of them very soon, I believe—especially nowadays. All the same, if she tried to get rid of him, I think he might be dangerous.’

Another couple came down the beach—rather shyly. They were the newcomers of the night before. Mr and Mrs Douglas Gold as Miss Lyall knew from her inspection of the hotel visitors’ book. She knew, too, for such were the Italian regulations—their Christian names and their ages as set down from their passports.

Mr Douglas Cameron Gold was thirty-one and Mrs Marjorie Emma Gold was thirty-five.

Miss Lyall’s hobby in life, as has been said, was the study of human beings. Unlike most English people, she was capable of speaking to strangers on sight instead of allowing four days to a week to elapse before making the first cautious advance as is the customary British habit. She, therefore, noting the slight hesitancy and shyness of Mrs Gold’s advance, called out:

‘Good morning, isn’t it a lovely day?’

Mrs Gold was a small woman—rather like a mouse. She was not bad-looking, indeed her features were regular and her complexion good, but she had a certain air of diffidence and dowdiness that made her liable to be overlooked. Her husband, on the other hand, was extremely good-looking, in an almost theatrical manner. Very fair, crisply curling hair, blue eyes, broad shoulders, narrow hips. He looked more like a young man on the stage than a young man in real life, but the moment he opened his mouth that impression faded. He was quite natural and unaffected, even, perhaps, a little stupid.

Mrs Gold looked gratefully at Pamela and sat down near her.

‘What a lovely shade of brown you are. I feel terribly underdone!’

‘One has to take a frightful lot of trouble to brown evenly,’ sighed Miss Lyall.

She paused a minute and then went on:

‘You’ve only just arrived, haven’t you?’

‘Yes. Last night. We came on the Vapo d’Italia boat.’

‘Have you ever been to Rhodes before?’

‘No. It is lovely, isn’t it?’

Her husband said:

‘Pity it’s such a long way to come.’

‘Yes, if it were only nearer England—’

In a muffled voice Sarah said:

‘Yes, but then it would be awful. Rows and rows of people laid out like fish on a slab. Bodies everywhere!’

‘That’s true, of course,’ said Douglas Gold. ‘It’s a nuisance the Italian exchange is so absolutely ruinous at present.’

‘It does make a difference, doesn’t it?’

The conversation was running on strictly stereotyped lines. It could hardly have been called brilliant.

A little way along the beach, Valentine Chantry stirred and sat up. With one hand she held her bathing-dress in position across her breast.

She yawned, a wide yet delicate cat-like yawn. She glanced casually down the beach. Her eyes slanted past Marjorie Gold—and stayed thoughtfully on the crisp, golden head of Douglas Gold.

She moved her shoulders sinuously. She spoke and her voice was raised a little higher than it need have been.

‘Tony darling—isn’t it divine—this sun? I simply must have been a sun worshipper once—don’t you think so?’

Her husband grunted something in reply that failed to reach the others. Valentine Chantry went on in that high, drawling voice.

‘Just pull that towel a little flatter, will you, darling?’

She took infinite pains in the resettling of her beautiful body. Douglas Gold was looking now. His eyes were frankly interested.

Mrs Gold chirped happily in a subdued key to Miss Lyall.

‘What a beautiful woman!’

Pamela, as delighted to give as to receive information, replied in a lower voice:

‘That’s Valentine Chantry—you know, who used to be Valentine Dacres—she is rather marvellous, isn’t she? He’s simply crazy about her—won’t let her out of his sight!’

Mrs Gold looked once more along the beach. Then she said:

‘The sea really is lovely—so blue. I think we ought to go in now, don’t you, Douglas?’

He was still watching Valentine Chantry and took a minute or two to answer. Then he said, rather absently:

‘Go in? Oh, yes, rather, in a minute.’

Marjorie Gold got up and strolled down to the water’s edge.

Valentine Chantry rolled over a little on one side. Her eyes looked along at Douglas Gold. Her scarlet mouth curved faintly into a smile.

The neck of Mr Douglas Gold became slightly red.

Valentine Chantry said:

‘Tony darling—would you mind? I want a little pot of face-cream—it’s up on the dressing-table. I meant to bring it down. Do get it for me—there’s an angel.’

The commander rose obediently. He stalked off into the hotel.

Marjorie Gold plunged into the sea, calling out:

‘It’s lovely, Douglas—so warm. Do come.’

Pamela Lyall said to him:

‘Aren’t you going in?’

He answered vaguely:

‘Oh! I like to get well hotted up first.’

Valentine Chantry stirred. Her head was lifted for a moment as though to recall her husband—but he was just passing inside the wall of the hotel garden.

‘I like my dip the last thing,’ explained Mr Gold.

Mrs Chantry sat up again. She picked up a flask of sunbathing oil. She had some difficulty with it—the screw top seemed to resist her efforts.

She spoke loudly and petulantly.

‘Oh, dear—I can’t get this thing undone!’

She looked towards the other group—

‘I wonder—’

Always gallant, Poirot rose to his feet, but Douglas Gold had the advantage of youth and suppleness. He was by her side in a moment.

‘Can I do it for you?’

‘Oh, thank you—’ It was the sweet, empty drawl again.

‘You are kind. I’m such a fool at undoing things—I always seem to screw them the wrong way. Oh! you’ve done it! Thank you ever so much—’

Hercule Poirot smiled to himself.

He got up and wandered along the beach in the opposite direction. He did not go very far but his progress was leisurely. As he was on his way back, Mrs Gold came out of the sea and joined him. She had been swimming. Her face, under a singularly unbecoming bathing cap, was radiant.

She said breathlessly, ‘I do love the sea. And it’s so warm and lovely here.’

She was, he perceived, an enthusiastic bather.