Agatha Christie - Yowards Zero

Thomas said promptly: "No, not Audrey's."

"And I can hardly believe it was that unfortunate young woman, Kay's, idea. Not unless she is a really remarkable actress. You know, I have almost felt sorry for her lately."

"You don't like her much, do you?"

"No. She seems to me empty-headed and lacking in any kind of poise. But, as I say, I do begin to feel sorry for her. She is blundering about like a daddy-longlegs in lamp-light. She has no idea of what weapons to use. Bad temper, bad manners, childish rudeness — all things which have a most unfortunate-effect upon a man like Nevile."

Thomas said quietly: "I think Audrey is the one who is in a difficult position."

Lady Tressilian gave him a sharp glance.

"You've always been in love with Audrey, haven't you, Thomas?"

His reply was quite imperturbable. "Suppose I have."

"Practically from the time you were children together?"

He nodded.

"And then Nevile came along and carried her off from under your nose?"

He moved uneasily in his chair.

"Oh, well — I always knew I hadn't a chance."

"Defeatist," said Lady Tressilian.

"I always have been a dull dog."

"Dobbin!"

"Good old Thomas! — that's what Audrey feels about me."

"‘True Thomas,'" said Lady Tressilian. "That was your nickname, wasn't it?"

He smiled as the words brought back memories of childish days. "Funny! I haven't heard that for years."

"It might stand you in good stead now," said Lady Tressilian. She met his glance clearly and deliberately.

"Fidelity," she said, "is a quality that anyone who has been through Audrey's experience might appreciate. The dog-like devotion of a lifetime, Thomas, does sometimes get its reward."

Thomas Royde looked down, his fingers fumbled with a pipe.

"That," he said, "is what I came home hoping."

Hurstall, the old butler, wiped his forehead. When he went into the kitchen, Mrs. Spicer, the cook, remarked upon his expression.

"I don't think I can be well, and that's the truth," said Hurstall. "If I can so express myself, everything that's said and done in this house lately seems to me to mean something that's different from what it sounds like — if you know what I mean."

Mrs. Spicer did not seem to know what he meant, so Hurstall went on: "Miss Aldin, now, as they all sat down to dinner — she says 'So here we all are' — and just that gave me a turn! Made me think of a trainer who's got a lot of wild animals into a cage, and then the cage door shuts. I felt, all of a sudden, as though we were all caught in a trap."

"Lor', Mr. Hurstall," said Mrs. Spicer, "you must have eaten something that's disagreed."

"It's not my digestion. It's the way everyone's strung up. The front door banged just now and Mrs. Strange — our Mrs. Strange, Miss Audrey — she jumped as though she had been shot. And there's the silences, too. Very queer they are. It's as though, all of a sudden, everybody's afraid to speak. And then they all break out at once, just saying the things that first come into their heads."

"Enough to make anyone embarrassed," said Mrs. Spicer. "Two Mrs. Stranges in the house. What I feel is, it isn't decent."

In the dining-room one of those silences that Hurstall had described was proceeding.

It was with quite an effort that Mary Aldin turned to Kay and said: "I asked your friend, Mr. Latimer, to dine to-morrow night!"

"Oh, good," said Kay.

Nevile said: "Latimer? Is he down here?"

"He's staying at the Easterhead Bay Hotel," said Kay.

Nevile said: "We might go over and dine there one night. How late does the ferry go?"

"Until half-past one," said Mary. "I suppose they dance there in the evenings?"

"Most of the people are about a hundred," said Kay.

"Not very amusing for your friend," said Nevile to Kay.

Mary said quickly: "We might go over and bathe one day at Easterhead Bay . It's quite warm still and it's a lovely sandy beach."

Thomas Royde said in a low voice to Audrey: "I thought of going out sailing tomorrow. Will you come?"

"I'd like to."

"We might all go sailing," said Nevile.

"I thought you said you were going to play golf," said Kay.

"I did think of going over to the links. I was right off my wooden shots the other day."

"What a tragedy!" said Kay.

Nevile said good-humouredly: "Golf's a tragic game."

Mary asked Kay if she played.

"Yes — after a fashion."

Nevile said: "Kay would be very good if she took a little trouble. She's got a natural swing."

Kay said to Audrey: "You don't play any games, do you?"

"Not really. I play tennis after a fashion — but I'm a complete rabbit."

"Do you still play the piano, Audrey?" asked Thomas.

She shook her head.

"Not nowadays."

"You used to play rather well," said Nevile.

"I thought you didn't like music, Nevile," said Kay.

"I don't know much about it," said Nevile vaguely. "I always wondered how Audrey managed to stretch an octave, her hands are so small."

He was looking at them as she laid down her dessert knife and fork.

She flushed a little and said quickly: "I've got a very long little finger. I expect that helps."

"You must be selfish, then," said Kay. "If you're unselfish you have a short little finger."

"Is that true?" asked Mary Aldin. "Then I must be unselfish. Look, my little fingers are quite short."

"I think you are very unselfish," said Thomas Royde, eyeing her thoughtfully.

She went red — and continued, quickly: "Who's the most unselfish of us? Let's compare little fingers. Mine are shorter than yours, Kay. But Thomas, I think, beats me."

"I beat you both," said Nevile. "Look." He stretched out a hand.

"Only one hand, though," said Kay. "Your left-hand little finger is short, but your right-hand one is much longer. And your left hand is what you are born with and the right hand is what you make of your life. So that means that you were born unselfish and have become more selfish as time goes on."

"Can you tell fortunes, Kay?" asked Mary Aldin. She stretched out her hand, palm upward. "A fortune-teller told me I should have two husbands and three children. I shall have to hurry up!"

Kay said: "Those little crosses aren't children, they're journeys. That means you'll take three journeys across water."

"That seems unlikely, too," said Mary Aldin.

Thomas Royde asked her: "Have you travelled much?"

"No, hardly at all."

He heard an undercurrent of regret in her voice.

"You would like to?"

"Above everything."

He thought in his slow reflective way of her life. Always in attendance on an old woman. Calm, tactful, an excellent manager. He asked curiously: "Have you lived with Lady Tressilian long?"

"For nearly fifteen years. I came to be with her after my father died. He had been a helpless invalid for some years before his death."

And then, answering the question she felt to be in his mind: "I'm thirty-six. That's what you wanted to know, wasn't it?"

"I did wonder," he admitted. "You might be — any age, you see."

"That's rather a two-edged remark!"

"I suppose it is. I didn't mean it that way."

That sombre, thoughtful gaze of his did not leave her face. She did not find it embarrassing. It was too free from self-consciousness for that — a genuine, thoughtful interest. Seeing his eyes on her hair, she put up her hand to the one white lock.

"I've had that," she said, "since I was very young."

"I like it," said Thomas Royde simply.

He went on looking at her. She said at last, in a slightly amused tone of voice: "Well, what is the verdict?"

He reddened under his tan.