Agatha Christie - Yowards Zero

Lady Tressilian leaned more heavily back on her pillows. "Well — you should know. I'm tired — you must leave me now, dear. Mary is waiting for you downstairs. Tell them to send Barrett to me."

Barrett was Lady Tressilian's elderly and devoted maid. She came in to find her mistress lying back with closed eyes.

"The sooner I'm out of this world the better, Barrett," said Lady Tressilian. "I don't understand anything or anyone in it."

"Ah! don't say that, my lady; you're tired."

"Yes, I'm tired. Take that eiderdown off my feet and give me a dose of my tonic."

"It's Mrs. Strange coming that's upset you. A nice lady, but she could do with a tonic, I'd say. Not healthy. Always looks as though she's seeing things other people don't see. But she's got a lot of character. She makes herself felt, as you might say."

"That's very true, Barrett," said Lady Tressilian. "Yes, that's very true."

"And she's not the kind you easily forget, either. I've often wondered if Mr. Nevile thinks of her sometimes. The new Mrs. Strange is very handsome — very handsome indeed — but Miss Audrey is the kind you remember when she isn't there."

Lady Tressilian said with a sudden chuckle: "Nevile's a fool to want to bring those two women together. He's the one who'll be sorry for it!"

Thomas Royde, pipe in mouth, was surveying the progress of his packing, with which the deft-fingered Malayan No.1 boy was busy. Occasionally his glance shifted to the view over the plantations. For some six months he would not see that view which had been so familiar for the past seven years.

It would be queer to be in England again.

Allen Drake, his partner, looked in.

"Hullo, Thomas, how goes it?"

"All set now."

"Come and have a drink, you lucky devil. I'm consumed with envy."

Thomas Royde moved slowly out of the bedroom and joined his friend. He did not speak, for Thomas Royde was a man singularly economical of words. His friends had learned to gauge his reactions correctly from the quality of his silences.

A rather thickset figure, with a straight, solemn face and observant, thoughtful eyes. He walked a little sideways, crab-like. This, the result of being jammed in a door during an earthquake, had contributed towards his nickname of the Hermit Crab. It had left his right arm and shoulder partially helpless, which, added to an artificial stiffness of gait, often led people to think he was feeling shy and awkward when in reality he seldom felt anything of the kind.

Allen Drake mixed the drinks.

"Well," he said. "Good hunting!"

Royde said something that sounded like "Ah, hum."

Drake looked at him curiously.

"Phlegmatic as ever," he remarked. "Don't know how you manage it. How long is it since you went home?"

"Seven years — nearer eight."

"It's a long time. Wonder you haven't gone completely native."

"Perhaps I have."

"You always did belong to Our Dumb Friends rather 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."

"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 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 bring 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?"