Agatha Christie – Death On The Nile

Tim said: “I can’t think why women pay so much for their clothes. 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–M. Hercule Poirot whose talents are really being wasted. Can’t you get up a crime for M. 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 black 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 socialist 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 near by 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.