They had arrived at Wadi Halfa the night before. This morning two launches had conveyed all the party to the Second Cataract with the exception of Signor Richetti, who had insisted on making an excursion of his own to a remote spot called Semna, which he explained was of paramount interest as being the gateway of Nubia in the time of Amenemhet III, and where there was a stele recording the fact that on entering Egypt negroes must pay custom duties. Everything had been done to discourage this example of individuality but with no avail. Signor Richetti was determined and had waved aside each obi ection–(1) that the expedition was not worth making—(2) that the expedition could not be made owing to the impossibility of getting a car there (3) that no car could be obtained to do the trip–(4) that a car would be a prohibitive price. Having scoffed at 1, expressed incredulity at 2, offered to find a car himself to 3, and bargained fluently in Arabic for 4, Signor Richetti had at last departed his departure being arranged in a secret and furtive manner in case some of the other tourists should take it into their heads to stray from the appointed paths of sightseeing.
“Fey?” Mrs. Allerton put her head on one side as she considered her reply.
“Well, it’s a Scotch word, really. It means the kind of exalted happiness that comes before disaster. You know–it’s too good to be true.” She enlarged on the theme. Poirot listened attentively.
“I thank you, Madame. I understand now. It is odd that you should have said that yesterday–when Madame Doyle was to escape death so shortly afterwards.” Mrs. Allerton gave a little shiver.
“It must have been a very near escape. Do you think some of those little black wretches rolled that stone over for fun? It’s the sort of thing boys might do all over the world–not perhaps really meaning any harm.” Poirot shrugged his shoulders. “It may be, Madame.’ He changed the subject, talking of Majorca and asking various practical questions from the point of view of a possible visit.
Mrs. Allerton had grown to like the little man very much partly, perhaps, out of a contradictory spirit. Tim, she felt, was always trying to make her less friendly to Hercule Poirot whom he had summarised firmly as “the worst kind of bounder.” But she herself did not call him a bounder–she supposed it was his somewhat foreign exotic clothing which roused her son’s prejudices. She herself found him an intelligent and stimulating companion. He was also extremely sympathetic. She found herself suddenly confiding in him her dislike of Joanna Southwood. It eased her to talk of the matter. And, after all, why not? He did not know Joanna–would probably never meet her. Why should she not ease herself of that constantly borne burden of jealous thought.
At that same moment Tim and Rosalie Otterbourne were talking of her.
Tim had just been halfjestingly abusing his luck. His rotten health, never bad enough to be really interesting–yet not good enough for him to have led the life he would have chosen. Very little money–no congenial occupation.
“A thoroughly lukewarm tame existence,” he finished disconten..tedly.
Rosalie said abruptly: “You’ve got something heaps of people would envy you.” “What’s that?” “Your mother.” Tim was surprised and pleased.
“Mother? Yes, of course she is quite unique. It’s nice of you to see it.” “I think she’s marvellous. She looks so lovely–so composed and calm–as though nothing could ever touch her and yet–and yet somehow she’s always ready to be funny about things too .
Rosalie was stammering slightly in her earnestness.
Tim felt a rising warmth towards the girl. He wished he could return the compliment, but lamentably Mrs. Otterbourne was his idea of the world’s greatest menace. The inabfiity to respond in kind made him embarrassed.
Miss Van Schuyler had stayed in the launch. She could neither risk the ascent on a camel nor on her legs. She had said snappily: “I’m sorry to have to ask you to stay with me, Miss Bowers. I intended you to go and Cornelia to stay, but girls are so selfish. She rushed off without a word to me. And I actually saw her talking to that very unpleasant and ill-bred young man, Ferguson. Cornelia has disappointed me sadly. She has absolutely no social sense.” Miss Bowers replied in her usual matter-of-fact fashion: “That’s quite all right, Miss Van Schuyler. It would have been a hot walk up there and I don’t fancy the look of those saddles on the camels. Fleas as likely as not.” She adjusted her glasses, screwed up her eyes to look at the party descending the hill and remarked: “Miss Robson isn’t with that young man any more. She’s with Dr. Bessner.” Miss Van Schuyler grunted.