Смерть на Ниле / Death on the Nile - [32]

‘God damn her!’ he ejaculated. He checked himself with a quick glance at Tim Allerton.

The latter said:

‘Phew, that was near! Did some fool bowl that thing over, or did it get detached on its own?’

Linnet was very pale. She said with difficulty:

‘I think – some fool must have done it.’

‘Might have crushed you like an eggshell. Sure you haven’t got an enemy, Linnet?’

Linnet swallowed twice and found difficulty in answering the light-hearted raillery.

Poirot said quickly: ‘Come back to the boat, Madame. You must have a restorative.’

They walked quickly, Simon still full of pent-up rage, Tim trying to talk cheerfully and distract Linnet’s mind from the danger she had run, Poirot with a grave face.

And then, just as they reached the gangplank, Simon stopped dead. A look of amazement spread over his face.

Jacqueline de Bellefort was just coming ashore. Dressed in blue gingham, she looked childish this morning.

‘Good God!’ said Simon under his breath. ‘So it was an accident, after all.’

The anger went out of his face. An overwhelming relief showed so plainly that Jacqueline noticed something amiss.

‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid I’m a little on the late side.’

She gave them all a nod and stepped ashore and proceeded in the direction of the temple.

Simon clutched Poirot’s arm. The other two had gone on.

‘My God, that’s a relief. I thought – I thought-’

Poirot nodded.

‘Yes, yes, I know what you thought.’ But he himself still looked grave and preoccupied. He turned his head and noted carefully what had become of the rest of the party from the ship.

Miss Van Schuyler was slowly returning on the arm of Miss Bowers.

A little farther away Mrs Allerton was standing laughing at the little row of heads. Mrs Otterbourne was with her.

The others were nowhere in sight.

Poirot shook his head as he followed Simon slowly onto the boat.

Chapter 10

‘Will you explain to me, Madame, the meaning of the word “fey”?’

Mrs Allerton looked slightly surprised. She and Poirot were toiling slowly up to the rock overlooking the Second Cataract. Most of the others had gone up on camels, but Poirot had felt that the motion of the camel was slightly reminiscent of that of a ship. Mrs Allerton had put it on the grounds of personal indignity.

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. Everything had been done to discourage this example of individuality, but with no avail. Signor Richetti was determined and had waved aside each objection: (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 Scottish 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 these little wretches rolled it 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 summarized 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 the same moment Tim and Rosalie Otterbourne were talking of her. Tim had just been half-jestingly 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.