Appointment With Death by Agatha Christie
‘Disgraceful it was!’ said Miss Pierce, flushing.
‘I must confess,’ said Lady Westholme, reddening a little, ‘that I made then a somewhat uncharitable remark.’
‘I think you were quite justified,’ said Miss Pierce. ‘Quite—under the circumstances.’
‘What was this remark?’ asked Poirot.
‘I said to Miss Pierce that perhaps she drank! Really her manner was most peculiar. It had been all along. I thought it possible that drink might account for it. The evils of alcoholic indulgence, as I very well know—’
Dexterously, Poirot steered the conversation away from the drink question.
‘Had her manner been very peculiar on this particular day? At lunch-time, for instance?’
‘N-No,’ said Lady Westholme, considering. ‘No, I should say then that her manner had been fairly normal—for an American of that type, that is to say,’ she added condescendingly.
‘She was very abusive to that servant,’ said Miss Pierce.
‘Which one?’
‘Not very long before we started out.’
‘Oh! yes, I remember, she did seem extraordinarily annoyed with him! Of course,’ went on Lady Westholme, ‘to have servants about who cannot understand a word of English is very trying, but what I say is that when one is travelling one must make allowances.’
‘What servant was this?’ asked Poirot.
‘One of the Bedouin servants attached to the camp. He went up to her—I think she must have sent him to fetch her something, and I suppose he brought the wrong thing—I don’t really know what it was—but she was very angry about it. The poor man slunk away as fast as he could, and she shook her stick at him and called out.’
‘What did she call out?’
‘We were too far away to hear. At least I didn’t hear anything distinctly, did you, Miss Pierce?’
‘No, I didn’t. I think she’d sent him to fetch something from her youngest daughter’s tent—or perhaps she was angry with him for going into her daughter’s tent—I couldn’t say exactly.’
‘What did he look like?’
Miss Pierce, to whom the question was addressed, shook her head vaguely.
‘Really, I couldn’t say. He was too far away. All these Arabs look alike to me.’
‘He was a man of more than average height,’ said Lady Westholme, ‘and wore the usual native head-dress. He had on a pair of very torn and patched breeches—really disgraceful they were—and his puttees were wound most untidily—all anyhow! These men need discipline!’
‘You could point the man out among the camp servants?’
‘I doubt it. We didn’t see his face—it was too far away. And, as Miss Pierce says, really these Arabs look all alike.’
‘I wonder,’ said Poirot thoughtfully, ‘what it was he did to make Mrs Boynton so angry?’
‘They are very trying to the patience sometimes,’ said Lady Westholme. ‘One of them took my shoes away, though I had expressly told him—by pantomime too—that I preferred to clean my shoes myself.’
‘Always I do that, too,’ said Poirot, diverted for a moment from his interrogation. ‘I take everywhere my little shoe-cleaning outfit. Also, I take a duster.’
‘So do I.’ Lady Westholme sounded quite human.
‘Because these Arabs they do not remove the dust from one’s belongings—’
‘Never! Of course one has to dust one’s things three or four times a day—’
‘But it is well worth it.’
‘Yes, indeed. I cannot STAND dirt!’
Lady Westholme looked positively militant.
She added with feeling:
‘The flies—in the bazaars—terrible!’
‘Well, well,’ said Poirot, looking slightly guilty. ‘We can soon inquire from this man what it was that irritated Mrs Boynton. To continue with your story?’
‘We strolled along slowly,’ said Lady Westholme. ‘And then we met Dr Gerard. He was staggering along and looked very ill. I could see at once he had fever.’
‘He was shaking,’ put in Miss Pierce. ‘Shaking all over.’
‘I saw at once he had an attack of malaria coming on,’ said Lady Westholme. ‘I offered to come back with him and get him some quinine, but he said he had his own supply with him.’
‘Poor man,’ said Miss Pierce. ‘You know it always seems so dreadful to me to see a doctor ill. It seems all wrong somehow.’
‘We strolled on,’ continued Lady Westholme. ‘And then we sat down on a rock.’
Miss Pierce murmured: ‘Really—so tired after the morning’s exertion—the climbing—’
‘I never feel fatigue,’ said Lady Westholme firmly. ‘But there was no point in going farther. We had a very good view of all the surrounding scenery.’
‘Were you out of sight of the camp?’
‘No, we were sitting facing towards it.’
‘So romantic,’ murmured Miss Pierce. ‘A camp pitched in the middle of a wilderness of rose-red rocks.’
She sighed and shook her head.
‘That camp could be much better run than it is,’ said Lady Westholme. Her rocking-horse nostrils dilated. ‘I shall take up the matter with Castle’s. I am not at all sure that the drinking water is boiled as well as filtered. It should be. I shall point that out to them.’
Poirot coughed and led the conversation quickly away from the subject of drinking water.
‘Did you see any other members of the party?’ he inquired.
‘Yes. The elder Mr Boynton and his wife passed us on their way back to the camp.’
‘Were they together?’
‘No, Mr Boynton came first. He looked a little as though he had had a touch of the sun. He was walking as though he were slightly dizzy.’
‘The back of the neck,’ said Miss Pierce. ‘One must protect the back of the neck! I always wear a thick silk handkerchief.’
‘What did Mr Lennox Boynton do on his return to the camp?’ asked Poirot.
For once Miss Pierce managed to get in first before Lady Westholme could speak.
‘He went right up to his mother, but he didn’t stay long with her.’
‘How long?’
‘Just a minute or two.’
‘I should put it at just over a minute myself,’ said Lady Westholme. ‘Then he went on into his cave and after that he went down to the marquee.’
‘And his wife?’
‘She came along about a quarter of an hour later. She stopped a minute and spoke to us—quite civilly.’
‘I think she’s very nice,’ said Miss Pierce. ‘Very nice indeed.’
‘She is not so impossible as the rest of the family,’ allowed Lady Westholme.
‘You watched her return to the camp?’
‘Yes. She went up and spoke to her mother-in-law. Then she went into her cave and brought out a chair, and sat by her talking for some time—about ten minutes, I should say.’
‘And then?’
‘Then she took the chair back to the cave and went down to the marquee where her husband was.’
‘What happened next?’
‘That very peculiar American came along,’ said Lady Westholme. ‘Cope, I think his name is. He told us that there was a very good example of the debased architecture of the period just round the bend of the valley. He said we ought not to miss it. Accordingly, we walked there. Mr Cope had with him quite an interesting article on Petra and the Nabateans.’
‘It was all most interesting,’ declared Miss Pierce.
Lady Westholme continued:
‘We strolled back to the camp, it being then about twenty minutes to six. It was growing quite chilly.’
‘Mrs Boynton was still sitting where you had left her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you speak to her?’
‘No. As a matter of fact I hardly noticed her.’
‘What did you do next?’
‘I went to my tent, changed my shoes and got out my own packet of China tea. I th
‘I always say a cup of tea makes all the difference,’ murmured Miss Pierce vaguely.
‘Was there anyone in the marquee?’
‘Oh, yes. Mr and Mrs Lennox Boynton were sitting at one end reading. And Carol Boynton was there too.’
‘And Mr Cope?’
‘He joined us at our tea,’ said Miss Pierce. ‘Though he said tea-drinking wasn’t an American habit.’
Lady Westholme coughed.
‘I became just a little afraid that Mr Cope was going to be a nuisance—that he might fasten himself upon me. It is a little difficult sometimes to keep people at arm’s length when one is travelling. I find they are inclined to presume. Americans, especially, are sometimes rather dense.’
Poirot murmured suavely:
‘I am sure, Lady Westholme, that you are quite capable of dealing with situations of that kind. When travelling acquaintances are no longer of any use to you, I am sure you are an adept at dropping them.’
‘I think I am capable of dealing with most situations,’ said Lady Westholme complacently.
The twinkle in Poirot’s eye was quite lost upon her.
‘If you will just conclude your recital of the day’s happenings?’ murmured Poirot.
‘Certainly. As far as I can remember, Raymond Boynton and the red-haired Boynton girl came in shortly afterwards. Miss King arrived last. Dinner was then ready to be served. One of the servants was dispatched by the dragoman to announce the fact to old Mrs Boynton. The man came running back with one of his comrades in a state of some agitation and spoke to the dragoman in Arabic. There was some mention of Mrs Boynton being taken ill. Miss King offered her services. She went out with the dragoman. She came back and broke the news to the members of Mrs Boynton’s family.’
‘She did it very abruptly,’ put in Miss Pierce. ‘Just blurted it out. I think myself it ought to have been done more gradually.’
‘And how did Mrs Boynton’s family take the news?’ asked Poirot.
For once both Lady Westholme and Miss Pierce seemed a little at a loss. The former said at last in a voice lacking its usual self-assurance:
‘Well—really—it is difficult to say. They—they were very quiet about it.’
‘Stunned,’ said Miss Pierce.
She offered the word more as a suggestion than as a fact.
‘They all went out with Miss King,’ said Lady Westholme. ‘Miss Pierce and I very sensibly remained where we were.’
A faintly wistful look was observable in Miss Pierce’s eye at this point.
‘I detest vulgar curiosity!’ continued Lady Westholme.
The wistful look became more pronounced. It was clear that Miss Pierce had had perforce to hate vulgar curiosity, too!
‘Later,’ concluded Lady Westholme, ‘the dragoman and Miss King returned. I suggested that dinner should be served immediately to the four of us, so that the Boynton family could dine later in the marquee without the embarrassment of strangers being present. My suggestion was adopted and immediately after the meal I retired to my tent. Miss King and Miss Pierce did the same. Mr Cope, I believe, remained in the marquee as he was a friend of the family and thought he might be of some assistance to them. That is all I know, M. Poirot.’
‘When Miss King had broken the news, all the Boynton family accompanied her out of the marquee?’
‘Yes—no, I believe, now that you come to mention it, that the red-haired girl stayed behind. Perhaps you can remember, Miss Pierce?’
‘Yes, I think—I am quite sure she did.’
Poirot asked: ‘What did she do?’
Lady Westholme stared at him.
‘What did she do, M. Poirot? She did not do anything as far as I can remember.’
‘I mean was she sewing—or reading—did she look anxious—did she say anything?’
‘Well, really—’ Lady Westholme frowned. ‘She—er—she just sat there as far as I can remember.’
‘She twiddled her fingers,’ said Miss Pierce suddenly. ‘I remember noticing—poor thing, I thought, it shows what she’s feeling! Not that there was anything to show in her face, you know—just her hands turning and twisting.’
‘Once,’ went on Miss Pierce conversationally, ‘I remember tearing up a pound note that way—not thinking of what I was doing. “Shall I catch the first train and go to her?” I thought (it was a great-aunt of mine—taken suddenly ill). “Or shall I not?” And I couldn’t make up my mind one way or the other and there, I looked down, and instead of the telegram I was tearing up a pound note—a pound note—into tiny pieces!’
Miss Pierce paused dramatically.
Not entirely approving of this sudden bid for the limelight on the part of her satellite, Lady Westholme said coldly: ‘Is there anything else, M. Poirot?’
With a start, Poirot seemed to come out of a brown study. ‘Nothing—nothing—you have been most clear—most definite.’
‘I have an excellent memory,’ said Lady Westholme with satisfaction.
‘One last little demand, Lady Westholme,’ said Poirot. ‘Please continue to sit as you are sitting—without looking round. Now would you be so kind as to describe to me just what Miss Pierce is wearing today—that is if Miss Pierce does not object?’
‘Oh, no! not in the least!’ twittered Miss Pierce.
‘Really, M. Poirot, is there any object—’
‘Please be so kind as to do as I ask, madame.’
Lady Westholme shrugged her shoulders and then said with a rather bad grace:
‘Miss Pierce has on a striped brown and white cotton dress, and is wearing with it a Sudanese belt of red, blue and beige leather. She is wearing beige silk stockings and brown glacé strap shoes. There is a ladder in her left stocking. She has a necklace of cornelian beads and one of bright royal blue beads—and is wearing a brooch with a pearl butterfly on it. She has an imitation scarab ring on the third finger of her right hand. On her head she has a double terai of pink and brown felt.’
She paused—a pause of quiet competence. Then:
‘Is there anything further?’ she asked coldly.
Poirot spread out his hands in a wild gesture.
‘You have my entire admiration, madame. Your observation is of the highest order.’
‘Details rarely escape me.’
Lady Westholme rose, made a slight inclination of her head, and left the room. As Miss Pierce was following her, gazing down ruefully at her left leg, Poirot said:
‘A little moment, please, mademoiselle?’
‘Yes?’ Miss Pierce looked up, a slightly apprehensive look upon her face.
Poirot leaned forward confidentially.
‘You see this bunch of wild flowers on the table here?’
‘Yes,’ said Miss Pierce—staring.
‘And you noticed that when you first came into the room I sneezed once or twice?’
‘Yes?’
‘Did you notice if I had just been sniffing those flowers?’
‘Well—really—no—I couldn’t say.’
‘But you remember my sneezing?’
‘Oh yes, I remember that!’
Ah, well—no matter. I wondered, you see, if these flowers might induce the hay fever. No matter!’
‘Hay fever?’ cried Miss Pierce. ‘I remember a cousin of mine was a martyr to it! She always said that if you sprayed your nose daily with a solution of boracic—’
With some difficulty Poirot shelved the cousin’s nasal treatment and got rid of Miss Pierce. He shut the door and came back into the room with his eyebrows raised.
‘But I did not sneeze,’ he murmured. ‘So much for that. No, I did not sneeze.’
Chapter 6
‘Good morning, M. Boynton.’ Poirot rose and bowed ceremoniously. Lennox responded somewhat awkwardly. ‘I much appreciate your giving me this interview.’
Lennox Boynton said rather uncertainly: ‘Er—Colonel Carbury said it would be a good thing—advised it—some formalities—he said.’
‘Please sit down, M. Boynton.’
Lennox sat down on the chair lately vacated by Lady Westholme. Poirot went on conversationally:
‘This has been a great shock to you, I am afraid?’
‘Yes, of course. Well, no, perhaps not…We always knew that my mother’s heart was not strong.’
‘Was it wise, under those circumstances, to allow her to undertake such an arduous expedition?’
Lennox Boynton raised his head. He spoke not without a certain sad dignity.
‘My mother, M.—er—Poirot, made her own decisions. If she made up her mind to anything it was no good our opposing her.’
He drew in his breath sharply as he said the last words. His face suddenly went rather white.
‘I know well,’ admitted Poirot, ‘that elderly ladies are sometimes headstrong.’
Lennox said irritably:
‘What is the purpose of all this? That is what I want to know. Why have all these formalities arisen?’
‘Perhaps you do not realize, Mr Boynton, that in cases of sudden and unexplained deaths, formalities must necessarily arise.’
Lennox said sharply: ‘What do you mean by “unexplained”?’
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
‘There is always the question to be considered: Is a death natural—or might it perhaps be suicide?’
‘Suicide?’ Lennox Boynton stared.
Poirot said lightly:
‘You, of course, would know best about such possibilities. Colonel Carbury, naturally, is in the dark. It is necessary for him to decide whether to order an inquiry—an autopsy—all the rest of it. As I was on the spot and as I have much experience of these matters, he suggested that I should make a few inquiries and advise him upon the matter. Naturally he does not wish to cause you inconvenience if it can be helped.’