Appointment With Death by Agatha Christie
‘So there you are, Nadine,’ said Mrs Boynton. ‘I’ll sit down and rest a little before I go out.’
They settled her in a high-backed chair. Nadine sat down beside her.
‘Who were you talking to, Nadine?’
‘A Miss King.’
‘Oh, yes. The girl who spoke to Raymond the other night. Well, Ray, why don’t you go and speak to her now? She’s over there at the writing-table.’
The old woman’s mouth widened into a malicious smile as she looked at Raymond. His face flushed. He turned his head away and muttered something.
‘What’s that you say, son?’
‘I don’t want to speak to her.’
‘No, I thought not. You won’t speak to her. You couldn’t however much you wanted to!’
She coughed suddenly—a wheezing cough.
‘I’m enjoying this trip, Nadine,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.’
‘No?’
Nadine’s voice was expressionless.
‘Ray.’
‘Yes, Mother?’
‘Get me a piece of notepaper—from the table over there in the corner.’
Raymond went off obediently. Nadine raised her head. She watched, not the boy, but the old woman. Mrs Boynton was leaning forward, her nostrils dilated as though with pleasure. Ray passed close by Sarah. She looked up, a sudden hope showing in her face. It died down as he brushed past her, took some notepaper from the case and went back across the room.
There were little beads of sweat on his forehead as he rejoined them, and his face was dead white.
Very softly Mrs Boynton murmured: ‘Ah…’ as she watched his face.
Then she saw Nadine’s eyes fixed on her. Something in them made her own snap with sudden anger.
‘Where’s Mr Cope this morning?’ she said.
Nadine’s eyes dropped again. She answered in her gentle, expressionless voice:
‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen him.’
‘I like him,’ said Mrs Boynton. ‘I like him very much. We must see a good deal of him. You’ll like that, won’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Nadine. ‘I, too, like him very much.’
‘What’s the matter with Lennox lately? He seems very dull and quiet. Nothing wrong between you, is there?’
‘Oh, no. Why should there be?’
‘I wondered. Married people don’t always hit it off. Perhaps you’d be happier living in a home of your own?’
Nadine did not answer.
‘Well, what do you say to the idea? Does it appeal to you?’
Nadine shook her head. She said, smiling: ‘I don’t think it would appeal to you, Mother.’
Mrs Boynton’s eyelids flickered. She said sharply and venomously, ‘You’ve always been against me, Nadine.’
The younger woman replied evenly:
‘I’m sorry you should think that.’
The old woman’s hand closed on her stick. Her face seemed to get a shade more purple.
She said, with a change of tone: ‘I forgot my drops. Get them for me, Nadine.’
‘Certainly.’
Nadine got up and crossed the lounge to the lift. Mrs Boynton looked after her. Raymond sat limply in a chair, his eyes glazed with dull misery.
Nadine went upstairs and along the corridor. She entered the sitting-room of their suite. Lennox was sitting by the window. There was a book in his hand, but he was not reading. He roused himself as Nadine came in. ‘Hallo, Nadine.’
‘I’ve come up for Mother’s drops. She forgot them.’
She went on into Mrs Boynton’s bedroom. From a bottle on the washstand she carefully measured a dose into a small medicine glass, filling it up with water. As she passed through the sitting-room again she paused.
‘Lennox.’
It was a moment or two before he answered her. It was as though the message had a long way to travel.
Then he said: ‘I beg your pardon. What is it?’
Nadine Boynton set down the glass carefully on the table. Then she went over and stood beside him.
‘Lennox, look at the sunshine—out there, through the window. Look at life. It’s beautiful. We might be out in it—instead of being here looking through a window.’
Again there was a pause. Then he said: ‘I’m sorry. Do you want to go out?’
She answered him quickly: ‘Yes, I want to go out—with you—out into the sunshine—out into life—and live—the two of us together.’
He shrank back into his chair. His eyes looked restless, hunted.
‘Nadine, my dear—must we go into all this again?’
‘Yes, we must. Let us go away and lead our own life somewhere.’
‘How can we? We’ve no money.’
‘We can earn money.’
‘How could we? What could we do? I’m untrained. Thousands of men—qualified men—trained men—are out of a job as it is. We couldn’t manage it.’
‘I would earn money for both of us.’
‘My dear child, you’d never even completed your training. It’s hopeless—impossible.’
‘No, what is hopeless and impossible is our present life.’
‘You don’t know what you are talking about. Mother is very good to us. She gives us every luxury.’
‘Except freedom. Lennox, make an effort. Come with me now—today—’
‘Nadine, I think you’re quite mad.’
‘No, I’m sane. Absolutely and completely sane. I want a life of my own, with you, in the sunshine—not stifled in the shadow of an old woman who is a tyrant and who delights in making you unhappy.’
‘Mother may be rather an autocrat—’
‘Your mother is mad! She’s insane!’
He answered mildly: ‘That’s not true. She’s got a remarkably good head for business.’
‘Perhaps—yes.’
‘And you must realize, Nadine, she can’t live for ever. She’s getting old and she’s in very bad health. At her death my father’s money is divided equally among us share and share alike. You remember, she read us the will?’
‘When she dies,’ said Nadine, ‘it may be too late.’
‘Too late?’
‘Too late for happiness.’
Lennox murmured: ‘Too late for happiness.’ He shivered suddenly. Nadine went closer to him. She put her hand on his shoulder.
‘Lennox, I love you. It’s a battle between me and your mother. Are you going to be on her side or mine?’
‘On yours—on yours!’
‘Then do what I ask.’
‘It’s impossible!’
‘No, it’s not impossible. Think, Lennox, we could have children…’
‘Mother wants us to have children. She has said so.’
‘I know, but I won’t bring children into the world to live in the shadow you have all been brought up in. Your mother can influence you, but she’s no power over me.’
Lennox murmured: ‘You make her angry sometimes, Nadine; it isn’t wise.’
‘She is only angry because she knows that she can’t influence my mind or dictate my thoughts!’
‘I know you are always polite and gentle with her. You’re wonderful. You’re too good for me. You always have been. When you said you would marry me it was like an unbelievable dream.’
Nadine said quietly: ‘I was wrong to marry you.’
Lennox said hopelessly: ‘Yes, you were wrong.’
‘You don’t understand. What I mean is that if I had gone away then and asked you to follow me you would have done so. Yes, I really believe you would…I was not clever enough then to understand your mother and what she wanted.’
She paused, then she said: ‘You refuse to come away? Well, I can’t make you. But I am free to go! I think—I think I shall go…’
He stared up at her incredulously. For the first time his reply came quickly, as though at last the sluggish current of his thoughts was accelerated. He stammered: ‘But—but—you can’t do that. Mother—Mother woul
‘She couldn’t stop me.’
‘You’ve no money.’
‘I could make, borrow, beg or steal it. Understand, Lennox, your mother has no power over me! I can go or stay at my will. I am beginning to feel that I have borne this life long enough.’
‘Nadine—don’t leave me—don’t leave me…’
She looked at him thoughtfully—quietly—with an inscrutable expression.
‘Don’t leave me, Nadine.’
He spoke like a child. She turned her head away, so that he should not see the sudden pain in her eyes.
She knelt down beside him.
‘Then come with me. Come with me! You can. Indeed you can if you only will!’
He shrank back from her.
‘I can’t. I can’t, I tell you. I haven’t—God help me—I haven’t the courage…’
Chapter 9
Dr Gerard walked into the office of Messrs Castle, the tourist agents, and found Sarah King at the counter.
She looked up.
‘Oh, good morning. I’m fixing up my tour to Petra. I’ve just heard you are going after all.’
‘Yes, I find I can just manage it.’
‘How nice.’
‘Shall we be a large party, I wonder?’
‘They say just two other women—and you and me. One car load.’
‘That will be delightful,’ said Gerard, with a little bow. Then he, in turn, attended to his business.
Presently, holding his mail in his hands, he joined Sarah as she stepped out of the office. It was a crisp, sunny day, with a slight cold tang in the air.
‘What news of our friends, the Boyntons?’ asked Dr Gerard. ‘I have been to Bethlehem and Nazareth and other places—a tour of three days.’
Slowly and rather unwillingly, Sarah narrated her abortive efforts to establish contact.
‘Anyhow, I failed,’ she finished. ‘And they’re leaving today.’
‘Where are they going?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
She went on vexedly: ‘I feel, you know, that I’ve made rather a fool of myself!’
‘In what way?’
‘Interfering in other people’s business.’
Gerard shrugged his shoulders.
‘That is a matter of opinion.’
‘You mean whether one should interfere or not?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you?’
The Frenchman looked amused.
‘You mean, is it my habit to concern myself with other people’s affairs? I will say to you frankly: No.’
‘Then you think I’m wrong to have tried butting in?’
‘No, no, you misunderstand me.’ Gerard spoke quickly and energetically. ‘It is, I think, a moot question. Should one, if one sees a wrong being done, attempt to put it right? One’s interference may do good—but it may do incalculable harm! It is impossible to lay down any ruling on the subject. Some people have a genius for interference—they do it well! Some people do it clumsily and had therefore better leave it alone! Then there is, too, the question of age. Young people have the courage of their ideals and convictions—their values are more theoretical than practical. They have not experienced, as yet, that fact contradicts theory! If you have a belief in yourself and in the rightness of what you are doing, you can often accomplish things that are well worth while! (Incidentally, you often do a good deal of harm!) On the other hand, the middle-aged person has experience—he has found that harm as well as, and perhaps more often than, good comes of trying to interfere and so—very wisely, he refrains! So the result is even—the earnest young do both harm and good—the prudent middle-aged do neither!’
‘All that isn’t very helpful,’ objected Sarah.
‘Can one person ever be helpful to another? It is your problem, not mine.’
‘You mean you are not going to do anything about the Boyntons?’
‘No. For me, there would be no chance of success.’
‘Then there isn’t for me, either?’
‘For you, there might be.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you have special qualifications. The appeal of your youth and sex.’
‘Sex? Oh, I see.’
‘One comes always back to sex, does one not? You have failed with the girl. It does not follow that you would fail with her brother. What you have just told me (what the girl Carol told you) shows very clearly the one menace to Mrs Boynton’s autocracy. The eldest son, Lennox, defied her in the force of his young manhood. He played truant from home, went to local dances. The desire of a man for a mate was stronger than the hypnotic spell. But the old woman was quite aware of the power of sex. (She will have seen something of it in her career.) She dealt with it very cleverly—brought a pretty but penniless girl into the house—encouraged a marriage. And so acquired yet another slave.’
Sarah shook her head.
‘I don’t think young Mrs Boynton is a slave.’
Gerard agreed.
‘No, perhaps not. I think that, because she was a quiet, docile young girl, old Mrs Boynton underestimated her force of will and character. Nadine Boynton was too young and inexperienced at the time to appreciate the true position. She appreciates it now, but it is too late.’
‘Do you think she has given up hope?’
Dr Gerard shook his head doubtfully.
‘If she has plans no one would know about them. There are, you know, certain possibilities where Cope is concerned. Man is a naturally jealous animal—and jealousy is a strong force. Lennox Boynton might still be roused from the inertia in which he is sinking.’
‘And you think’—Sarah purposely made her tone very business-like and professional—‘that there’s a chance I might be able to do something about Raymond?’
‘I do.’
Sarah sighed.
‘I suppose I might have tried. Oh, well, it’s too late now, anyway. And—and I don’t like the idea.’
Gerard looked amused.
‘That is because you are English! The English have a complex about sex. They think it is “not quite nice”.’
Sarah’s indignant response failed to move him.
‘Yes, yes; I know you are very modern—that you use freely in public the most unpleasant words you can find in the dictionary—that you are professional and entirely uninhibited! Tout de même, I repeat, you have the same facial characteristics as your mother and your grandmother. You are still the blushing English Miss although you do not blush!’
‘I never heard such rubbish!’
Dr Gerard, a twinkle in his eye, and quite unperturbed, added: ‘And it makes you very charming.’
This time Sarah was speechless.
Dr Gerard hastily raised his hat. ‘I take my leave,’ he said, ‘before you have time to begin to say all that you think.’ He escaped into the hotel.
Sarah followed him more slowly.
There was a good deal of activity going on. Several cars loaded with luggage were in the process of departing. Lennox and Nadine Boynton and Mr Cope were standing by a big saloon car superintending arrangements. A fat dragoman was standing talking to Carol with quite unintelligible fluency.
Sarah passed them and went into the hotel.
Mrs Boynton, wrapped in a thick coat, was sitting in a chair, waiting to depart. Looking at her, a queer revulsion of feeling swept over Sarah. She had felt that Mrs Boynton was a sinister figure, an incarnation of evil malignancy.
Now, suddenly, she saw the old woman as a pathetic ineffectual figure. To be born with such a lust for power, such a desire for dominion—and to achieve only a petty domestic tyranny! If only her children could see her as Sarah saw her that minute—an object of pity—a stupid, malignant, pathetic, posturing old woman. On an impulse Sarah went up to her.
‘Goodbye, Mrs Boynton,’ she said. ‘I hope you’ll have a nice trip.’
The old lady looked at her. Malignancy struggled with outrage in those eyes.
‘You’ve wan
(Was she crazy, she wondered, what on earth was urging her on to talk like this?)
‘You’ve tried to prevent your son and daughter making friends with me. Don’t you think, really, that that is all very silly and childish? You like to make yourself out a kind of ogre, but really, you know, you’re just pathetic and rather ludicrous. If I were you I’d give up all this silly play-acting. I expect you’ll hate me for saying this, but I mean it—and some of it may stick. You know you could have a lot of fun still. It’s really much better to be—friendly—and kind. You could be if you tried.’
There was a pause.
Mrs Boynton had frozen into a deadly immobility. At last she passed her tongue over her dry lips, her mouth opened…Still for a moment, no words came.
‘Go on,’ said Sarah encouragingly. ‘Say it! It doesn’t matter what you say to me. But think over what I’ve said to you.’
The words came at last—in a soft, husky, but penetrating voice. Mrs Boynton’s basilisk eyes looked, not at Sarah, but oddly over her shoulder. She seemed to address, not Sarah, but some familiar spirit.
‘I never forget,’ she said. ‘Remember that. I’ve never forgotten anything—not an action, not a name, not a face…’
There was nothing in the words themselves, but the venom with which they were spoken made Sarah retreat a step. And then Mrs Boynton laughed—it was, definitely, rather a horrible laugh.
Sarah shrugged her shoulders. ‘You poor old thing,’ she said.
She turned away. As she went towards the lift she almost collided with Raymond Boynton. On an impulse she spoke quickly.
‘Goodbye. I hope you’ll have a lovely time. Perhaps we’ll meet again some day.’ She smiled at him, a warm, friendly smile, and passed quickly on.
Raymond stood as though turned to stone. So lost in his own thoughts was he that a small man with big moustaches, endeavouring to pass out of the lift, had to speak several times.
‘Pardon.’
At last it penetrated. Raymond stepped aside.
‘So sorry,’ he said. ‘I—I was thinking.’
Carol came towards him.
‘Ray, get Jinny, will you? She went back to her room. We’re going to start.’
‘Right. I’ll tell her she’s got to come straight away.’