Death on the Nile - Agatha Christie [33]
She said very slowly: “That is true….”
Then she flung her head back.
“Ah, well—one must follow one’s star, wherever it leads.”
“Beware, Mademoiselle, that it is not a false star….”
She laughed and mimicked the parrot cry of the donkey boys:
“That very bad star, sir! That star fall down….”
He was just dropping off to sleep when the murmur of voices awoke him. It was Simon Doyle’s voice he heard, repeating the same words he had used when the steamer left Shellal.
“We’ve got to go through with it now….”
“Yes,” thought Hercule Poirot to himself, “we have got to go through with it now….”
He was not happy.
Nine
I
The steamer arrived early next morning at Ez-Zebua.
Cornelia Robson, her face beaming, a large flapping hat on her head, was one of the first to hurry on shore. Cornelia was not good at snubbing people. She was of an amiable disposition and disposed to like all her fellow creatures.
The sight of Hercule Poirot, in a white suit, pink shirt, large black bow tie and a white topee, did not make her wince as the aristocratic Miss Van Schuyler would assuredly have winced. As they walked together up an avenue of sphinxes, she responded readily to his conventional opening, “Your companions are not coming ashore to view the temple?”
“Well, you see, Cousin Marie—that’s Miss Van Schuyler—never gets up very early. She has to be very, very careful of her health. And of course she wanted Miss Bowers, that’s her hospital nurse, to do things for her. And she said, too, that this isn’t one of the best temples—but she was frightfully kind and said it would be quite all right for me to come.”
“That was very gracious of her,” said Poirot dryly.
The ingenuous Cornelia agreed unsuspectingly.
“Oh, she’s very kind. It’s simply wonderful of her to bring me on this trip. I do feel I’m a lucky girl. I just could hardly believe it when she suggested to Mother that I should come too.”
“And you have enjoyed it—yes?”
“Oh, it’s been wonderful! I’ve seen Italy—Venice and Padua and Pisa—and then Cairo—only cousin Marie wasn’t very well in Cairo, so I couldn’t get round much, and now this wonderful trip up the Wadi Halfa and back.”
Poirot said, smiling, “You have the happy nature, Mademoiselle.”
He looked thoughtfully from her to silent, frowning Rosalie, who was walking ahead by herself.
“She’s very nice-looking, isn’t she?” said Cornelia, following his glance. “Only kind of scornful-looking. She’s very English, of course. She’s not as lovely as Mrs. Doyle. I think Mrs. Doyle’s the loveliest, the most elegant woman I’ve ever seen! And her husband just worships the ground she walks on, doesn’t he? I think that grey-haired lady is kind of distinguished-looking, don’t you? She’s a cousin of a Duke, I believe. She was talking about him right near us last night. But she isn’t actually titled herself, is she?”
She prattled on until the dragoman in charge called a halt and began to intone: “This temple was dedicated to Egyptian God Amun and the Sun God Re-Harakhte—whose symbol was a hawk’s head….”
It droned on. Dr. Bessner, Baedeker in hand, mumbled to himself in German. He preferred the written word.
Tim Allerton had not joined the party. His mother was breaking the ice with the reserved Mr. Fanthorp. Andrew Pennington, his arm through Linnet Doyle’s, was listening attentively, seemingly most interested in the measurements as recited by the guide.
“Sixty-five feet high, is that so? Looks a little less to me. Great fellow, this Rameses. An Egyptian live wire.”
“A big business man, Uncle Andrew.”
Andrew Pennington looked at her appreciatively.
“You look fine this morning, Linnet. I’ve been a mite worried about you lately. You’ve looked kind of peaky.”
Chatting together, the party returned to the boat. Once more the Karnak glided up the river. The scenery was less stern now. There were palms, cultivation.
It was as though the change in the scenery had relieved some secret oppression that had brooded over the passengers. Tim Allerton had got over his fit of moodiness. Rosalie