Murder in the Mews - Agatha Christie [78]
‘Tony darling — isn’t it divine — this sun? I simply must have been a sun worshipper once — don’t you think so?’
Her husband grunted something in reply that failed to reach the others. Valentine Chantry went on in that high, drawling voice.
‘Just pull that towel a little flatter, will you, darling?’
She took infinite pains in the resettling of her beautiful body. Douglas Gold was looking now. His eyes were frankly interested.
Mrs Gold chirped happily in a subdued key to Miss Lyall.
‘What a beautiful woman!’
Pamela, as delighted to give as to receive information, replied in a lower voice:
‘That’s Valentine Chantry — you know, who used to be Valentine Dacres — she is rather marvellous, isn’t she? He’s simply crazy about her — won’t let her out of his sight!’
Mrs Gold looked once more along the beach. Then she said:
‘The sea really is lovely — so blue. I think we ought to go in now, don’t you, Douglas?’
He was still watching Valentine Chantry and took a minute or two to answer. Then he said, rather absently:
‘Go in? Oh, yes, rather, in a minute.’
Marjorie Gold got up and strolled down to the water’s edge.
Valentine Chantry rolled over a little on one side. Her eyes looked along at Douglas Gold. Her scarlet mouth curved faintly into a smile.
The neck of Mr Douglas Gold became slightly red.
Valentine Chantry said:
‘Tony darling — would you mind? I want a little pot of face-cream — it’s up on the dressing-table. I meant to bring it down. Do get it for me — there’s an angel.’
The commander rose obediently. He stalked off into the hotel.
Marjorie Gold plunged into the sea, calling out:
‘It’s lovely, Douglas — so warm. Do come.’
Pamela Lyall said to him:
‘Aren’t you going in?’
He answered vaguely:
‘Oh! I like to get well hotted up first.’
Valentine Chantry stirred. Her head was lifted for a moment as though to recall her husband — but he was just passing inside the wall of the hotel garden.
‘I like my dip the last thing,’ explained Mr Gold.
Mrs Chantry sat up again. She picked up a flask of sunbathing oil. She had some difficulty with it — the screw top seemed to resist her efforts.
She spoke loudly and petulantly.
‘Oh, dear — I can’t get this thing undone!’
She looked towards the other group —
‘I wonder —’
Always gallant, Poirot rose to his feet, but Douglas Gold had the advantage of youth and suppleness. He was by her side in a moment.
‘Can I do it for you?’
‘Oh, thank you —’ It was the sweet, empty drawl again.
‘You are kind. I’m such a fool at undoing things — I always seem to screw them the wrong way. Oh! you’ve done it! Thank you ever so much —’
Hercule Poirot smiled to himself.
He got up and wandered along the beach in the opposite direction. He did not go very far but his progress was leisurely. As he was on his way back, Mrs Gold came out of the sea and joined him. She had been swimming. Her face, under a singularly unbecoming bathing cap, was radiant.
She said breathlessly, ‘I do love the sea. And it’s so warm and lovely here.’
She was, he perceived, an enthusiastic bather.
She said, ‘Douglas and I are simply mad on bathing. He can stay in for hours.’
And at that Hercule Poirot’s eyes slid over her shoulder to the spot on the beach where that enthusiastic bather, Mr Douglas Gold, was sitting talking to Valentine Chantry.
His wife said:
‘I can’t think why he doesn’t come…’
Her voice held a kind of childish bewilderment.
Poirot’s eyes rested thoughtfully on Valentine Chantry. He thought that other women in their time had made that same remark.
Beside him, he heard Mrs Gold draw in her breath sharply.
She said — and her voice was cold:
‘She’s supposed to be very attractive, I believe. But Douglas doesn’t like that type of woman.’
Hercule Poirot did not reply.
Mrs Gold plunged into the sea again.
She swam away from the shore with slow, steady strokes. You could see that she loved the water.
Poirot retraced his steps to the group on the beach.
It had been augmented by the arrival of old General Barnes, a veteran