Mysterious Mr. Quin - Agatha Christie [96]
The man with the black hair got up, and the Duchess with a gracious smile slipped into his seat.
The white-haired lady spoke.
‘We have been here a week,’ she said.
Mr Satterthwaite started. Could anyone who had once heard that voice ever forget it? It echoed round the stone room, charged with emotion–with exquisite melancholy. It seemed to him that she had said something wonderful, memorable, full of meaning. She had spoken from her heart.
He spoke in a hurried aside to Mr Tomlinson.
‘The man in spectacles is Mr Vyse–the producer, you know.’
The retired Indian judge was looking at Mr Vyse with a good deal of dislike.
‘What does he produce?’ he asked. ‘Children?’
‘Oh, dear me, no,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, shocked by the mere mention of anything so crude in connection with Mr Vyse. ‘Plays.’
‘I think,’ said Naomi, ‘I’ll go out again. It’s too hot in here.’
Her voice, strong and harsh, made Mr Satterthwaite jump. She made almost blindly, as it seemed, for the door, brushing Mr Tomlinson aside. But in the doorway itself she came face to face with Mr Quin, and he barred her way.
‘Go back and sit down,’ he said.
His voice was authoritative. To Mr Satterthwaite’s surprise the girl hesitated a minute and then obeyed. She sat down at the foot of the table as far from the others as possible.
Mr Satterthwaite bustled forward and button-holed the producer.
‘You may not remember me,’ he began, ‘my name is Satterthwaite.’
‘Of course!’ A long bony hand shot out and enveloped the other’s in a painful grip. ‘My dear man. Fancy meeting you here. You know Miss Nunn, of course?’
Mr Satterthwaite jumped. No wonder that voice had been familiar. Thousands, all over England, had thrilled to those wonderful emotion-laden tones. Rosina Nunn! England’s greatest emotional actress. Mr Satterthwaite too had lain under her spell. No one like her for interpreting a part–for bringing out the finer shades of meaning. He had thought of her always as an intellectual actress, one who comprehended and got inside the soul of her part.
He might be excused for not recognizing her. Rosina Nunn was volatile in her tastes. For twenty-five years of her life she had been a blonde. After a tour in the States she had returned with the locks of the raven, and she had taken up tragedy in earnest. This ‘French Marquise’ effect was her latest whim.
‘Oh, by the way, Mr Judd–Miss Nunn’s husband,’ said Vyse, carelessly introducing the man with the bald head.
Rosina Nunn had had several husbands, Mr Satterthwaite knew. Mr Judd was evidently the latest.
Mr Judd was busily unwrapping packages from a hamper at his side. He addressed his wife.
‘Some more pâté, dearest? That last wasn’t as thick as you like it.’
Rosina Nunn surrendered her roll to him, as she murmured simply:
‘Henry thinks of the most enchanting meals. I always leave the commissariat to him.’
‘Feed the brute,’ said Mr Judd, and laughed. He patted his wife on the shoulder.
‘Treats her just as though she were a dog,’ murmured the melancholy voice of Mr Vyse in Mr Satterthwaite’s ear. ‘Cuts up her food for her. Odd creatures, women.’
Mr Satterthwaite and Mr Quin between them unpacked lunch. Hard-boiled eggs, cold ham and Gruyère cheese were distributed round the table. The Duchess and Miss Nunn appeared to be deep in murmured confidences. Fragments came along in the actress’s deep contralto.
‘The bread must be lightly toasted, you understand? Then just a very thin layer of marmalade. Rolled up and put in the oven for one minute–not more. Simply delicious.’
‘That woman lives for food,’ murmured Mr Vyse. ‘Simply lives for it. She can’t think of anything else. I remember in Riders to the Sea–you know “and it’s the fine quiet time I’ll be having.” I could not get the effect I wanted. At last I told her to think of peppermint creams