Problem at Pollensa Bay - Agatha Christie [61]
Joyce nodded.
‘I know–’ said Mr Allaby.
He took her hand, squeezed it hard and dropped it. He went out of the little cubicle. Joyce followed in a minute or two and fixed up various details with the ladylike person. When she arrived home. Mrs Barnes met her on the doorstep with that relish in gloom typical of her class.
‘They’ve sent the poor little doggie’s body home,’ she announced. ‘It’s up in your room. I was saying to Barnes, and he’s ready to dig a nice little hole in the back garden–’
Magnolia Blossom
I
Vincent Easton was waiting under the clock at Victoria Station. Now and then he glanced up at it uneasily. He thought to himself: ‘How many other men have waited here for a woman who didn’t come?’
A sharp pang shot through him. Supposing that Theo didn’t come, that she had changed her mind? Women did that sort of thing. Was he sure of her–had he ever been sure of her? Did he really know anything at all about her? Hadn’t she puzzled him from the first? There had seemed to be two women–the lovely, laughing creature who was Richard Darrell’s wife, and the other–silent, mysterious, who had walked by his side in the garden of Haymer’s Close. Like a magnolia flower–that was how he thought of her–perhaps because it was under the magnolia tree that they had tasted their first rapturous, incredulous kiss. The air had been sweet with the scent of magnolia bloom, and one or two petals, velvety-soft and fragrant, had floated down, resting on that upturned face that was as creamy and as soft and as silent as they. Magnolia blossom–exotic, fragrant, mysterious.
That had been a fortnight ago–the second day he had met her. And now he was waiting for her to come to him forever. Again incredulity shot through him. She wouldn’t come. How could he ever have believed it? It would be giving up so much. The beautiful Mrs Darrell couldn’t do this sort of thing quietly. It was bound to be a nine days’ wonder, a far-reaching scandal that would never quite be forgotten. There were better, more expedient ways of doing these things–a discreet divorce, for instance.
But they had never thought of that for a moment–at least he had not. Had she, he wondered? He had never known anything of her thoughts. He had asked her to come away with him almost timorously–for after all, what was he? Nobody in particular–one of a thousand orange growers in the Transvaal. What a life to take her to–after the brilliance of London! And yet, since he wanted her so desperately, he must needs ask.
She had consented very quietly, with no hesitations or protests, as though it were the simplest thing in the world that he was asking her.
‘Tomorrow?’ he had said, amazed, almost unbelieving.
And she had promised in that soft, broken voice that was so different from the laughing brilliance of her social manner. He had compared her to a diamond when he first saw her–a thing of flashing fire, reflecting light from a hundred facets. But at that first touch, that first kiss, she had changed miraculously to the clouded softness of a pearl–a pearl like a magnolia blossom, creamy-pink.
She had promised. And now he was waiting for her to fulfil that promise.
He looked again at the clock. If she did not come soon, they would miss the train.
Sharply a wave of reaction set in. She wouldn’t come! Of course she wouldn’t come. Fool that he had been ever to expect it! What were promises? He would find a letter when he got back to his rooms–explaining, protesting, saying all the things that women do when they are excusing themselves for lack of courage.
He felt anger–anger and the bitterness of frustration.
Then he saw her coming towards him down the platform, a faint smile on her face. She walked slowly, without haste or fluster, as one who had all eternity before her. She was in black–soft black that clung, with a little black hat that framed the wonderful creamy pallor of her face.