The Moving Finger - Agatha Christie [63]
“I do look—rather nice, don’t I?” said Megan.
“Nice?” I said. “Nice isn’t the word! Come on out to dinner and if every second man doesn’t turn round to look at you I’ll be surprised. You’ll knock all the other girls into a cocked hat.”
Megan was not beautiful, but she was unusual and striking looking. She had personality. She walked into the restaurant ahead of me and, as the head waiter hurried towards us, I felt the thrill of idiotic pride that a man feels when he has got something out of the ordinary with him.
We had cocktails first and lingered over them. Then we dined. And later we danced. Megan was keen to dance and I didn’t want to disappoint her, but for some reason or other I hadn’t thought she would dance well. But she did. She was light as a feather in my arms, and her body and feet followed the rhythm perfectly.
“Gosh!” I said. “You can dance!”
She seemed a little surprised. “Well, of course I can. We had dancing class every week at school.”
“It takes more than dancing class to make a dancer,” I said.
We went back to our table.
“Isn’t this food lovely?” said Megan. “And everything!”
She heaved a delighted sigh.
“Exactly my sentiments,” I said.
It was a delirious evening. I was still mad. Megan brought me down to earth when she said doubtfully:
“Oughtn’t we to be going home?”
My jaw dropped. Yes, definitely I was mad. I had forgotten everything! I was in a world divorced from reality, existing in it with the creature I had created.
“Good Lord!” I said.
I realized that the last train had gone.
“Stay there,” I said. “I’m going to telephone.”
I rang up the Llewellyn Hire people and ordered their biggest and fastest car to come round as soon as possible.
I came back to Megan. “The last train has gone,” I said. “So we’re going home by car.”
“Are we? What fun!”
What a nice child she was, I thought. So pleased with everything, so unquestioning, accepting all my suggestions without fuss or bother.
The car came, and it was large and fast, but all the same it was very late when we came into Lymstock.
Suddenly conscience-stricken, I said, “They’ll have been sending out search parties for you!”
But Megan seemed in an equable mood. She said vaguely:
“Oh, I don’t think so. I often go out and don’t come home for lunch.”
“Yes, my dear child, but you’ve been out for tea and dinner too.”
However, Megan’s lucky star was in the ascendant. The house was dark and silent. On Megan’s advice, we went round to the back and threw stones at Rose’s window.
In due course Rose looked out and with many suppressed exclamations and palpitations came down to let us in.
“Well now, and I saying you were asleep in your bed. The master and Miss Holland”—(slight sniff after Miss Holland’s name)—“had early supper and went for a drive. I said I’d keep an eye to the boys. I thought I heard you come in when I was up in the nursery trying to quiet Colin, who was playing up, but you weren’t about when I came down so I thought you’d gone to bed. And that’s what I said when the master came in and asked for you.”
I cut short the conversation by remarking that that was where Megan had better go now.
“Good night,” said Megan, “and thank you awfully. It’s been the loveliest day I’ve ever had.”
I drove home slightly light-headed still, and tipped the chauffeur handsomely, offering him a bed if he liked. But he preferred to drive back through the night.
The hall door had opened during our colloquy and as he drove away it was flung wide open and Joanna said:
“So it’s you at last, is it?”
“Were you worried about me?” I asked, coming in and shutting the door.
Joanna went into the drawing room and I followed her. There was a coffee pot on the trivet and Joanna made herself coffee whilst I helped myself to a whisky and soda.
“Worried about you? No, of course not. I thought you’d decided to stay in town and have a binge.”
“I’ve had a binge—of a kind.”
I grinned and then began to laugh.
Joanna asked what I was laughing at and I told her.
“But