Death On The Nile

"Have you come to a decision, Linnet?"
Linnet said slowly: "Am I being a brute? I suppose, if I'm not sure, I ought to say No-" He interrupted her.
"Don't say it. You shall have time-as much time as you want. But I think, you know, we should be happy together." "You see," Linnet's tone was apologetic, almost childish, "I'm enjoying myself so much-especially with all this." She waved a hand. "I wanted to make Wode Hall into my real ideal of a country house and I do think I've got it nice, don't you?" "It's beautiful. Beautifully planned. Everything perfect. You're very clever, Linnet." He paused a minute and went on: "And you like Charltonbury, don't you? Of course it wants modernising and all that-but you're so clever at that sort of thing. You'd enjoy it." "Why, of course, Charltonbury's divine." She spoke with a ready enthusiasm, but inwardly she was conscious of a sudden chill. An alien note had sounded, disturbing her complete satisfaction with life.
She did not analyse the feeling at the moment, but later, when Windlesham had gone into the house, she tried to probe into the recesses of her mind.
Charltonbury-yes, that was it-she had resented the mention of Charlton-bury.
But why? Charltonbury was modestly famous. Windlesham's ancestors had held it since the time of Elizabeth. To be mistress of Charltonbury was a position unsurpassed in society. Windlesham was one of the most desirable partis in England.
Naturally he wouldn't take Wode seriously. It was not in any way to be compared with Charltonbury.
Ah, but Wode was hers! She had seen it, acquired it, rebuilt and redressed it, lavished money on it. It was her own possession, her kingdom.
But in a sense it wouldn't count if she married Windlesham. What would they want with two country places? And of the two naturally Wode Hall would be the one to be given up.
She, Linnet Ridgeway, wouldn't exist any longer. She would be Countess of Windlesham, bringing a fine dowry to Charltonbury and its master. She would be queen consort, not queen any longer.
"I'm being ridiculous," said Linnet to herself.
But it was curious how she did hate the idea of abandoning Wode.
And wasn't there something else nagging at her?
Jackie's voice with that queer blurred note in it saying, "If I don't marry him I'll die.
I shall die. I shall die… ' So positive, so earnest. Did she, Linnet, feel like that about Windlesham? Assuredly she didn't.
Perhaps she could never feel like that about any one. It must be-rather wonderful--to feel like that.
The sound of a car came through the open window.
Linnet shook herself impatiently. That must be Jackie and her young man. She'd go out and meet them.
She was standing in the open doorway as Jacqueline and Simon Doyle got out of the car.
"Linnet," Jackie ran to her. "This is Simon. Simon, here's Linnet. She's just the most wonderful person in the world."
Linnet saw a tall broad-shouldered young man with very dark blue eyes, crisply curling brown hair, a square chin and a boyish appealing simple smile…
She stretched out a hand. The hand that clasped hers was firm and warm…
She liked the way he looked at her, the naive genuine admiration.
Jackie had told him she was wonderful and he clearly thought that she was wonderful…
A warm sweet feeling of intoxication ran through her veins.
"Isn't this all lovely?" she said. "Come in, Simon, and let me welcome my new land agent properly."
And as she turned to lead the way she thought: "I'm frightfully-frightfully happy. I like Jackie's young man I like him enormously… " And then with a sudden pang: "Lucky Jackie… " viii
Tim Allerton leant back in his wicker chair and yawned as he looked out over the sea. He shot a quick sidelong glance at his mother.
Mrs.
Allerton was a good-looking white-haired woman of fifty. By imparting an expression of pinched severity to her mouth every time she looked at her son, she sought to disguise the fact of her intense affection for him. Even total strangers were seldom deceived by this device and Tim himself saw through it perfectly. He said: "Do you really like Majorca, Mother?" "Well" Mrs. Allerton considered. "It's cheap." "And cold," said Tim with a slight shiver.
He was a tall, thin young man with dark hair and a rather narrow chest. His mouth had a very sweet expression, his eyes were sad and his chin was indecisive. He had long delicate hands.
Threatened by consumption some years ago, he had never displayed a really robust physique. He was popularly supposed "to write," but it was understood among his friends that inquiries as to literary output were not encouraged. "What are you thinking of, Tim?" Mrs. Allerton was alert. Her bright dark brown eyes looked suspicious. Tim Allerton grinned at her. "I was thinking of Egypt." "Egypt?" Mrs. Allerton sounded doubtful.
"Real warmth, darling. Lazy golden sands. The Nile. I'd like to go up the Nile, wouldn't you?" "Oh, I'd like it." Her tone was dry. "But Egypt's expensive, my dear.
Not for those who have to count the pennies." Tim laughed. He rose, stretched himself. Suddenly he looked alive and eager. There was an excited note in his voice.
"The expense will be my affair. Yes, darling. A little flutter on the Stock Exchange. With thoroughly satisfactory results. I heard this morning."
"This morning?" said Mrs. Allerton sharply. "You only had one letter and that-" She stopped and bit her lip.
Tim looked momentarily undecided whether to be amused or annoyed.
Amusement gained the day.
"And that was from Joanna," he finished coolly. "Quite right, Mother. What a queen of detectives you'd make! The famous Hercule Poirot would have to look to his laurels if you were about." Mrs. Allerton looked rather cross.
"I just happened to see the handwriting-" "And knew it wasn't that of a stockbroker? Quite right. As a matter of fact it was yesterday I heard from them. Poor Joanna's handwriting/s rather noticeable- sprawls about all over the envelope like an inebriated spider." "What does Joanna say? Any news?" Mrs. Allerton strove to make her voice sound casual and ordinary. The friendship between her son and his second cousin, Joanna Southwood, always irritated her. Not, as she put it to herself, that there was "anything in it." She was quite sure there wasn't. Tim had never manifested a sentimental interest in Joanna, nor she in him. Their mutual attraction seemed to be founded on gossip and the possession of a large number of friends and acquaintances in common.
They both liked people and discussing people. Joanna had an amusing if caustic tongue.
It was not because Mrs. Allerton feared that Tim might fall in love with Joanna that she found herself alway becoming a little stiff in manner if Joanna were present or when letters from her arrived.
It was some other feeling hard to defineperhaps an unacknowledged jealousy in the unfeigned pleasure Tim always seemed to take in Joanna's society.
He and his mother were such perfect companions that the sight of him absorbed and interested in another woman always startled Mrs. Allerton slightly. She fancied, too, that her own presence on these occasions set some barrier between the two members of the younger generation. Often she had come upon them eagerly absorbed in some conversation, and at sight of her their talk had wavered, had seemed to include her rather too purposefully and as in duty bound. Quite definitely, Mrs. Allerton did not like Joanna Southwood. She thought her insincere, affected and essentially superficial. She found it very hard to prevent herself saying so in unmeasured tones.
In answer to her question, Tim pulled the letter out of his pocket and glanced through it. It was quite a long letter, his mother noted.
"Nothing much," he said. "The Devenishes are getting a divorce. Old Monty's been had up for being drunk in charge of a car. Windlesham's gone to Canada.