‘Of course,’ he said, with another bow to Mrs. Collyer. ‘I hope you’re having a lovely stay here. The weather has been very much on our side.’
‘How is Frau Adler?’ Mrs. Collyer said.
‘Well, thank you. I believe she’s expecting you to call tomorrow. This matter of the papers –’
‘It will all be sorted out,’ Mr. Collyer said, brusquely. ‘She must understand that I and I alone have the authority to write about her esteemed husband’s life.’
There was a brief silence. ‘I’m sure she does,’ Mr. Tyndall said. Then, after another moment, ‘Well, I bid you a good evening.’
He turned and went to his usual corner table, by the window overlooking the bay. The distant horizon was blurred to crimson with the ending of the day. The headland was darkening to twilight, pricked here and there by the yellow of a lamp.
‘He always sits alone,’ Mrs. Collyer said, her gaze following him. ‘He’s an admirable man. A great support to Frau Adler after her husband’s death.’
‘Anothercamoufleur,’ Mr. Farrar said.
She nodded. ‘They worked together during the War, Dr. Adler and Mr. Tyndall. Ernst worked on the chemistry of the paint, and Robin on the art of it, how to use design to hide from the enemy. They were deeply influential.’
‘That will be an interesting chapter in your book,’ Kurt Farrar said to Mr. Collyer.
‘What?’ He had torn a slice of bread into neat strips which now lay side by side on his plate.
‘The camoufleurs. Fascinating bunch of chaps,’ Kurt said.
‘Dr. Adler was a chemist,’ Mr. Collyer said, his tone abrupt. ‘Lithopone, that’s the stuff. Industrial pigment. That was his important work. Not messing about with plastic trees.’
‘Oh.’ Kurt stared at him, but there was no further conversation, and then the young dark-haired boy from the kitchen arrived with a dish of butter.
‘About time,’ Mr. Collyer said.
The boy was shy and rather thin, his skin sallow against his smart white jacket. He gave a mumbled apology and fled back to the kitchen.
‘Do you know,’ Kurt began conversationally, ‘at the start of the war some of our chaps were on the front line wearing bright red uniforms? Until these clever men started working on shades of green and grey? That was the problem you see –’ he produced a bottle of champagne from an ice bucket by his side and poured everyone a glass – ‘previous wars, nineteenth century wars, we’d had the officer class in all their glory, all smartly turned out, riding on their prancing stallions. As if the whole thing was a glorious game. But this last war turned out not to be. Not a game at all.’ His voice cracked. He picked up his glass and stared into it, twirling it in his fingers. ‘There was no glory in those trenches. No honour. All there was, was mud. There we were, buried alive behind sandbags and barbed war. The colour of war had changed,’ he said, almost to himself.
The table had fallen silent. The only noise was of Mr. Collyer scraping butter on to his bread.
The soup was served. Agatha was aware of Mrs. Collyer casting nervous glances at her husband. She wondered what things were like when it was just the two of them.
The quiet was broken by the floating laughter of Blanche from across the room. Then the piano started up, played by a large elderly lady in mauve satin.
‘Drink up.’ Kurt pointed at Agatha’s champagne glass. ‘There’s another bottle here. Mr. Collyer?’
Mr. Collyer nodded, as Kurt refilled his glass.
‘Mrs. Collyer?’
‘She’s had enough,’ her husband said.
A glance flashed between Mr. Farrar and Mrs. Collyer, as she placed a hand over her glass. Her expression conveyed nothing.
‘And how is your writing going, Mrs. Christie?’ Mr. Farrar turned to her as the soup bowls were cleared.
‘Perfectly well, thank you.’
‘Detective stories, I gather.’
‘I’m writing a romance,’ she said, stiffly.
‘Ah.’ Mr. Farrar leaned back in his chair. ‘Romance. The Happy Ever After of True Love. No wonder they call it fiction.’
Agatha studied him, but said nothing.
‘Far better to stick with the facts, eh, Mr. Collyer.’ He turned to his neighbour with a smile, with a trace of mockery too, Agatha thought. ‘And a worthy subject. A biography,’ Mr. Farrar said. ‘We all need to read about exemplary men. An account of a person’s life can tell so much. Why,’ he turned back to Agatha, ‘they’ll be writing about you in due course.’
She stared at him. ‘Me?’
‘A famous author.’
‘I’m not famous,’ she said.
‘But you will be. And then everyone will want to know about you.’
She put down her glass. ‘Mr. Farrar – the idea horrifies me. People writing about me? Why on earth would they do that?’
‘But you’ll have devoted followers –’
‘People can be followers of my work. That doesn’t mean they should be followers of me.’
Kurt’s eyes seemed to dance with amusement. She wondered whether he was ever serious.
‘Oh, Kurt, why won’t you join us?’ Blanche’s tinkling tone called across the room. ‘Are we too frivolous for you?’
‘Not at all, Blanche,’ he replied. ‘I just fancied a change.’
She laughed her girlish laugh, and Sebastian laughed too. Sophie fiddled her plait between her fingers.
Mr. Farrar’s voice was low. ‘It’s a happy marriage, the Winters,’ he said to Agatha. ‘Contrary to appearances,’ he added, as Blanche rested a delicate hand on Sebastian’s arm. ‘Her husband sends me with them each year to keep an eye on things, but he knows, deep down, he has no need. No need at all. She’s devoted to her old man. A happy marriage – like your romance, Mrs. Christie? Except of course, your romance ends at the beginning, with the proposal. Unlike your crime stories, which begin at the ending. With the dead body.’
‘Very clever,’ Agatha said. She was trying to be annoyed with him, but in fact there was something engaging about him, his interest in her work, despite the surface sneer of superiority. There was also the sense that he wasn’t telling the truth. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Sebastian clinking his glass with Blanche, and wondered what it was that Kurt wasn’t telling her about the set up.
‘So,’ she said. ‘The camoufleurs. These men who put their art at the service of the war. You seem to know a lot about them.’
He cast her a flicker of a smile, an acknowledgment.
‘Hiding things,’ she said. ‘Saving lives.’
He nodded. But the smile had faded. ‘Hiding things,’ he repeated. He held her gaze and there was a haunted look in his eyes. She felt he was about to say more, but then, suddenly, he turned to Mr. Collyer and said, ‘So, Adler’s research was in dopant salts to stabilise zinc sulphide in relation to ultra violet light?’
Mr. Collyer lifted his head, turned to his neighbour and began to explain that it was more than mere zinc sulphide: ‘A whole class of chemicals, lead hydroxide carbonate, zinc stearate, are extremely important in the preparation of plastics…’
Agatha half-listened. She watched Mrs. Collyer fiddle with the beads at her neck; she glanced from time to time at Mr. Tyndall, who barely touched his food and who in turn was casting fretful glances in the direction of the Collyers.
There were trolleys, new plates, dishes of potatoes placed on tables, beans, fresh-cooked steak.
Mr. Farrar seemed to have tired of the discussion of chemistry, and now poured some claret for Agatha.
‘I don’t really like wine,’ Agatha said.
‘At least taste it.’
‘That’s what people always say,’ she said, with a smile.
‘Your husband?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘My husband understands me.’
‘Ah,’ Mr. Farrar said, and again there was that flash of mockery in his tone.
‘What’s this?’ Mr. Collyer’s voice was loud as he pointed at the plate placed before
him.
‘I’m sorry, Sir?’ The pale young kitchen boy stood at his side, visibly trembling. ‘It’s your steak, Sir.’
‘They know how I like my steak. What on earth is this?’
The boy seemed too frightened to reply.
‘I like my steak rare. This is burnt to death.’
‘I-I’ll –’
Mr. Collyer was now on his feet, red-faced. His wife sat, deathly pale. Her eyes were closed, as if steeling herself, and Agatha felt touched by fear. Kurt too, seemed to feel it, and tensed next to her.
‘How long have you worked here, boy?’ Mr. Collyer now towered over the boy.
‘Six months, Sir…’
‘And have you not learnt, in all that time –’ He jabbed a finger towards him. ‘Have you not learnt what a rare steak ought to look like?’
The boy stepped back.
‘Come here – I haven’t finished –’
‘I think you have, Sir.’ The voice was calm and authoritative, and belonged to Mr. Finch. He seemed to have grown somehow, and now, as he faced Mr. Collyer, he looked quite tall. He rested a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘I gather there’s a problem,’ Finch said. ‘Perhaps you’d like to tell me what the matter is.’
He stood, steady and very straight, his eyes locked with Mr. Collyer’s.
‘My steak is over-cooked,’ Mr. Collyer said, but the words sounded oddly childish.
‘I’m very sorry, Sir.’ Finch didn’t move. The word ‘sorry’ had acquired an edge of steel. Mr. Collyer seemed to shrink still further. ‘We will see to it at once.’ Finch bent to retrieve the plate, his hand still on the boy’s shoulder. He faced Mr. Collyer again. ‘I would be grateful, Sir, if in future you complained directly to me, rather than to my staff. The fault in no way rests with young Hughes here. He is doing his absolute best and does not deserve to be ill-treated. I will get you another steak right away.’
With that he steered the boy away from the table. The heavy kitchen door flapped shut behind them.
There was a silence. Mrs. Collyer opened her eyes, and breathed a short, tight breath. Mr. Collyer was still standing, but now sat down with a harrumph. The rest of the dining room settled again, conversations started up, the pianist began to play once more, Blanche’s girlish laughter rang out as if nothing had happened. But Mr. Tyndall was staring directly at Mr. Collyer, with an expression of pure rage. As Agatha glanced at him, he lowered his head and returned to his untouched plate.
Mr. Collyer turned to his wife. ‘Far too much for you,’ he said, and reaching to her plate, spooned two potatoes back into the dish.
Agatha was aware that Mr. Farrar’s fists were clenched at his side. ‘He’s worked here for years, Mr. Finch has,’ he said. His voice was rather loud. ‘Before and after the war, apparently. He was with the Royal Engineers. I bet his men always felt safe.’
The table began to eat, awkwardly, while Mr. Collyer waited for his steak. The elderly lady pianist played a Chopin nocturne. At last a new steak arrived, served by a red-faced middle-aged man wearing blue overalls; the kitchen porter, Agatha thought. Mr. Collyer helped himself to vegetables, and began to eat noisily. His wife was barely eating at all.
Mr. Farrar turned deliberately to Agatha. ‘They’re plundering that shipwreck.’ His voice was a forced, conversational tone. ‘Down in the village. Have you seen it?’
Agatha murmured that yes, she’d seen it that morning.
‘The Lady Leona,’ Mr. Farrar said. ‘A fishing boat, floundered on those rocks some time ago. It’s been rotting out at sea for a year and a day, which means that it’s now legal for the villagers to strip it bare and see what they can find.’
‘Gold,’ Agatha said. ‘That’s what little May in reception said.’
He gave an easy laugh. ‘Any sovereigns buried in the hold would have gone long ago,’ he said.
‘And ghosts,’ Agatha added.
He looked suddenly grave. ‘That’s more likely,’ he said. ‘The sea claims its own. The villagers say there’s a woman you can see, sometimes. She stands on the cliff above the village, in the moonlight. There’s a ruined cottage there. They say her husband was a sailor, drowned at sea, many years ago. They say she died of a broken heart, but there she is, waiting for him still.’
Agatha met his gaze. He appeared to be serious.
‘Hauntings,’ he said. ‘Tales of the dead. Perhaps that’s what you do when you write your murder mysteries.’ His look was intense.
‘My stories are more about the living than the dead,’ she said.
He shook his head. ‘What good is that?’
‘Mr. Farrar – I make no great claims for what I do. In my work, order is restored, and life goes on.’
‘Oh, Mrs. Christie. What can that tell us, about the human condition? There is no order. There is only grief, vengeance, suffering…’
‘That’s not what I do,’ Agatha said.
‘No?’ His eyes flashed arid amusement.
‘I wouldn’t dream of describing the human condition.’
‘Then your stories aren’t true?’
‘Mr. Farrar, they’re stories.’
‘But don’t they have to be real?’
She considered this.
‘I mean, our friend here –’ he gestured to his neighbour – ‘has to get his facts right, don’t you, Mr. Collyer. Your biography has to be correct.’
‘Of course.’ Mr. Collyer smiled. His plate was empty, his good humour was recovered.
Mr. Farrar replenished Mr. Collyer’s glass. ‘Surely, whether a book is fact or fiction, it has to be true. And if you’re writing about death, Mrs. Christie –’
‘Mr. Farrar – my stories aren’t about death.’
‘Really?’ Again, the look of dry amusement. ‘In that case, what are they about? What is your detective doing?’
‘My detective sees himself as protecting the innocent,’ she said.
‘From the guilty?’
She nodded.
He studied her. ‘Oh, to live in your world, Mrs. Christie. Where that distinction is so clear.’
The table fell silent as Mr. Finch appeared and began to gather up the plates.
‘I trust everything was in order, Sir.’
Mr. Collyer conceded that yes, it was, but he hoped it wouldn’t happen again. Finch agreed, that indeed, it would not happen again. He announced the dessert was strawberry meringue. Mrs. Collyer said she wouldn’t have any.
‘But it’s your favourite,’ Mr. Finch said to her.
‘I seem to have no appetite,’ she said.
Mr. Collyer got to his feet. ‘Too much cake at tea. Come along dear, I think we should retire.’
He went ahead of her towards the lobby. Finch moved away and began to serve the tennis party.
Mrs. Collyer turned to Mr. Farrar and Agatha, as if plucking up courage. ‘Please forgive him,’ she said. ‘It’s his work. All this business with Frau Adler, her threats to withdraw permission – it’s making him very nervous.’ She stood, winding her napkin between her fingers, then let it fall on to the table, before following her husband out of the room.
From his corner table, Mr. Tyndall watched them leave.
*
The strawberry meringue was exquisite. The pianist began to play something from a ballet, Tchaikovsky, perhaps. From the open windows the scent of sea air, a cooling breeze, the odd snatch of song from the seafront below.
‘Kurt, do at least join us for dessert.’ Blanche’s voice was insistent, and at last Mr. Farrar excused himself, with Agatha’s assurance that she was happy to eat alone. She watched him with the tennis party, wondering at the odd expression on Blanche’s face whenever she turned to him, a kind of hovering concern. She wondered, once again, what he was hiding. She thought about his words on ghosts and grief, and guilt.
She refused offers of coffee, and after a while drifted away from the dining room and went to bed.
In her room she sat by the window, brushing out her hair.
The moon shone across the bay. She thought about the sea claiming its own, the woman waiting for her husband who would never return.
*
She opened her eyes to bright sunlight, an awareness of deep sleep, a sense of possibility in her thoughts, Captain Wingfield in his scarlet jacket, the governess in her plain grey dress standing in the rose garden… and a ghost, yes, a woman waiting for her husband who would never return, she could even hear soft weeping.
It sounds so real, she thought, sitting up; and indeed, the weeping was still there, and now there were new sounds, raised voices, cries of distress, the shouts of men. She raced from her bed, went to the windows, pulled back the curtains.
She saw the sparkling blue of the sea, the white of the tennis courts. But it all seemed wrong, somehow. There were people, loud voices, an ambulance parked awkwardly across the grass, there were policemen, the revving of engines; and, above all the other noise, a choking, weeping sound, a woman crying out a man’s name: ‘Frederick’.
Chapter Four
The breakfast room was chilly, in spite of the morning sun. The tables were unset. There was not a member of staff to be seen. The guests stood in small awkward groups, staring out beyond the windows to the terrace.
The weeping had ceased.
Agatha had arrived in the room to hear, ‘Mr. Collyer,’ someone said. ‘Shot dead…’
Outside there was fierce activity. On the tennis court there now stood a makeshift tent, white canvas blinding in the sunlight. Groups of people stood around, some in medical white, some in police blue.
‘A bullet through the head,’ someone said. ‘Close range. That’s what they’re saying. Early this morning.’
The guests shifted, muttered, stared some more.
Agatha walked towards the French windows, through the drifting curtains, out into the sunlight.
‘Mrs. Christie.’ It was Robin Tyndall. He was standing on the terrace, watching the activity below. ‘I trust you’ve heard the grim news.’
She nodded.
‘Mr. Collyer,’ he said. ‘About six o’clock this morning, they think.’
‘It was light,’ she said. ‘Someone would have seen it –’
He nodded. ‘The staff rushed out – they heard the shot, they called the police.’ He gestured with his head towards the commotion below them.
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