Problem at Pollensa Bay and Other Stories

by Agatha Christie

  Really, his thoughts were the thoughts of a madman. A peaceful scene. A tea set. The varying colours of the Harlequin cups. He looked at the white meerschaum pipe lying against the red of the cup. Beryl Gilliatt said something to Timothy. Timothy nodded, got up and went off towards the house. Beryl removed some empty plates from the table, adjusted a chair or two, murmured something to Roland, who went across and offered a frosted cake to Dr. Horton.

  Mr. Satterthwaite watched her. He had to watch her. The sweep of her sleeve as she passed the table. He saw a red cup get pushed off the table. It broke on the iron feet of a chair. He heard her little exclamation as she picked up the bits. She went to the tea tray, came back and placed on the table a pale blue cup and saucer. She replaced the meerschaum pipe, putting it close against it. She brought the teapot and poured tea, then she moved away.

  The table was untenanted now. Inez also had got up and left it. Gone to speak to her grandfather. "I don't understand," said Mr. Satterthwaite to himself. "Something's going to happen. What's going to happen?"

  A table with different-coloured cups round, and - yes, Timothy, his red hair glowing in the sun. Red hair glowing with that same tint, that attractive side-ways wave that Simon Gilliatt's hair had always had. Timothy, coming back, standing a moment, looking at the table with a slightly puzzled eye, then going to where the meerschaum pipe rested against the pale blue cup.

  Inez came back then. She laughed suddenly and she said, "Timothy, you're drinking your tea out of the wrong cup. The blue cup's mine. Yours is the red one."

  And Timothy said, "Don't be silly, Inez, I know my own cup. It's got sugar in it and you won't like it. Nonsense. This is my cup. The meerschaum's up against it."

  It came to Mr. Satterthwaite then. A shock. Was he mad? Was he imagining things? Was any of this real?

  He got up. He walked quickly towards the table, and as Timothy raised the blue cup to his lips, he shouted.

  "Don't drink that!" he called. "Don't drink it, I say."

  Timothy turned a surprised face. Mr. Satterthwaite turned his head. Dr. Horton, rather startled, got up from his seat and was coming near.

  "What's the matter, Satterthwaite?"

  "That cup. There's something wrong about it," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Don't let the boy drink from it."

  Horton stared at it. "My dear fellow - "

  "I know what I'm saying. The red cup was his," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "and the red cup's broken. It's been replaced with a blue one. He doesn't know the red from blue, does he?"

  Dr. Horton looked puzzled.

  "D'you mean - d'you mean like Tom?"

  "Tom Addison. He's colour-blind. You know that, don't you?"

  "Oh yes, of course. We all know that. That's why he'd got odd shoes on today. He never knew red from green."

  "This boy is the same."

  "But - but surely not. Anyway, there's never been any sign of it in - in Roland."

  "There might be, though, mightn't there?" said Mr. Satterthwaite. "I'm right in thinking - Daltonism. That's what they call it, don't they?"

  "It was a name they used to call it by, yes."

  "It's not inherited by a female, but it passes through the female. Lily wasn't colour-blind, but Lily's son might easily be colour-blind."

  "But my dear Satterthwaite, Timothy isn't Lily's son. Roly is Lily's son. I know they're rather alike. Same age, same-coloured hair and things, but - well, perhaps you don't remember."

  "No," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "I shouldn't have remembered. But I know now. I can see the resemblance too. Roland's Beryl's son. They were both babies, weren't they, when Simon remarried. It is very easy for a woman looking after two babies, especially if both of them were going to have red hair. Timothy's Lily's son and Roland is Beryl's son. Beryl's and Christopher Eden's. There is no reason why he should be colour-blind. I know it, I tell you. I know it!"

  He saw Dr. Horton's eyes go from one to the other. Timothy, not catching what they said but standing holding the blue cup and looking puzzled.

  "I saw her buy it," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Listen to me, man. You must listen to me. You've known me for some years. You know that I don't make mistakes if I say a thing positively."

  "Quite true. I've never known you to make a mistake."

  "Take that cup away from him," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Take it back to your surgery or take it to an analytic chemist and find out what's in it. I saw that woman buy that cup. She bought it in the village shop. She knew then that she was going to break a red cup, replace it by a blue and that Timothy would never know that the colours were different."

  "I think you're mad, Satterthwaite. But all the same I'm going to do what you say."

  He advanced on the table, stretched out a hand to the blue cup.

  "Do you mind letting me have a look at that?" said Dr. Horton.

  "Of course," said Timothy. He looked slightly surprised.

  "I think there's a flaw in the china, here, you know. Rather interesting."

  Beryl came across the lawn. She came quickly and sharply.

  "What are you doing? What's the matter? What is happening?"

  "Nothing's the matter," said Dr. Horton, cheerfully. "I just want to show the boys a little experiment I'm going to make with a cup of tea."

  He was looking at her very closely and he saw the expression of fear, of terror. Mr. Satterthwaite saw the entire change of countenance.

  "Would you like to come with me, Satterthwaite? Just a little experiment, you know. A matter of testing porcelain and different qualities in it nowadays. A very interesting discovery was made lately."

  Chatting, he walked along the grass. Mr. Satterthwaite followed him and the two young men, chatting to each other, followed him.

  "What's the Doc up to now, Roly?" said Timothy.

  "I don't know," said Roland. "He seems to have got some very extraordinary ideas. Oh well, we shall hear about it later, I expect. Let's go and get our bikes."

  Beryl Gilliatt turned abruptly. She retraced her steps rapidly up the lawn towards the house.

  Tom Addison called to her: "Anything the matter, Beryl?"

  "Something I'd forgotten," said Beryl Gilliatt. "That's all."

  Tom Addison looked inquiringly towards Simon Gilliatt.

  "Anything wrong with your wife?" he said.

  "Beryl? Oh no, not that I know of. I expect it's some little thing or other that she's forgotten. Nothing I can do for you, Beryl?" he called.

  "No. No, I'll be back later." She turned her head half sideways, looking at the old man lying back in the chair. She spoke suddenly and vehemently. "You silly old fool. You've got the wrong shoes on again today. They don't match. Do you know you've got one shoe that's red and one shoe that's green?"

  "Ah, done it again, have I?" said Tom Addison. "They look exactly the same colour to me, you know. It's odd, isn't it, but there it is."

  She went past him, her steps quickening.

  Presently Mr. Satterthwaite and Dr. Horton reached the gate that led out into the roadway. They heard a motor bicycle speeding along.

  "She's gone," said Dr. Horton. "She's run for it. We ought to have stopped her, I suppose. Do you think she'll come back?"

  "No," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "I don't think she'll come back. Perhaps," he said thoughtfully, "it's best left that way."

  "You mean?"

  "It's an old house," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "And an old family. A good family. A lot of good people in it. One doesn't want trouble, scandal, everything brought upon it. Best to let her go, I think."

  "Tom Addison never liked her," said Dr. Horton. "Never. He was always polite and kind but he didn't like her."

  "And there's the boy to think of," said Mr. Satterthwaite.

  "The boy. You mean?"

  "The other boy. Roland. This way he needn't know about what his mother was trying to do."

  "Why did she do it? Why on earth did she do it?"

  "You've no doubt now that she did," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
>
  "No. I've no doubt now. I saw her face, Satterthwaite, when she looked at me. I knew then that what you'd said was truth. But why?"

  "Greed, I suppose," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "She hadn't any money of her own, I believe. Her husband, Christopher Eden, was a nice chap by all accounts but he hadn't anything in the way of means. But Tom Addison's grandchild has got big money coming to him. A lot of money. Property all around here has appreciated enormously. I've no doubt that Tom Addison will leave the bulk of what he has to his grandson. She wanted it for her own son and through her own son, of course, for herself. She is a greedy woman."

  Mr. Satterthwaite turned his head back suddenly.

  "Something's on fire over there," he said.

  "Good lord, so it is. Oh, it's the scarecrow down in the field. Some young chap or other's set fire to it, I suppose. But there's nothing to worry about. There are no ricks or anything anywhere near. It'll just burn itself out."

  "Yes," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Well, you go on, Doctor. You don't need me to help you in your tests."

  "I've no doubt of what I shall find. I don't mean the exact substance, but I have come to your belief that this blue cup holds death."

  Mr. Satterthwaite had turned back through the gate. He was going now down in the direction where the scarecrow was burning. Behind it was the sunset. A remarkable sunset that evening. Its colours illuminated the air round it, illuminated the burning scarecrow.

  "So that's the way you've chosen to go," said Mr. Satterthwaite.

  He looked slightly startled then, for in the neighbourhood of the flames he saw the tall, slight figure of a woman. A woman dressed in some pale mother-of-pearl colouring. She was walking in the direction of Mr. Satterthwaite. He stopped dead, watching.

  "Lily," he said. "Lily."

  He saw her quite plainly now. It was Lily walking towards him. Too far away for him to see her face but he knew very well who it was. Just for a moment or two he wondered whether anyone else would see her or whether the sight was only for him. He said, not very loud, only in a whisper,

  "It's all right, Lily, your son is safe."

  She stopped then. She raised one hand to her lips. He didn't see her smile, but he knew she was smiling. She kissed her hand and waved it to him and then she turned. She walked back towards where the scarecrow was disintegrating into a mass of ashes.

  "She's going away again," said Mr. Satterthwaite to himself. "She's going away with him. They're walking away together. They belong to the same world, of course. They only come - those sort of people - they only come when it's a case of love or death or both."

  He wouldn't see Lily again, he supposed, but he wondered how soon he would meet Mr. Quin again. He turned then and went back across the lawn towards the tea table and the Harlequin tea set, and beyond that, to his old friend Tom Addison. Beryl wouldn't come back. He was sure of it. Doverton Kingsbourne was safe again.

  Across the lawn came the small black dog in flying leaps. It came to Mr. Satterthwaite, panting a little and wagging its tail. Through its collar was twisted a scrap of paper. Mr. Satterthwaite stooped and detached it - smoothing it out - on it in coloured letters was written a message:

  Congratulations. To Our Next Meeting

  H.Q.

  "Thank you, Hermes," said Mr. Satterthwaite, and watched the black dog flying across the meadow to rejoin the two figures that he himself knew were here but could no longer see.

  THE REGATTA MYSTERY

  Mr Isaac Pointz removed a cigar from his lips and said approvingly:

  "Pretty little place."

  Having thus set the seal of his approval upon Dartmouth harbor, he replaced the cigar and looked about him with the air of a man pleased with himself, his appearance, his surroundings and life generally.

  As regards the first of these, Mr Isaac Pointz was a man of fifty-eight, in good health and condition with perhaps a slight tendency to liver. He was not exactly stout, but comfortable-looking, and a yachting costume, which he wore at the moment, is not the most kindly of attires for a middle-aged man with a tendency to embonpoint. Mr Pointz was very well turned out - correct to every crease and button - his dark and slightly Oriental face beaming out under the peak of his yachting cap.

  As regards his surroundings, these may have been taken to mean his companions - his partner Mr Leo Stein, Sir George and Lady Marroway, an American business acquaintance Mr Samuel Leathern and his schoolgirl daughter Eve, Mrs Rustington and Evan Llewellyn. The party had just come ashore from Mr Pointz' yacht - the Merrimaid. In the morning they had watched the yacht racing and they had now come ashore to join for a while in the fun of the fair - Coconut shies, Fat Ladies, the Human Spider and the Merry-go-round. It is hardly to be doubted that these delights were relished most by Eve Leathern. When Mr Pointz finally suggested that it was time to adjourn to the Royal George for dinner hers was the only dissentient voice.

  "Oh, Mr Pointz - I did so want to have my fortune told by the Real Gypsy in the Caravan."

  Mr Pointz had doubts of the essential Realness of the Gypsy in question but he gave indulgent assent.

  "Eve's just crazy about the fair," said her father apologetically. "But don't you pay any attention if you want to be getting along."

  "Plenty of time," said Mr Pointz benignantly. "Let the little lady enjoy herself. I'll take you on at darts, Leo."

  "Twenty-five and over wins a prize," chanted the man in charge of the darts in a high nasal voice.

  "Bet you a fiver my total score beats yours," said Pointz.

  "Done," said Stein with alacrity.

  The two men were soon whole-heartedly engaged in their battle.

  Lady Marroway murmured to Evan Llewellyn:

  "Eve is not the only child in the party."

  Llewellyn smiled assent but somewhat absently. He had been absent-minded all that day. Once or twice his answers had been wide of the point. Pamela Marroway drew away from him and said to her husband:

  "That young man has something on his mind."

  Sir George murmured:

  "Or someone?"

  And his glance swept quickly over Janet Rustington. Lady Marroway frowned a little. She was a tall woman exquisitely groomed. The scarlet of her fingernails was matched by the dark red coral studs in her ears. Her eyes were dark and watchful. Sir George affected a careless "hearty English gentleman" manner - but his bright blue eyes held the same watchful look as his wife's.

  Isaac Pointz and Leo Stein were Hatton Garden diamond merchants. Sir George and Lady Marroway came from a different world - the world of Antibes and Juan les Pins - of golf at St Jean de Luz - of bathing from the rocks at Madeira in the winter.

  In outward seeming they were as the lilies that toiled not, neither did they spin. But perhaps this was not quite true. There are diverse ways of toiling and also of spinning.

  "Here's the kid back again," said Evan Llewellyn to Mrs Rustington.

  He was a dark young man - there was a faintly hungry wolfish look about him which some women found attractive.

  It was difficult to say whether Mrs Rustington found him so. She did not wear her heart on her sleeve. She had married young - and the marriage had ended in disaster in less than a year. Since that time it was difficult to know what Janet Rustington thought of anyone or anything - her manner was always the same - charming but completely aloof.

  Eve Leathern came dancing up to them, her lank fair hair bobbing excitedly. She was fifteen - an awkward child - but full of vitality.

  "I'm going to be married by the time I'm seventeen," she exclaimed breathlessly. "To a very rich man and we're going to have six children and Tuesdays and Thursdays are my lucky days and I ought always to wear green or blue and an emerald is my lucky stone and -"

  "Why, pet, I think we ought to be getting along," said her father.

  Mr Leathern was a tall, fair, dyspeptic-looking man with a somewhat mournful expression.

  Mr Pointz and Mr Stein were turning away from the darts. Mr Pointz was chuckling
and Mr Stein was looking somewhat rueful.

  "It's all a matter of luck," he was saying.

  Mr Pointz slapped his pocket cheerfully.

  "Took a fiver off you all right. Skill, my boy, skill. My old Dad was a first class dart player. Well, folks, let's be getting along. Had your fortune told, Eve? Did they tell you to beware of a dark man?"

  "A dark woman," corrected Eve. "She's got a cast in her eye and she'll be real mean to me if I give her a chance. And I'm to be married by the time I'm seventeen..."

  She ran on happily as the party steered its way to the Royal George.

  Dinner had been ordered beforehand by the forethought of Mr Pointz and a bowing waiter led them upstairs and into a private room on the first floor. Here a round table was ready laid. The big bulging bow-window opened on the harbor square and was open. The noise of the fair came up to them, and the raucous squeal of three roundabouts each blaring a different tune.

  "Best shut that if we're to hear ourselves speak," observed Mr Pointz drily, and suited the action to the word.

  They took their seats round the table and Mr Pointz beamed affectionately at his guests. He felt he was doing them well and he liked to do people well. His eye rested on one after another. Lady Marroway - fine woman - not quite the goods, of course, he knew that - he was perfectly well aware that what he had called all his life the crême de la crême would have very little to do with the Marroways - but then the crême de la crême were supremely unaware of his own existence. Anyway, Lady Marroway was a damned smart-looking woman - and he didn't mind if she did rook him a bit at bridge. Didn't enjoy it quite so much from Sir George. Fishy eye the fellow had. Brazenly on the make. But he wouldn't make too much out of Isaac Pointz. He'd see to that all right.

  Old Leathern wasn't a bad fellow - longwinded, of course, like most Americans - fond of telling endless long stories. And he had that disconcerting habit of requiring precise information. What was the population of Dartmouth? In what year had the Naval College been built? And so on. Expected his host to be a kind of walking Baedeker. Eve was a nice cheery kid - he enjoyed chaffing her. Voice rather like a corncrake, but she had all her wits about her. A bright kid.