Towards Zero

by Agatha Christie

  He was struck suddenly with her intense and passionate beauty. A beauty of vivid colouring, of abundant and triumphant vitality. He looked across from her to Audrey, pale and mothlike in a silvery grey dress.

  He smiled to himself and murmured:

  “Red Rose and Snow White.”

  “What?” It was Mary Aldin at his elbow.

  He repeated the words. “Like the old fairy story, you know—”

  Mary Aldin said: “It’s a very good description….”

  V

  Mr. Treves sipped his glass of port appreciatively. A very nice wine. And an excellently cooked and served dinner. Clearly Lady Tressilian had no difficulties with her servants.

  The house was well managed, too, in spite of the mistress of it being an invalid.

  A pity, perhaps, that the ladies did not leave the dining room when the port went round. He preferred the old-fashioned routine. But these young people had their own ways.

  His eyes rested thoughtfully on that brilliant and beautiful young woman who was the wife of Nevile Strange.

  It was Kay’s night tonight. Her vivid beauty glowed and shone in the candlelit room. Beside her, Ted Latimer’s sleek dark head bent to hers. He was playing up to her. She felt triumphant and sure of herself.

  The mere sight of such radiant vitality warmed Mr. Treves’ old bones.

  Youth—there was really nothing like youth!

  No wonder the husband had lost his head and left his first wife. Audrey was sitting next to him. A charming creature and a lady—but then that was the kind of woman who invariably did get left, in Mr. Treves’ experience.

  He glanced at her. Her head had been down and she was staring at her plate. Something in the complete immobility of her attitude struck Mr. Treves. He looked at her more keenly. He wondered what she was thinking about. Charming the way the hair sprang up from that small shell-like ear….

  With a little start, Mr. Treves came to himself as he realized that a move was being made. He got hurriedly to his feet.

  In the drawing room, Kay Strange went straight to the gramophone and put on a record of dance music.

  Mary Aldin said apologetically to Mr. Treves:

  “I’m sure you hate jazz.”

  “Not at all,” said Mr. Treves, untruly but politely.

  “Later, perhaps, we might have some bridge?” she suggested. “But it is no good starting a rubber now, as I know Lady Tressilian is looking forward to having a chat with you.”

  “That will be delightful. Lady Tressilian never joins you down here?”

  “No, she used to come down in an invalid chair. That is why we had a lift put in. But nowadays she prefers her own room. There she can talk to whomsoever she likes, summoning them by a kind of Royal Command.”

  “Very aptly put, Miss Aldin. I am always sensible of the Royal touch in Lady Tressilian’s manner.”

  In the middle of the room Kay was moving in a slow dance step.

  She said: “Just take that table out of the way, Nevile.”

  Her voice was autocratic, assured. Her eyes were shining, her lips parted.

  Nevile obediently moved the table. Then he took a step towards her, but she turned deliberately towards Ted Latimer.

  “Come on, Ted, let’s dance.”

  Ted’s arm went round her immediately. They danced, swaying, bending, their steps perfectly together. It was a lovely performance to watch.

  Mr. Treves murmured:

  “Er—quite professional.”

  Mary Aldin winced slightly at the word—yet surely Mr. Treves had spoken in simple admiration. She looked at his little wise nut-cracker face. It bore, she thought, an absentminded look as though he were following some train of thought of his own.

  Nevile stood hesitating a moment, then he walked to where Audrey was standing by the window.

  “Dance, Audrey?”

  His tone was formal, almost cold. Mere politeness, you might have said, inspired his request. Audrey Strange hesitated a minute before nodding her head and taking a step towards him.

  Mary Aldin made some commonplace remarks to which Mr. Treves did not reply. He had so far shown no signs of deafness and his courtesy was punctilious—she realized that it was absorption that held him aloof. She could not quite make out if he was watching the dancers, or was staring across the room at Thomas Royde, standing alone at the other end.

  With a little start Mr. Treves said:

  “Excuse me, my dear lady, you were saying?”

  “Nothing. Only that it was an unusually fine September.”

  “Yes, indeed—rain is badly needed locally, so they tell me at my hotel.”

  “You are comfortable there, I hope?”

  “Oh yes, though I must say I was vexed when I arrived to find—”

  Mr. Treves broke off.

  Audrey had disengaged herself from Nevile. She said with an apologetic little laugh:

  “It’s really too hot to dance.”

  She went towards the open window and out on to the terrace.

  “Oh! go after her, you fool,” murmured Mary. She meant the remark to be under her breath, but it was loud enough for Mr. Treves to turn and stare at her in astonishment.

  She reddened and gave an embarrassed laugh.

  “I’m speaking my thoughts aloud,” she said ruefully. “But really he does irritate me so. He’s so slow.”

  “Mr. Strange?”

  “Oh no, not Nevile. Thomas Royde.”

  Thomas Royde was just preparing to move forward, but by now Nevile, after a moment’s pause, had followed Audrey out of the window.

  For a moment Mr. Treves’ eye, interestedly speculative, rested on the window, then his irritation returned to the dancers.

  “A beautiful dancer, young Mr.—Latimer, did you say the name was?”

  “Yes. Edward Latimer.”

  “Ah yes, Edward Latimer. An old friend, I gather, of Mrs. Strange?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what does this very—er—decorative young gentleman do for a living?”

  “Well, really, I don’t quite know.”

  “Indeed,” said Mr. Treves, managing to put a good deal of comprehension into one harmless word.

  Mary went on:

  “He is staying at the Easterhead Bay Hotel.”

  “A very pleasant situation,” said Mr. Treves.

  He added dreamily after a moment or two: “Rather an interesting shaped head—a curious angle from the crown to the neck—rendered less noticeable by the way he has his hair cut, but distinctly unusual.” After another pause, he went on still more dreamily: “The last man I saw with a head like that got ten years’ penal servitude for a brutal assault on an elderly jeweller.”

  “Surely,” exclaimed Mary, “you don’t mean—?”

  “Not at all, not at all,” said Mr. Treves. “You mistake me entirely. I am suggesting no disparagement of a guest of yours. I was merely pointing out that a hardened and brutal criminal can be in appearance a most charming and personable young man. Odd, but so it is.”

  He smiled gently at her. Mary said: “You know, Mr. Treves, I think I am a little frightened of you.”

  “Nonsense, dear lady.”

  “But I am. You are—such a very shrewd observer.”

  “My eyes,” said Mr. Treves complacently, “are as good as ever they were.” He paused and added: “Whether that is fortunate or unfortunate, I cannot at the moment decide.”

  “How could it be unfortunate?”

  Mr. Treves shook his head doubtfully.

  “One is sometimes placed in a position of responsibility. The right course of action is not always easy to determine.”

  Hurstall entered bearing the coffee tray.

  After taking it to Mary and the old lawyer, he went down the room to Thomas Royde. Then, by Mary’s directions, he put the tray down on a low table and left the room.

  Kay called over Ted’s shoulder. “We’ll finish out this tune.”

  Mary said: “I’ll
take Audrey’s out to her.”

  She went to the french windows, cup in hand. Mr. Treves accompanied her. As she paused on the threshold he looked out over her shoulder.

  Audrey was sitting on the corner of the balustrade. In the bright moonlight her beauty came to life—a beauty born of line rather than colour. The exquisite line from the jaw to the ear, the tender modelling of chin and mouth, and the really lovely bones of the head and the small straight nose. That beauty would be there when Audrey Strange was an old woman—it had nothing to do with the covering flesh—it was the bones themselves that were beautiful. The sequinned dress she wore accentuated the effect of the moonlight. She sat very still and Nevile Strange stood and looked at her.

  Nevile took a step towards her.

  “Audrey,” he said, “you—”

  She shifted her position, then sprang lightly to her feet and clapped a hand to her ear:

  “Oh! my earring—I must have dropped it.”

  “Where? Let me look—”

  They both bent down, awkward and embarrassed—and collided in doing so. Audrey sprang away. Nevile exclaimed:

  “Wait a sec—my cuff button—it’s caught in your hair. Stand still.”

  She stood quite still as he fumbled with the button.

  “Oo—you’re pulling it out by the roots—how clumsy you are, Nevile, do be quick.”

  “Sorry I—I seem to be all thumbs.”

  The moonlight was bright enough for the two onlookers to see what Audrey could not see, the trembling of Nevile’s hands as he strove to free the strand of fair silvery hair.

  But Audrey herself was trembling too—as though suddenly cold.

  Mary Aldin jumped as a quiet voice said behind her:

  “Excuse me—”

  Thomas Royde passed between them and out.

  “Shall I do that, Strange?” he asked.

  Nevile straightened up and he and Audrey moved apart.

  “It’s all right. I’ve done it.”

  Nevile’s face was rather white.

  “You’re cold,” said Thomas to Audrey. “Come in and have coffee.”

  She came back with him and Nevile turned away staring out to sea.

  “I was bringing it out to you,” said Mary. “But perhaps you’d better come in.”

  “Yes,” said Audrey, “I think I’d better come in.”

  They all went back into the drawing room. Ted and Kay had stopped dancing.

  The door opened and a tall gaunt woman dressed in black came in. She said respectfully:

  “Her ladyship’s compliments and she would be glad to see Mr. Treves up in her room.”

  VI

  Lady Tressilian received Mr. Treves with evident pleasure.

  He and she were soon deep in an agreeable flood of reminiscences and a recalling of mutual acquaintances.

  At the end of half an hour Lady Tressilian gave a deep sigh of satisfaction.

  “Ah,” she said, “I’ve enjoyed myself! There’s nothing like exchanging gossip and remembering old scandals.”

  “A little malice,” agreed Mr. Treves, “adds a certain savour to life.”

  “By the way,” said Lady Tressilian, “what do you think of our example of the eternal triangle?”

  Mr. Treves looked discreetly blank. “Er—what triangle?”

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed it! Nevile and his wives.”

  “Oh that! The present Mrs. Strange is a singularly attractive young woman.”

  “So is Audrey,” said Lady Tressilian.

  Mr. Treves admitted: “She has charm—yes.”

  Lady Tressilian exclaimed:

  “Do you mean to tell me you can understand a man leaving Audrey, who is a—a person of rare quality—for—for a Kay?”

  Mr. Treves replied calmly:

  “Perfectly. It happens frequently.”

  “Disgusting. I should soon grow tired of Kay if I were a man and wish I had never made such a fool of myself!”

  “That also happens frequently. These sudden passionate infatuations,” said Mr. Treves, looking very passionless and precise himself, “are seldom of long duration.”

  “And then what happens?” demanded Lady Tressilian.

  “Usually,” said Mr. Treves, “the—er—parties adjust themselves. Quite often there is a second divorce. The man then marries a third party—someone of a sympathetic nature.”

  “Nonsense! Nevile isn’t a Mormon—whatever some of your clients may be!”

  “The remarriage of the original parties occasionally takes place.”

  Lady Tressilian shook her head.

  “That no! Audrey has too much pride.”

  “You think so?”

  “I am sure of it. Do not shake your head in that aggravating fashion!”

  “It has been my experience,” said Mr. Treves, “that women possess little or no pride where love affairs are concerned. Pride is a quality often on their lips, but not apparent in their actions.”

  “You don’t understand Audrey. She was violently in love with Nevile. Too much so, perhaps. After he left her for this girl (though I don’t blame him entirely—the girl pursued him everywhere, and you know what men are!) she never wanted to see him again.”

  Mr. Treves coughed gently:

  “And yet,” he said, “she is here!”

  “Oh well,” said Lady Tressilian, annoyed. “I don’t profess to understand these modern ideas. I imagine that Audrey is here just to show that she doesn’t care, and that it doesn’t matter!”

  “Very likely,” Mr. Treves stroked his jaw. “She can put it to herself that way, certainly.”

  “You mean,” said Lady Tressilian, “that you think she is still hankering after Nevile and that—oh no! I won’t believe such a thing!”

  “It could be,” said Mr. Treves.

  “I won’t have it,” said Lady Tressilian. “I won’t have it in my house.”

  “You are already disturbed, are you not?” asked Mr. Treves shrewdly. “There is tension. I have felt it in the atmosphere.”

  “So you feel it too?” said Lady Tressilian sharply.

  “Yes, I am puzzled, I must confess. The true feelings of the parties remain obscure, but in my opinion, there is gunpowder about. The explosion may come any minute.”

  “Stop talking like Guy Fawkes and tell me what to do,” said Lady Tressilian.

  Mr. Treves held up his hands.

  “Really, I am at a loss to know what to suggest. There is, I feel sure, a focal point. If we could isolate that—but there is so much that remains obscure.”

  “I have no intention of asking Audrey to leave,” said Lady Tressilian. “As far as my observation goes, she has behaved perfectly in a very difficult situation. She has been courteous, but aloof. I consider her conduct irreproachable.”

  “Oh quite,” said Mr. Treves. “Quite. But it’s having a most marked effect on young Nevile Strange all the same.”

  “Nevile,” said Lady Tressilian, “is not behaving well. I shall speak to him about it. But I couldn’t turn him out of the house for a moment. Matthew regarded him as practically his adopted son.”

  “I know.”

  Lady Tressilian sighed. She said in a lowered voice:

  “You know that Matthew was drowned here?”

  “Yes.”

  “So many people have been surprised at my remaining here. Stupid of them. I have always felt Matthew near to me here. The whole house is full of him. I should feel lonely and strange anywhere else.” She paused, and went on. “I hoped at first that it might not be very long before I joined him. Especially when my health began to fail. But it seems I am one of these creaking gates—these perpetual invalids who never die.” She thumped her pillow angrily.

  “It doesn’t please me, I can tell you! I always hoped that when my time came, it would come quickly—that I should meet Death face to face—not feel him creeping along behind me, always at my shoulder—gradually forcing me to sink to one indignity after another of ill
ness. Increased helplessness—increasing dependence on other people!”

  “But very devoted people, I am sure. You have a faithful maid?”

  “Barrett? The one who brought you up. The comfort of my life! A grim old battleaxe, absolutely devoted. She’s been with me for years.”

  “And you are lucky, I should say, in having Miss Aldin.”

  “You are right. I am lucky in having Mary.”

  “She is a relation?”

  “A distant cousin. One of those selfless creatures whose lives are continually being sacrificed to those of other people. She looked after her father—a clever man—but terribly exacting. When he died I begged her to make her home with me, and I have blessed the day she came to me. You’ve no idea what horrors most companions are. Futile boring creatures. Driving one mad with their inanity. They are companions because they are fit for nothing better. To have Mary, who is a well-read intelligent woman, is marvellous. She has really a first-class brain—a man’s brain. She has read widely and deeply and there is nothing she cannot discuss. And she is as clever domestically as she is intellectually. She runs the house perfectly and keeps the servants happy—she eliminates all quarrels and jealousies—I don’t know how she does it—just tact, I suppose.”

  “She has been with you long?”

  “Twelve years—no, more than that. Thirteen—fourteen—something like that. She has been a great comfort.”

  Mr. Treves nodded.

  Lady Tressilian, watching him through half-closed lids, said suddenly:

  “What’s the matter? You’re worried about something?”

  “A trifle,” said Mr. Treves. “A mere trifle. Your eyes are sharp.”

  “I like studying people,” said Lady Tressilian. “I always knew at once if there was anything on Matthew’s mind.” She sighed and leaned back on her pillows. “I must say goodnight to you now”—it was a Queen’s dismissal, nothing discourteous about it—“I am very tired. But it has been a great, great pleasure. Come and see me again soon.”

  “You may depend upon my taking advantage of those kind words. I only hope I have not talked too long.”

  “Oh no. I always tire very suddenly. Ring my bell for me, will you, before you go.”

  Mr. Treves pulled gingerly at a large old-fashioned bellpull that ended in a huge tassel.