Midwinter Murder

by Agatha Christie

  Moving warily, like a much-hunted animal, Mr Parker Pyne retreated into the hotel. Not half an hour before he had been invited to sign his name in the book lying on the desk. There it was—a neat signature—C. Parker Pyne, London.

  A few lines above Mr Parker Pyne noticed the entries: Mrs R. Chester, Mr Basil Chester—Holm Park, Devon.

  Seizing a pen, Mr Parker Pyne wrote rapidly over his signature. It now read (with difficulty) Christopher Pyne.

  If Mrs R. Chester was unhappy in Pollensa Bay, it was not going to be made easy for her to consult Mr Parker Pyne.

  Already it had been a source of abiding wonder to that gentleman that so many people he had come across abroad should know his name and have noted his advertisements. In England many thousands of people read the Times every day and could have answered quite truthfully that they had never heard such a name in their lives. Abroad, he reflected, they read their newspapers more thoroughly. No item, not even the advertisement columns, escaped them.

  Already his holidays had been interrupted on several occasions. He had dealt with a whole series of problems from murder to attempted blackmail. He was determined in Majorca to have peace. He felt instinctively that a distressed mother might trouble that peace considerably.

  Mr Parker Pyne settled down at the Pino d’Oro very happily. There was a larger hotel not far off, the Mariposa, where a good many English people stayed. There was also quite an artist colony living all round. You could walk along by the sea to the fishing village where there was a cocktail bar where people met—there were a few shops. It was all very peaceful and pleasant. Girls strolled about in trousers with brightly coloured handkerchiefs tied round the upper halves of their bodies. Young men in berets with rather long hair held forth in ‘Mac’s Bar’ on such subjects as plastic values and abstraction in art.

  On the day after Mr Parker Pyne’s arrival, Mrs Chester made a few conventional remarks to him on the subject of the view and the likelihood of the weather keeping fine. She then chatted a little with the German lady about knitting, and had a few pleasant words about the sadness of the political situation with two Danish gentlemen who spent their time rising at dawn and walking for eleven hours.

  Mr Parker Pyne found Basil Chester a most likeable young man. He called Mr Parker Pyne ‘sir’ and listened most politely to anything the older man said. Sometimes the three English people had coffee together after dinner in the evening. After the third day, Basil left the party after ten minutes or so and Mr Parker Pyne was left tete-a-tete with Mrs Chester.

  They talked about flowers and the growing of them, of the lamentable state of the English pound and of how expensive France had become, and of the difficulty of getting good afternoon tea.

  Every evening when her son departed, Mr Parker Pyne saw the quickly concealed tremor of her lips, but immediately she recovered and discoursed pleasantly on the above-mentioned subjects.

  Little by little she began to talk of Basil—of how well he had done at school—‘he was in the First XI, you know’—of how everyone liked him, of how proud his father would have been of the boy had he lived, of how thankful she had been that Basil had never been ‘wild’. ‘Of course I always urge him to be with young people, but he really seems to prefer being with me.’

  She said it with a kind of nice modest pleasure in the fact.

  But for once Mr Parker Pyne did not make the usual tactful response he could usually achieve so easily. He said instead:

  ‘Oh! well, there seem to be plenty of young people here—not in the hotel, but round about.’

  At that, he noticed, Mrs Chester stiffened. She said: Of course there were a lot of artists. Perhaps she was very old-fashioned—real art, of course, was different, but a lot of young people just made that sort of thing an excuse for lounging about and doing nothing—and the girls drank a lot too much.

  On the following day Basil said to Mr Parker Pyne:

  ‘I’m awfully glad you turned up here, sir—especially for my mother’s sake. She likes having you to talk to in the evenings.’

  ‘What did you do when you were first here?’

  ‘As a matter of fact we used to play piquet.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Of course one gets rather tired of piquet. As a matter of fact I’ve got some friends here—frightfully cheery crowd. I don’t really think my mother approves of them—’ He laughed as though he felt this ought to be amusing. ‘The mater’s very old-fashioned . . . Even girls in trousers shock her!’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Mr Parker Pyne.

  ‘What I tell her is—one’s got to move with the times . . . The girls at home round us are frightfully dull . . .’

  ‘I see,’ said Mr Parker Pyne.

  All this interested him well enough. He was a spectator of a miniature drama, but he was not called upon to take part in it.

  And then the worst—from Mr Parker Pyne’s point of view—happened. A gushing lady of his acquaintance came to stay at the Mariposa. They met in the tea shop in the presence of Mrs Chester.

  The newcomer screamed:

  ‘Why—if it isn’t Mr Parker Pyne—the one and only Mr Parker Pyne! And Adela Chester! Do you know each other? Oh, you do? You’re staying at the same hotel? He’s the one and only original wizard, Adela—the marvel of the century—all your troubles smoothed out while you wait! Didn’t you know? You must have heard about him? Haven’t you read his advertisements? ‘Are you in trouble? Consult Mr Parker Pyne.’ There’s just nothing he can’t do. Husbands and wives flying at each other’s throats and he brings ’em together—if you’ve lost interest in life he gives you the most thrilling adventures. As I say the man’s just a wizard!’

  It went on a good deal longer—Mr Parker Pyne at intervals making modest disclaimers. He disliked the look that Mrs Chester turned upon him. He disliked even more seeing her return along the beach in close confabulation with the garrulous singer of his praises.

  The climax came quicker than he expected. That evening, after coffee, Mrs Chester said abruptly,

  ‘Will you come into the little salon, Mr Pyne? There is something I want to say to you.’

  He could but bow and submit.

  Mrs Chester’s self-control had been wearing thin—as the door of the little salon closed behind them, it snapped. She sat down and burst into tears.

  ‘My boy, Mr Parker Pyne. You must save him. We must save him. It’s breaking my heart!’

  ‘My dear lady, as a mere outsider—’

  ‘Nina Wycherley says you can do anything. She said I was to have the utmost confidence in you. She advised me to tell you everything—and that you’d put the whole thing right.’

  Inwardly Mr Parker Pyne cursed the obtrusive Mrs Wycherley. Resigning himself he said:

  ‘Well, let us thrash the matter out. A girl, I suppose?’

  ‘Did he tell you about her?’

  ‘Only indirectly.’

  Words poured in a vehement stream from Mrs Chester. ‘The girl was dreadful. She drank, she swore—she wore no clothes to speak of. Her sister lived out here—was married to an artist—a Dutchman. The whole set was most undesirable. Half of them were living together without being married. Basil was completely changed. He had always been so quiet, so interested in serious subjects. He had thought at one time of taking up archaeology—’

  ‘Well, well,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘Nature will have her revenge.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It isn’t healthy for a young man to be interested in serious subjects. He ought to be making an idiot of himself over one girl after another.’

  ‘Please be serious, Mr Pyne.’

  ‘I’m perfectly serious. Is the young lady, by any chance, the one who had tea with you yesterday?’

  He had noticed her—her grey flannel trousers—the scarlet handkerchief tied loosely around her breast—the vermilion mouth and the fact that she had chosen a cocktail in preference to tea.

  ‘You saw her? Terrible! Not the kind of girl
Basil has ever admired.’

  ‘You haven’t given him much chance to admire a girl, have you?’

  ‘I?’

  ‘He’s been too fond of your company! Bad! However, I daresay he’ll get over this—if you don’t precipitate matters.’

  ‘You don’t understand. He wants to marry this girl—Betty Gregg—they’re engaged.’

  ‘It’s gone as far as that?’

  ‘Yes. Mr Parker Pyne, you must do something. You must get my boy out of this disastrous marriage! His whole life will be ruined.’

  ‘Nobody’s life can be ruined except by themselves.’

  ‘Basil’s will be,’ said Mrs Chester positively.

  ‘I’m not worrying about Basil.’

  ‘You’re not worrying about the girl?’

  ‘No, I’m worrying about you. You’ve been squandering your birthright.’

  Mrs Chester looked at him, slightly taken aback.

  ‘What are the years from twenty to forty? Fettered and bound by personal and emotional relationships. That’s bound to be. That’s living. But later there’s a new stage. You can think, observe life, discover something about other people and the truth about yourself. Life becomes real—significant. You see it as a whole. Not just one scene—the scene you, as an actor, are playing. No man or woman is actually himself (or herself) till after forty-five. That’s when individuality has a chance.’

  Mrs Chester said:

  ‘I’ve been wrapped up in Basil. He’s been everything to me.’

  ‘Well, he shouldn’t have been. That’s what you’re paying for now. Love him as much as you like—but you’re Adela Chester, remember, a person—not just Basil’s mother.’

  ‘It will break my heart if Basil’s life is ruined,’ said Basil’s mother.

  He looked at the delicate lines of her face, the wistful droop of her mouth. She was, somehow, a lovable woman. He did not want her to be hurt. He said:

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  He found Basil Chester only too ready to talk, eager to urge his point of view.

  ‘This business is being just hellish. Mother’s hopeless—prejudiced, narrow-minded. If only she’d let herself, she’d see how fine Betty is.’

  ‘And Betty?’

  He sighed.

  ‘Betty’s being damned difficult! If she’d just conform a bit—I mean leave off the lipstick for a day—it might make all the difference. She seems to go out of her way to be—well—modern—when Mother’s about.’

  Mr Parker Pyne smiled.

  ‘Betty and Mother are two of the dearest people in the world, I should have thought they would have taken to each other like hot cakes.’

  ‘You have a lot to learn, young man,’ said Mr Parker Pyne.

  ‘I wish you’d come along and see Betty and have a good talk about it all.’

  Mr Parker Pyne accepted the invitation readily.

  Betty and her sister and her husband lived in a small dilapidated villa a little way back from the sea. Their life was of a refreshing simplicity. Their furniture comprised three chairs, a table and beds. There was a cupboard in the wall that held the bare requirements of cups and plates. Hans was an excitable young man with wild blond hair that stood up all over his head. He spoke very odd English with incredible rapidity, walking up and down as he did so. Stella, his wife, was small and fair. Betty Gregg had red hair and freckles and a mischievous eye. She was, he noticed, not nearly so made-up as she had been the previous day at the Pino d’Oro.

  She gave him a cocktail and said with a twinkle:

  ‘You’re in on the big bust-up?’

  Mr Parker Pyne nodded.

  ‘And whose side are you on, big boy? The young lovers—or the disapproving dame?’

  ‘May I ask you a question?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Have you been very tactful over all this?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Miss Gregg frankly. ‘But the old cat put my back up.’ (She glanced round to make sure that Basil was out of earshot) ‘That woman just makes me feel mad. She’s kept Basil tied to her apron strings all these years—that sort of thing makes a man look a fool. Basil isn’t a fool really. Then she’s so terribly pukka sahib.’

  ‘That’s not really such a bad thing. It’s merely ‘unfashionable” just at present.’

  Betty Gregg gave a sudden twinkle.

  ‘You mean it’s like putting Chippendale chairs in the attic in Victorian days? Later you get them down again and say, ‘Aren’t they marvellous?”

  ‘Something of the kind.’

  Betty Gregg considered.

  ‘Perhaps you’re right. I’ll be honest. It was Basil who put my back up—being so anxious about what impression I’d make on his mother. It drove me to extremes. Even now I believe he might give me up—if his mother worked on him good and hard.’

  ‘He might,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘If she went about it the right way.’

  ‘Are you going to tell her the right way? She won’t think of it herself, you know. She’ll just go on disapproving and that won’t do the trick. But if you prompted her—’

  She bit her lip—raised frank blue eyes to his.

  ‘I’ve heard about you, Mr Parker Pyne. You’re supposed to know something about human nature.

  Do you think Basil and I could make a go of it—or not?’

  ‘I should like an answer to three questions.’

  ‘Suitability test? All right, go ahead.’

  ‘Do you sleep with your window open or shut?’

  ‘Open. I like lots of air.’

  ‘Do you and Basil enjoy the same kind of food?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you like going to bed early or late?’

  ‘Really, under the rose, early. At half past ten I yawn—and I secretly feel rather hearty in the mornings—but of course I daren’t admit it.’

  ‘You ought to suit each other very well,’ said Mr Parker Pyne.

  ‘Rather a superficial test.’

  ‘Not at all. I have known seven marriages at least, entirely wrecked, because the husband liked sitting up till midnight and the wife fell asleep at half past nine and vice versa.’

  ‘It’s a pity,’ said Betty, ‘that everybody can’t be happy. Basil and I, and his mother giving us her blessing.’

  Mr Parker Pyne coughed.

  ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that that could possibly be managed.’

  She looked at him doubtfully.

  ‘Now I wonder,’ she said, ‘if you’re double-crossing me?’

  Mr Parker Pyne’s face told nothing.

  To Mrs Chester he was soothing, but vague. An engagement was not marriage. He himself was going to Soller for a week. He suggested that her line of action should be non-committal. Let her appear to acquiesce.

  He spent a very enjoyable week at Soller.

  On his return he found that a totally unexpected development had arisen.

  As he entered the Pino d’Oro the first thing he saw was Mrs Chester and Betty Gregg having tea together. Basil was not there. Mrs Chester looked haggard. Betty, too, was looking off colour. She was hardly made-up at all, and her eyelids looked as though she had been crying.

  They greeted him in a friendly fashion, but neither of them mentioned Basil.

  Suddenly he heard the girl beside him draw in her breath sharply as though something had hurt her. Mr Parker Pyne turned his head.

  Basil Chester was coming up the steps from the sea front. With him was a girl so exotically beautiful that it quite took your breath away. She was dark and her figure was marvellous. No one could fail to notice the fact since she wore nothing but a single garment of pale blue crêpe. She was heavily made-up with ochre powder and an orange scarlet mouth—but the unguents only displayed her remarkable beauty in a more pronounced fashion. As for young Basil, he seemed unable to take his eyes from her face.

  ‘You’re very late, Basil,’ said his mother. ‘You were to have taken Betty to Mac’s.’

  ‘My fau
lt,’ drawled the beautiful unknown. ‘We just drifted.’ She turned to Basil. ‘Angel—get me something with a kick in it!’

  She tossed off her shoe and stretched out her manicured toenails which were done emerald green to match her fingernails.

  She paid no attention to the two women, but she leaned a little towards Mr Parker Pyne.

  ‘Terrible island this,’ she said. ‘I was just dying with boredom before I met Basil. He is rather a pet!’

  ‘Mr Parker Pyne—Miss Ramona,’ said Mrs Chester.

  The girl acknowledged the introduction with a lazy smile.

  ‘I guess I’ll call you Parker almost at once,’ she murmured. ‘My name’s Dolores.’

  Basil returned with the drinks. Miss Ramona divided her conversation (what there was of it—it was mostly glances) between Basil and Mr Parker Pyne. Of the two women she took no notice whatever. Betty attempted once or twice to join in the conversation but the other girl merely stared at her and yawned.

  Suddenly Dolores rose.

  ‘Guess I’ll be going along now. I’m at the other hotel. Anyone coming to see me home?’

  Basil sprang up.

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  Mrs Chester said: ‘Basil, my dear—’

  ‘I’ll be back presently, Mother.’

  ‘Isn’t he the mother’s boy?’ Miss Ramona asked of the world at large. ‘Just toots round after her, don’t you?’

  Basil flushed and looked awkward. Miss Ramona gave a nod in Mrs Chester’s direction, a dazzling smile to Mr Parker Pyne and she and Basil moved off together.

  After they had gone there was rather an awkward silence. Mr Parker Pyne did not like to speak first. Betty Gregg was twisting her fingers and looking out to sea. Mrs Chester looked flushed and angry.

  Betty said: ‘Well, what do you think of our new acquisition in Pollensa Bay?’ Her voice was not quite steady.

  Mr Parker Pyne said cautiously:

  ‘A little—er—exotic.’

  ‘Exotic?’ Betty gave a short bitter laugh.

  Mrs Chester said: ‘She’s terrible—terrible. Basil must be quite mad.’

  Betty said sharply: ‘Basil’s all right.’

  ‘Her toenails,’ said Mrs Chester with a shiver of nausea.

  Betty rose suddenly.