She walked along the sandy track, thinking about her work, thinking about her solitary table in the Palm Court tea room. The hotel manager had suggested, now she was alone, that she might like to be placed with some of the other guests. There was a quiet couple, Mr. and Mrs. Collyer, the wife young, nervous and pretty, the husband somewhat older, balding, with a large moustache and a collection of rather loud checked jackets. There was an angular young man named Mr. Farrar, smart, clean-shaven and cigarette-smoking, who had arrived at the hotel a week or so before, in the company of a slightly older woman who seemed to be a relative, and her daughter, a quiet blonde girl of about fifteen who was always on the tennis courts. Agatha had noticed her repetitive practice, an odd mixture of boredom and obsession. A sporty young man called Sebastian Travers made up their party. He seemed to be the girl’s tennis coach. He would engage her in all sorts of practice exercises, but the blank expression and the tightness in her shoulders seemed to stay the same. Then there was an older man, solitary, neat and polite, with a small moustache and a military air. He walked with a stick, and he tended to wear a white straw hat. He had a certain ease with the staff, as if he might be a regular guest.
Agatha began to ascend the hill away from the village. The prospect of solitude, of sandwiches and scones, was very appealing. She would sit alone, and think about what kind of ghost would be haunting her brave Captain.
Chapter Two
The afternoon sunlight dazzled on the white of the terrace. The sea view was azure, the tennis courts emerald green. Agatha chose a shady table, and took out her notebook. There was laughter from the tennis courts, as three youths, apparently local, were batting a ball to and fro. The young tennis girl was sitting by the courts, reading a book.
A dark-haired boy in kitchen whites appeared with a plate of cakes. Agatha saw the girl take one, and giggle, and the boy giggled too, before being called away by a matronly aproned woman, with a wag of her finger.
‘May we join you?’
She looked up to see the moustached man in the loud checked jacket, his wife at his side. His wife began to speak – ‘Frederick, I’m not sure she wants…’ But the husband ignored her. ‘Shame to see Mrs. Christie sitting all alone,’ he said. ‘And anyway, we thought we’d sit in the shade, didn’t we, Nora?’
Agatha shifted her cup to one side, gestured to the two seats next to her.
‘The sun is rather intrusive,’ she said.
‘We like it,’ Mrs. Collyer said. She was wearing a pale tea-gown, patterned with tiny pink flowers, and her fine blonde hair was pinned up.
Her husband clattered his way to the shady chair.
‘Are you enjoying your holiday?’ Nora Collyer asked.
‘Mr. Christie not here?’ her husband interrupted.
‘He had to go back to London,’ Agatha said. ‘His business...’
‘Ah.’ Mr. Collyer nodded.
There was a brief silence. Then the hotel manager, Mr. Finch, appeared at their side. He was in white, with a bow tie, short white-blonde hair and a crisp, upright demeanour.
‘Tea, Sir?’
‘Yes. For two. We’ll have Earl Grey,’ Mr. Collyer said.
‘And anything to eat?’
‘Oh no.’ Mr. Collyer leaned back expansively in his chair. ‘We’ll be having dinner soon enough.’
Agatha noticed his wife eyeing the plate of cakes, but Mrs. Collyer said nothing.
‘That’s the problem with having an office,’ Mr. Collyer said, conversationally. ‘It’s not a problem I have.’
‘Oh?’ Agatha realized she knew nothing about these two, other than that they had been at the hotel for almost a month already, and it was something to do with the husband’s work.
‘Writing a book, y’see,’ Mr. Collyer said.
‘Oh.’
‘A major work of biography,’ he went on. ‘Foremost in its field, it’ll be.’
She nodded, politely.
‘You’ll have heard of Ernst Adler, the well-known chemist?’
Agatha had to admit that, no, she hadn’t.
He made a brief huffing noise. ‘Well, perhaps in your world his fame hasn’t yet spread. Surrey, isn’t it?’
‘Berkshire,’ Agatha said. ‘But –’
‘Quite,’ Mr. Collyer interrupted. ‘Dr. Adler is a giant in his field. In my field too. I’ve always admired him, followed in his footsteps, y’see. Worked in the same branch of chemistry. Always promised him that I’d write his biography. Poor chap passed away two years ago now, and then I found myself without a lab, so I started on it. Been staying here every summer since then. His house is inland from here, mile or so from the village, his widow lives there still. Of course, she’s delighted, nothing too much trouble for me, isn’t she, dear?’
He nodded his head briefly towards his wife, who seemed to be about to speak, but then he continued, ‘Cobalt salts, pigments, y’see. Essential right across the board. Dr. Adler worked on the stabilisation of sulphides, made the field what it is today –’
He stopped as Mr. Finch appeared with tea, and began to pour it. As the pot approached Mr. Collyer’s cup, he raised his large hand.
‘No no no. Milk in first.’ His voice was harsh. ‘Don’t they teach you people anything? Changes the taste if you add the milk to the tea. I’ll pour my own, thank you. Just leave the pot there.’
Mr. Finch inclined his head in acknowledgement, gave a brief nod to Mrs. Collyer and departed.
‘Sugar tongs,’ Mr. Collyer shouted after him. ‘We don’t seem to have any.’
Again, the tilt of the head, the quiet glide towards the kitchen.
‘Only thing wrong with this place,’ Mr. Collyer said. ‘They just can’t get the staff. I blame the war. Gave these sort of chaps ideas above their station.’
‘It wouldn’t be any different if we stayed anywhere else, dear,’ Mrs. Collyer’s gentle voice intervened. ‘You complain wherever we go.’ She spoke with equanimity, a warmth in her hazel eyes, her fingers fiddling with her necklace, which was a string of delicate beads in pink and green. Archie had remarked on Mrs. Collyer’s elegance the first night they were there, and it was true, Agatha thought, that even if she’d been in military fatigues or chef’s overalls she’d still look like something from a fashion magazine.
Beneath them on the tennis courts, the young girl had started a match with her coach. Her mother was standing on the side-lines, shouting encouragement in rather harsh terms.
‘One does rather feel for that child,’ Mrs. Collyer said. ‘Sophie,’ she added. ‘Her mother, Mrs. Winters, claims she has a great talent, but one does wish the poor child wasn’t under so much pressure.’
‘Nonsense,’ her husband said. ‘Give them something to aim for. Best way to raise a child.’
‘Do you have children, Mrs. Christie?’ Mrs. Collyer asked.
‘I have a daughter, yes,’ Agatha replied. ‘And you?’
Mrs. Collyer shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, we don’t have children.’
‘My work, y’see –’ Mr. Collyer began, but then looked up at Mr. Finch as he appeared with sugar tongs, and a plate of patisserie.
‘You did order these, didn’t you?’ the manager said, placing them in front of Mrs. Collyer.
‘No,’ Mr. Collyer began.
‘Yes,’ Agatha said, placing them squarely in front of his wife. ‘We did.’
‘I’m so sorry about the sugar tongs, Sir,’ Mr. Finch said, placing a plate with tongs on it in front of him. ‘It won’t happen again.’
Mr. Collyer gave a harrumph of acknowledgement.
‘You know, Mrs. Christie is a writer too, dear.’ Mrs. Collyer took a pink macaroon from the plate and cut into it neatly with her dessert fork.
Mr. Collyer appeared not to hear. ‘It’s about getting the facts right,’ he said. His gaze went to the tennis game again.
‘He was very brave during the war,’ Mrs. Collyer said. ‘Dr. Adler. He was out in France, right by the frontlines. Something about
camouflage. His wife told me all about it. Art and Science, working together, she said. She’s a very nice woman, Mrs. Adler is. German, by origin. But settled in Britain long ago. Then after the war, one of his artist friends had come to live in Cornwall, so they retired here too. She obviously misses him terribly…’ Her voice was soft. She glanced at her husband.
‘So, you’ll write that too?’ Agatha asked him. ‘About the war? People will be very interested.’
‘The stabilization of sulphides is nothing to do with the war. I’m writing for chemists.’ Mr. Collyer jabbed a finger towards the tennis courts. ‘Now, that chap – he’s a much better player than any so-called coach.’
On the courts, young Sophie Winters was engaged in a match with the smart, angular man.
‘Kurt Farrar,’ Mr. Collyer said. ‘He’s a family friend of the mother’s, apparently. Stayed here before. If I was going to have a tennis lesson, I’d choose him before that Travers chap. In fact, I might just do that.’ He drained his cup, got to his feet and went to watch the game.
The two women were left alone. Mrs. Collyer took a small éclair from the plate. ‘My husband,’ she said. ‘He can be a bit abrupt. You must excuse him.’
‘Of course,’ Agatha said.
‘The thing is –’ her voice trembled slightly. ‘He’s rather anxious. This biography, it’s been two years now – well, up until now it’s all been very straightforward. Frau Adler has been ever so helpful, giving him the correspondence, showing him her husband’s early work, that kind of thing. But it all changed just a couple of days ago. She’s become very distant. Hostile, even. She seems not to trust Frederick any more. And neither of us knows why. Frau Adler has a friend, who stays here in fact, you’ll have seen him – that gentlemen, Mr. Tyndall, he sits by the window at breakfast, tends to wear a hat? A nice man, an old friend of the family, he stays here every summer and spends a lot of time with Frau Adler. And he had a word with me yesterday, he was very anxious, something about Frederick having all Dr. Adler’s papers. He said he’d gathered that Frau Adler was losing patience, rather, with Frederick’s work, and that she might withdraw her permission. We’ve yet to hear the truth of this. But of course, if that’s the case, Frederick’s life’s work is completely ruined. He’s always admired Dr. Adler. I think, to be honest, he envies him. Dr. Adler was unique in their field, and greatly admired. Other people have tried to write his biography, and I think Frederick’s worried that his widow might change her allegiance to one of these other biographers.’
‘Do you know her well?’
She nodded, smiled. ‘Oh yes. I like her a lot. And her children, grown-up now, of course. A son and two daughters. And a charming grand-daughter too, she’s five now, nearly six –’
‘The same age as my daughter,’ Agatha said.
‘It’s a lovely age.’ Her eyes shone as she spoke. ‘I would so love to have…’ She stopped, gathered herself.
‘It’s not too late, surely –’ Agatha said. The words came out before she could restrain them. ‘I mean to say, you’re still young.’
Mrs. Collyer met her eyes. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I am still young. But my husband is adamant.’
‘Nora!’ the shout came from the tennis courts.
Mrs. Collyer jumped to her feet. ‘Coming, dear.’ She turned to Agatha. ‘It’s been lovely talking to you.’ She gathered up her bag, crossed the room and descended the steps towards the tennis courts.
The sun had crept round and now shone a soft afternoon light across the palm court, flecking the edges of the swooping leaves.
On the tennis court, Mr. Farrar seemed to be demonstrating a move to Frederick, who was rather clumsily waving a tennis racquet in an attempt to imitate it.
Agatha drained her cup, got to her feet and went to her room.
*
“Captain Wingfield, do come and sit with us.” Lady Bertram’s voice rang out imperiously across the well-tended lawn. She stood, parasol in hand, at the top of the stone steps. He could see her two young daughters, laughing as they chased each other round the rhododendrons, under the steady gaze of their governess.
Captain Wingfield had noticed the governess the minute he’d first set eyes on her. There was something about her graceful step, her simple dress with its starched white collar, the seriousness of her expression.
“I think we’re being called to tea,” he said to her.
The young woman turned to him, and he saw a glimmer of amusement in her clear grey eyes. “Oh no,” she said. “Not me. I have tea in the nursery. Lady Bertram has very strict rules…”
Agatha put down her pen. It was time to dress for dinner, she realized. It was still light, the pale blue evening light of early June. There would be cocktails on the terrace as the sun delayed its setting until well after the dinner gong had sounded.
Perhaps Archie’s right. They’d discussed it last night, their last dinner together.
‘What do you want to write a romance for?’ he’d said. ‘The murder stories are going so well.’
She’d tried to explain, about the Captain, the large country house, the Bertram family, ‘Like people used to be, before the war –’
‘Your readers will be so disappointed,’ he’d said.
‘My readers might enjoy the change,’ she’d said. ‘Certainly, I might enjoy the change.’
He’d looked out at the twilight across the bay. ‘What do you know about romance?’ he’d said.
Agatha laid her pearls down on the dressing table and stared at her reflection in the mirror.
Was it that beastly war? she asked herself. It had stood so much on its head. We were so young when we married, in haste, in the midst of uniforms and bag packing and the creeping, ever-present fear.
But we’ve been happy since. So lucky. A lovely home, a beautiful daughter, dear Rosalind, I must write to my sister and find out how they’re all doing, how wonderful that I’ll be seeing them all soon…
Her reflection stared back at her.
What do I know about romance, she wondered. Given that here I am, alone, on a holiday that was planned for two.
She fastened her pearls around her neck, patted her hair into place and left her room, closing the door softly behind her.
Chapter Three
Appearing in the dining room, she noticed two things: one, that she’d been seated with Mr. and Mrs. Collyer again. And, secondly, that Mr. Farrar seemed to be seated with them. She was aware of a conflict of feelings; firstly, a sense of dread, fearing another monotone and one-sided discussion about eminent chemists and cobalt stabilisation, and secondly, a flash of hope that this Mr. Farrar might be able to bring the conversation round to something more interesting.
The windows glowed with the last of the day’s sunshine. The chandeliers sparkled. Once again Agatha was reminded of Archie’s excellent choice in this hotel, even if he wasn’t there to share it with her. She hesitated in the doorway. At a table by the window, sat the tennis party – Mrs. Blanche Winters, her daughter Sophie and their coach Sebastian Travers. The two women were in evening gowns, Mrs. Winters in pale blue silk with pearls at her neck, and the young Miss Winters in a rather severe grey, too old for her, thought Agatha, making her look pinched and angular, when a softer colour and more flowing style would have brought out her natural, fresh good looks.
In contrast, Mr. Travers was wearing a blazer and white trousers, as if determinedly trying to look like the tennis coach even at dinner. Agatha took in his upright posture and blond hair, and found herself thinking that perhaps Captain Wingfield might look rather like that. Every time Mr. Travers said anything, Blanche flung her head back in merry laughter. Her daughter stared glumly out of the window.
Agatha approached her table, trying not to appear reluctant.
‘Mrs. Christie.’ Mr. Farrar was at her side. ‘Allow me.’
A chair was pulled out for her. ‘I do hope you have no objections to my joining you. Blanche was determined I stay with them, but I’ve had enough t
alk about forehand serves and landing positions. Also –’ he lowered his voice so only she could hear – ‘I thought you might need rescuing.’
Agatha flicked her long cream silk gown to one side and sat down. ‘Thank you,’ she said, hoping her tone conveyed her gratitude.
Mr. Collyer was staring into the bread basket. ‘No butter?’ he was saying. ‘What do they think we are, continentals? I say –’ a click of his fingers towards the waiting staff – ‘what on earth is this?’ He picked up the basket and waved it wildly. A piece of bread fell on to the floor.
Mr. Finch, the manager, was there at once. ‘I’m sorry Sir, is there a problem?’
‘There certainly is. No butter.’
‘I’m terribly sorry, Sir. I’ll get some at once.’
Mrs. Collyer had bent to the floor and retrieved the piece of bread. She handed it to Mr. Finch with an apologetic smile. He gave a brief, neat bow, then departed towards the kitchen.
‘There was no need for that,’ Mr. Collyer said to his wife. ‘Acting like a maidservant.’
‘I was only trying –’
‘No need at all.’ His face was grey as stone. The conversation seemed to be over.
Agatha was aware of Mr. Farrar at her side, tense, hardly breathing, it appeared. Now he smiled, breathed out. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘has everyone had a lovely day?’
‘Yes,’ Mrs. Collyer said. ‘Thank you.’ But she seemed near to tears.
Their table was approached by another man. The solitary, military man, Agatha realized, who tended to eat alone. Mr. Tyndall, wasn’t it? He had a kind face, she noticed, and a slightly shabby air, and gave a small bow as he greeted their table.
‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘Mrs. Collyer. Mr. Collyer.’ He offered his hand to Agatha, with a shy look in his blue eyes. ‘I don’t believe…’
Mr. Farrar was standing, his heels clicked together. ‘Mrs. Christie, allow me to introduce Mr. Robin Tyndall.’
‘Delighted,’ Mr. Tyndall said, shaking her offered hand.
‘And of course you know –’ Kurt said.
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