Midsummer Mysteries

by Agatha Christie

  Grace drew herself up.

  ‘There is no need to criticize my friends, James, it’s not manners. He’s dressed just like any other gentleman at the hotel is dressed.’

  ‘Bah!’ said James. ‘Do you know what I read the other day in “Society Snippets”? Why, that the Duke of—the Duke of, I can’t remember, but one duke, anyway, was the worst dressed man in England, there!’

  ‘I dare say,’ said Grace, ‘but then, you see, he is a duke.’

  ‘Well?’ demanded James. ‘What is wrong with my being a duke some day? At least, well, not perhaps a duke, but a peer.’

  He slapped the yellow book in his pocket, and recited to her a long list of peers of the realm who had started life much more obscurely than James Bond. Grace merely giggled.

  ‘Don’t be so soft, James,’ she said. ‘Fancy you Earl of Kimpton-on-Sea!’

  James gazed at her in mingled rage and despair. The air of Kimpton-on-Sea had certainly gone to Grace’s head.

  The beach at Kimpton is a long, straight stretch of sand. A row of bathing-huts and boxes stretched evenly along it for about a mile and a half. The party had just stopped before a row of six huts all labelled imposingly, ‘For visitors to the Esplanade Hotel only’.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Grace brightly; ‘but I’m afraid you can’t come in with us, James, you’ll have to go along to the public tents over there. We’ll meet you in the sea. So long!’

  ‘So long!’ said James, and he strode off in the direction indicated.

  Twelve dilapidated tents stood solemnly confronting the ocean. An aged mariner guarded them, a roll of blue paper in his hand. He accepted a coin of the realm from James, tore him off a blue ticket from his roll, threw him over a towel, and jerked one thumb over his shoulder.

  ‘Take your turn,’ he said huskily.

  It was then that James awoke to the fact of competition. Others besides himself had conceived the idea of entering the sea. Not only was each tent occupied, but outside each tent was a determined-looking crowd of people glaring at each other. James attached himself to the smallest group and waited. The strings of the tent parted, and a beautiful young woman, sparsely clad, emerged on the scene settling her bathing-cap with the air of one who had the whole morning to waste. She strolled down to the water’s edge, and sat down dreamily on the sands.

  ‘That’s no good,’ said James to himself, and attached himself forthwith to another group.

  After waiting five minutes, sounds of activity were apparent in the second tent. With heavings and strainings, the flaps parted asunder and four children and a father and mother emerged. The tent being so small, it had something of the appearance of a conjuring trick. On the instant two women sprang forward each grasping one flap of the tent.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said the first young woman, panting a little.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said the other young woman, glaring.

  ‘I would have you know I was here quite ten minutes before you were,’ said the first young woman rapidly.

  ‘I have been here a good quarter of an hour, as anyone will tell you,’ said the second young woman defiantly.

  ‘Now then, now then,’ said the aged mariner, drawing near.

  Both young women spoke to him shrilly. When they had finished, he jerked his thumb at the second young woman, and said briefly:

  ‘It’s yours.’

  Then he departed, deaf to remonstrances. He neither knew nor cared which had been there first, but his decision, as they say in newspaper competitions, was final. The despairing James caught at his arm.

  ‘Look here! I say!’

  ‘Well, mister?’

  ‘How long is it going to be before I get a tent?’

  The aged mariner threw a dispassionate glance over the waiting throng. ‘Might be an hour, might be an hour and a half, I can’t say.’

  At that moment James espied Grace and the Sopworth girls running lightly down the sands towards the sea.

  ‘Damn!’ said James to himself. ‘Oh, damn!’

  He plucked once more at the aged mariner.

  ‘Can’t I get a tent anywhere else? What about one of these huts along here? They all seem empty.’

  ‘The huts,’ said the ancient mariner with dignity, ‘are private.’

  Having uttered this rebuke, he passed on. With a bitter feeling of having been tricked, James detached himself from the waiting groups, and strode savagely down the beach. It was the limit! It was the absolute, complete limit! He glared savagely at the trim bathing-boxes he passed. In that moment from being an Independent Liberal, he became a red-hot Socialist. Why should the rich have bathing-boxes and be able to bathe any minute they chose without waiting in a crowd? ‘This system of ours,’ said James vaguely, ‘is all wrong.’

  From the sea came the coquettish screams of the splashed. Grace’s voice! And above her squeaks, the inane ‘Ha, ha, ha’, of Claud Sopworth.

  ‘Damn!’ said James, grinding his teeth, a thing which he had never before attempted, only read about in works of fiction.

  He came to a stop, twirling his stick savagely, and turning his back firmly on the sea. Instead, he gazed with concentrated hatred upon Eagle’s Nest, Buena Vista, and Mon Desir. It was the custom of the inhabitants of Kimpton-on-Sea to label their bathing-huts with fancy names. Eagle’s Nest merely struck James as being silly, and Buena Vista was beyond his linguistic accomplishments. But his knowledge of French was sufficient to make him realize the appositeness of the third name.

  And on that moment he saw that while the doors of the other bathing-huts were tightly closed, that of Mon Desir was ajar. James looked thoughtfully up and down the beach, this particular spot was mainly occupied by mothers of large families, busily engaged in superintending their offspring. It was only ten o’clock, too early as yet for the aristocracy of Kimpton-on-Sea to have come down to bathe.

  ‘Eating quails and mushrooms in their beds as likely as not, brought to them on trays by powdered footmen, pah! Not one of them will be down here before twelve o’clock,’ thought James.

  He looked again towards the sea. With the obedience of a well-trained ‘leitmotif’, the shrill scream of Grace rose upon the air. It was followed by the ‘Ha, ha, ha’, of Claud Sopworth.

  ‘I will,’ said James between his teeth.

  He pushed open the door of Mon Desir and entered. For the moment he had a fright, as he caught sight of sundry garments hanging from pegs, but he was quickly reassured. The hut was partitioned into two, on the right-hand side, a girl’s yellow sweater, a battered panama hat and a pair of beach shoes were depending from a peg. On the left-hand side an old pair of grey flannel trousers, a pullover, and a sou’wester proclaimed the fact that the sexes were segregated. James hastily transferred himself to the gentlemen’s part of the hut, and undressed rapidly. Three minutes later, he was in the sea puffing and snorting importantly, doing extremely short bursts of professional-looking swimming—head under the water, arms lashing the sea—that style.

  ‘Oh, there you are!’ cried Grace. ‘I was afraid you wouldn’t be in for ages with all that crowd of people waiting there.’

  ‘Really?’ said James.

  He thought with affectionate loyalty of the yellow book. ‘The strong man can on occasions be discreet.’ For the moment his temper was quite restored. He was able to say pleasantly but firmly to Claud Sopworth, who was teaching Grace the overarm stroke:

  ‘No, no, old man, you have got it all wrong. I’ll show her.’

  And such was the assurance of his tone, that Claud withdrew discomfited. The only pity of it was that his triumph was short-lived. The temperature of our English waters is not such as to induce bathers to remain in them for any length of time. Grace and the Sopworth girls were already displaying blue chins and chattering teeth. They raced up the beach, and James pursued his solitary way back to Mon Desir. As he towelled himself vigorously and slipped his shirt over his head, he was pleased with himself. He had, he felt, displayed a dynamic personality. />
  And then suddenly he stood still, frozen with terror. Girlish voices sounded from outside, and voices quite different from those of Grace and her friends. A moment later he had realized the truth, the rightful owners of Mon Desir were arriving. It is possible that if James had been fully dressed, he would have waited their advent in a dignified manner, and attempted an explanation. As it was he acted on panic. The windows of Mon Desir were modestly screened by dark green curtains. James flung himself on the door and held the knob in a desperate clutch. Hands tried ineffectually to turn it from outside.

  ‘It’s locked after all,’ said a girl’s voice. ‘I thought Peg said it was open.’

  ‘No, Woggle said so.’

  ‘Woggle is the limit,’ said the other girl. ‘How perfectly foul, we shall have to go back for the key.’

  James heard their footsteps retreating. He drew a long, deep breath. In desperate haste he huddled on the rest of his garments. Two minutes later saw him strolling negligently down the beach with an almost aggressive air of innocence. Grace and the Sopworth girls joined him on the beach a quarter of an hour later. The rest of the morning passed agreeably in stone throwing, writing in the sand and light badinage. Then Claud glanced at his watch.

  ‘Lunch-time,’ he observed. ‘We’d better be strolling back.’

  ‘I’m terribly hungry,’ said Alice Sopworth.

  All the other girls said that they were terribly hungry too.

  ‘Are you coming, James?’ asked Grace.

  Doubtless James was unduly touchy. He chose to take offence at her tone.

  ‘Not if my clothes are not good enough for you,’ he said bitterly. ‘Perhaps, as you are so particular, I’d better not come.’

  That was Grace’s cue for murmured protestations, but the seaside air had affected Grace unfavourably. She merely replied:

  ‘Very well. Just as you like, see you this afternoon then.’

  James was left dumbfounded.

  ‘Well!’ he said, staring after the retreating group. ‘Well, of all the—’

  He strolled moodily into the town. There were two cafés in Kimpton-on-Sea, they are both hot, noisy and overcrowded. It was the affair of the bathing-huts once more, James had to wait his turn. He had to wait longer than his turn, an unscrupulous matron who had just arrived forestalling him when a vacant seat did present itself. At last he was seated at a small table. Close to his left ear three raggedly bobbed maidens were making a determined hash of Italian opera. Fortunately James was not musical. He studied the bill of fare dispassionately, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. He thought to himself:

  ‘Whatever I ask for it’s sure to be “off”. That’s the kind of fellow I am.’

  His right hand, groping in the recesses of his pocket, touched an unfamiliar object. It felt like a pebble, a large round pebble.

  ‘What on earth did I want to put a stone in my pocket for?’ thought James.

  His fingers closed round it. A waitress drifted up to him.

  ‘Fried plaice and chipped potatoes, please,’ said James.

  ‘Fried plaice is “off”,’ murmured the waitress, her eyes fixed dreamily on the ceiling.

  ‘Then I’ll have curried beef,’ said James.

  ‘Curried beef is “off”.’

  ‘Is there anything on this beastly menu that isn’t “off”?’ demanded James.

  The waitress looked pained, and placed a pale-grey forefinger against haricot mutton. James resigned himself to the inevitable and ordered haricot mutton. His mind still seething with resentment against the ways of cafés, he drew his hand out of his pocket, the stone still in it. Unclosing his fingers, he looked absent-mindedly at the object in his palm. Then with a shock all lesser matters passed from his mind, and he stared with all his eyes. The thing he held was not a pebble, it was—he could hardly doubt it—an emerald, an enormous green emerald. James stared at it horror-stricken. No, it couldn’t be an emerald, it must be coloured glass. There couldn’t be an emerald of that size, unless—printed words danced before James’s eyes, ‘The Rajah of Maraputna—famous emerald the size of a pigeon’s egg.’ Was it—could it be—that emerald at which he was now looking? The waitress returned with the haricot mutton, and James closed his fingers spasmodically. Hot and cold shivers chased themselves up and down his spine. He had the sense of being caught in a terrible dilemma. If this was the emerald—but was it? Could it be? He unclosed his fingers and peeped anxiously. James was no expert on precious stones, but the depth and the glow of the jewel convinced him this was the real thing. He put both elbows on the table and leaned forward staring with unseeing eyes at the haricot mutton slowly congealing on the dish in front of him. He had got to think this out. If this was the Rajah’s emerald, what was he going to do about it? The word ‘police’ flashed into his mind. If you found anything of value you took it to the police station. Upon this axiom had James been brought up.

  Yes, but—how on earth had the emerald got into his trouser pocket? That was doubtless the question the police would ask. It was an awkward question, and it was moreover a question to which he had at the moment no answer. How had the emerald got into his trouser pocket? He looked despairingly down at his legs, and as he did so a misgiving shot through him. He looked more closely. One pair of old grey flannel trousers is very much like another pair of old grey flannel trousers, but all the same, James had an instinctive feeling that these were not his trousers after all. He sat back in his chair stunned with the force of the discovery. He saw now what had happened, in the hurry of getting out of the bathing-hut, he had taken the wrong trousers. He had hung his own, he remembered, on an adjacent peg to the old pair hanging there. Yes, that explained matters so far, he had taken the wrong trousers. But all the same, what on earth was an emerald worth hundreds and thousands of pounds doing there? The more he thought about it, the more curious it seemed. He could, of course, explain to the police—

  It was awkward, no doubt about it, it was decidedly awkward. One would have to mention the fact that one had deliberately entered someone else’s bathing-hut. It was not, of course, a serious offence, but it started him off wrong.

  ‘Can I bring you anything else, sir?’

  It was the waitress again. She was looking pointedly at the untouched haricot mutton. James hastily dumped some of it on his plate and asked for his bill. Having obtained it, he paid and went out. As he stood undecidedly in the street, a poster opposite caught his eye. The adjacent town of Harchester possessed an evening paper, and it was the contents bill of this paper that James was looking at. It announced a simple, sensational fact: ‘The Rajah’s Emerald Stolen.’ ‘My God,’ said James faintly, and leaned against a pillar. Pulling himself together he fished out a penny and purchased a copy of the paper. He was not long in finding what he sought. Sensational items of local news were few and far between. Large headlines adorned the front page. ‘Sensational Burglary at Lord Edward Campion’s. Theft of Famous Historical Emerald. Rajah of Maraputna’s Terrible Loss.’ The facts were few and simple. Lord Edward Campion had entertained several friends the evening before. Wishing to show the stone to one of the ladies present, the Rajah had gone to fetch it and had found it missing. The police had been called in. So far no clue had been obtained. James let the paper fall to the ground. It was still not clear to him how the emerald had come to be reposing in the pocket of an old pair of flannel trousers in a bathing-hut, but it was borne in upon him every minute that the police would certainly regard his own story as suspicious. What on earth was he to do? Here he was, standing in the principal street of Kimpton-on-Sea with stolen booty worth a king’s ransom reposing idly in his pocket, whilst the entire police force of the district were busily searching for just that same booty. There were two courses open to him. Course number one, to go straight to the police station and tell his story—but it must be admitted that James funked that course badly. Course number two, somehow or other to get rid of the emerald. It occurred to him to do it up in a neat little parcel
and post it back to the Rajah. Then he shook his head, he had read too many detective stories for that sort of thing. He knew how your super-sleuth could get busy with a magnifying glass and every kind of patent device. Any detective worth his salt would get busy on James’s parcel and would in half an hour or so have discovered the sender’s profession, age, habits and personal appearance. After that it would be a mere matter of hours before he was tracked down. It was then that a scheme of dazzling simplicity suggested itself to James.

  It was the luncheon hour, the beach would be comparatively deserted, he would return to Mon Desir, hang up the trousers where he had found them, and regain his own garments. He started briskly towards the beach.

  Nevertheless, his conscience pricked him slightly. The emerald ought to be returned to the Rajah. He conceived the idea that he might perhaps do a little detective work—once, that is, that he had regained his own trousers and replaced the others. In pursuance of this idea, he directed his steps towards the aged mariner, whom he rightly regarded as being an exhaustible source of Kimpton information.

  ‘Excuse me!’ said James politely; ‘but I belive a friend of mine has a hut on this beach, Mr Charles Lampton. It is called Mon Desir, I fancy.’

  The aged mariner was sitting very squarely in a chair, a pipe in his mouth, gazing out to sea. He shifted his pipe a little, and replied without removing his gaze from the horizon:

  ‘Mon Desir belongs to his lordship, Lord Edward Campion, everyone knows that. I never heard of Mr Charles Lampton, he must be a newcomer.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said James, and withdrew.

  The information staggered him. Surely the Rajah could not himself have slipped the stone into the pocket and forgotten it. James shook his head, the theory did not satisfy him, but evidently some member of the house-party must be the thief. The situation reminded James of some of his favourite works of fiction.

  Nevertheless, his own purpose remained unaltered. All fell out easily enough. The beach was, as he hoped it would be, practically deserted. More fortunate still, the door of Mon Desir remained ajar. To slip in was the work of a moment, Edward was just lifting his own trousers from the hook, when a voice behind him made him spin round suddenly.