Miss Marple and Mystery

by Agatha Christie

  ‘Rustonbury?’

  The prima donna’s brow contracted as if in the effort to recollect something.

  ‘I have read that name lately, very lately. It is a town – or a village, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right, pretty little place in Hertfordshire. As for Lord Rustonbury’s place, Rustonbury Castle, it’s a real dandy old feudal seat, ghosts and family pictures, and secret staircases, and a slap-up private theatre. Rolling in money they are, and always giving some private show. She suggests that we give a complete opera, preferably Butterfly.’

  ‘Butterfly?’

  Cowan nodded.

  ‘And they are prepared to pay. We’ll have to square Covent Garden, of course, but even after that it will be well worth your while financially. In all probability, royalty will be present. It will be a slap-up advertisement.’

  Madame raised her still beautiful chin.

  ‘Do I need advertisement?’ she demanded proudly.

  ‘You can’t have too much of a good thing,’ said Cowan, unabashed.

  ‘Rustonbury,’ murmured the singer, ‘where did I see –?’

  She sprang up suddenly, and running to the centre table, began turning over the pages of an illustrated paper which lay there. There was a sudden pause as her hand stopped, hovering over one of the pages, then she let the periodical slip to the floor and returned slowly to her seat. With one of her swift changes of mood, she seemed now an entirely different personality. Her manner was very quiet, almost austere.

  ‘Make all arrangements for Rustonbury, I would like to sing there, but there is one condition – the opera must be Tosca.’

  Cowan looked doubtful.

  ‘That will be rather difficult – for a private show, you know, scenery and all that.’

  ‘Tosca or nothing.’

  Cowan looked at her very closely. What he saw seemed to convince him, he gave a brief nod and rose to his feet.

  ‘I will see what I can arrange,’ he said quietly.

  Nazorkoff rose too. She seemed more anxious than was usual, with her, to explain her decision.

  ‘It is my greatest rôle, Cowan. I can sing that part as no other woman has ever sung it.’

  ‘It is a fine part,’ said Cowan. ‘Jeritza made a great hit in it last year.’

  ‘Jeritza!’ cried the other, a flush mounting in her cheeks. She proceeded to give him at great length her opinion of Jeritza.

  Cowan, who was used to listening to singers’ opinions of other singers, abstracted his attention till the tirade was over; he then said obstinately:

  ‘Anyway, she sings “Vissi D’Arte” lying on her stomach.’

  ‘And why not?’ demanded Nazorkoff. ‘What is there to prevent her? I will sing it on my back with my legs waving in the air.’

  Cowan shook his head with perfect seriousness. ‘I don’t believe that would go down any,’ he informed her. ‘All the same, that sort of thing takes on, you know.’

  ‘No one can sing “Vissi D’Arte” as I can,’ said Nazorkoff confidently. ‘I sing it in the voice of the convent – as the good nuns taught me to sing years and years ago. In the voice of a choir boy or an angel, without feeling, without passion.’

  ‘I know,’ said Cowan heartily. ‘I have heard you, you are wonderful.’

  ‘That is art,’ said the prima donna, ‘to pay the price, to suffer, to endure, and in the end not only to have all knowledge, but also the power to go back, right back to the beginning and recapture the lost beauty of the heart of a child.’

  Cowan looked at her curiously. She was staring past him with a strange, blank look in her eyes, and something about that look of hers gave him a creepy feeling. Her lips just parted, and she whispered a few words softly to herself. He only just caught them.

  ‘At last,’ she murmured. ‘At last – after all these years.’

  Lady Rustonbury was both an ambitious and an artistic woman, she ran the two qualities in harness with complete success. She had the good fortune to have a husband who cared for neither ambition nor art and who therefore did not hamper her in any way. The Earl of Rustonbury was a large, square man, with an interest in horseflesh and in nothing else. He admired his wife, and was proud of her, and was glad that his great wealth enabled her to indulge all her schemes. The private theatre had been built less than a hundred years ago by his grandfather. It was Lady Rustonbury’s chief toy – she had already given an Ibsen drama in it, and a play of the ultra new school, all divorce and drugs, also a poetical fantasy with Cubist scenery. The forthcoming performance of Tosca had created wide-spread interest. Lady Rustonbury was entertaining a very distinguished houseparty for it, and all London that counted was motoring down to attend.

  Mme Nazorkoff and her company had arrived just before luncheon. The new young American tenor, Hensdale, was to sing ‘Cavaradossi’, and Roscari, the famous Italian baritone, was to be Scarpia. The expense of the production had been enormous, but nobody cared about that. Paula Nazorkoff was in the best of humours, she was charming, gracious, her most delightful and cosmopolitan self. Cowan was agreeably surprised, and prayed that this state of things might continue.

  After luncheon the company went out to the theatre, and inspected the scenery and various appointments. The orchestra was under the direction of Mr Samuel Ridge, one of England’s most famous conductors. Everything seemed to be going without a hitch, and strangely enough, that fact worried Mr Cowan. He was more at home in an atmosphere of trouble, this unusual peace disturbed him.

  ‘Everything is going a darned sight too smoothly,’ murmured Mr Cowan to himself. ‘Madame is like a cat that has been fed on cream, it’s too good to last, something is bound to happen.’

  Perhaps as the result of his long contact with the operatic world, Mr Cowan had developed the sixth sense, certainly his prognostications were justified. It was just before seven o’clock that evening when the French maid, Elise, came running to him in great distress.

  ‘Ah, Mr Cowan, come quickly, I beg of you come quickly.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ demanded Cowan anxiously. ‘Madame got her back up about anything – ructions, eh, is that it?’

  ‘No, no, it is not Madame, it is Signor Roscari, he is ill, he is dying!’

  ‘Dying? Oh, come now.’

  Cowan hurried after her as she led the way to the stricken Italian’s bedroom. The little man was lying on his bed, or rather jerking himself all over it in a series of contortions that would have been humorous had they been less grave. Paula Nazorkoff was bending over him; she greeted Cowan imperiously.

  ‘Ah! there you are. Our poor Roscari, he suffers horribly. Doubtless he has eaten something.’

  ‘I am dying,’ groaned the little man. ‘The pain – it is terrible. Ow!’ He contorted himself again, clasping both hands to his stomach, and rolling about on the bed.

  ‘We must send for a doctor,’ said Cowan.

  Paula arrested him as he was about to move to the door.

  ‘The doctor is already on his way, he will do all that can be done for the poor suffering one, that is arranged for, but never never will Roscari be able to sing tonight.’

  ‘I shall never sing again, I am dying,’ groaned the Italian.

  ‘No, no, you are not dying,’ said Paula. ‘It is but an indigestion, but all the same, impossible that you should sing.’

  ‘I have been poisoned.’

  ‘Yes, it is the ptomaine without doubt,’ said Paula. ‘Stay with him, Elise, till the doctor comes.’

  The singer swept Cowan with her from the room.

  ‘What are we to do?’ she demanded.

  Cowan shook his head hopelessly. The hour was so far advanced that it would not be possible to get anyone from London to take Roscari’s place. Lady Rustonbury, who had just been informed of her guest’s illness, came hurrying along the corridor to join them. Her principal concern, like Paula Nazorkoff’s, was the success of Tosca.

  ‘If there were only someone near at hand,’ groaned the prima do
nna.

  ‘Ah!’ Lady Rustonbury gave a sudden cry. ‘Of course! Bréon.’

  ‘Bréon?’

  ‘Yes, Edouard Bréon, you know, the famous French baritone. He lives near here, there was a picture of his house in this week’s Country Homes. He is the very man.’

  ‘It is an answer from heaven,’ cried Nazorkoff. ‘Bréon as Scarpia, I remember him well, it was one of his greatest rôles. But he has retired, has he not?’

  ‘I will get him,’ said Lady Rustonbury. ‘Leave it to me.’

  And being a woman of decision, she straightway ordered out the Hispano Suiza. Ten minutes later, M. Edouard Bréon’s country retreat was invaded by an agitated countess. Lady Rustonbury, once she had made her mind up, was a very determined woman, and doubtless M. Bréon realized that there was nothing for it but to submit. Himself a man of very humble origin, he had climbed to the top of his profession, and had consorted on equal terms with dukes and princes, and the fact never failed to gratify him. Yet, since his retirement to this old-world English spot, he had known discontent. He missed the life of adulation and applause, and the English county had not been as prompt to recognize him as he thought they should have been. So he was greatly flattered and charmed by Lady Rustonbury’s request.

  ‘I will do my poor best,’ he said, smiling. ‘As you know, I have not sung in public for a long time now. I do not even take pupils, only one or two as a great favour. But there – since Signor Roscari is unfortunately indisposed –’

  ‘It was a terrible blow,’ said Lady Rustonbury. ‘Not that he is really a singer,’ said Bréon.

  He told her at some length why this was so. There had been, it seemed, no baritone of distinction since Edouard Bréon retired.

  ‘Mme Nazorkoff is singing “Tosca”,’ said Lady Rustonbury. ‘You know her, I dare say?’

  ‘I have never met her,’ said Bréon. ‘I heard her sing once in New York. A great artist – she has a sense of drama.’

  Lady Rustonbury felt relieved – one never knew with these singers – they had such queer jealousies and antipathies.

  She re-entered the hall at the castle some twenty minutes later waving a triumphant hand.

  ‘I have got him,’ she cried, laughing. ‘Dear M. Bréon has really been too kind, I shall never forget it.’

  Everyone crowded round the Frenchman, and their gratitude and appreciation were as incense to him. Edouard Bréon, though now close on sixty, was still a fine-looking man, big and dark, with a magnetic personality.

  ‘Let me see,’ said Lady Rustonbury. ‘Where is Madame –? Oh! there she is.’

  Paula Nazorkoff had taken no part in the general welcoming of the Frenchman. She had remained quietly sitting in a high oak chair in the shadow of the fireplace. There was, of course, no fire, for the evening was a warm one and the singer was slowly fanning herself with an immense palm-leaf fan. So aloof and detached was she, that Lady Ruston-bury feared she had taken offence.

  ‘M. Bréon.’ She led him up to the singer. ‘You have never yet met Madame Nazorkoff, you say.’

  With a last wave, almost a flourish, of the palm leaf, Paula Nazorkoff laid it down, and stretched out her hand to the Frenchman. He took it and bowed low over it, and a faint sigh escaped from the prima donna’s lips.

  ‘Madame,’ said Bréon, ‘we have never sung together. That is the penalty of my age! But Fate has been kind to me, and come to my rescue.’

  Paula laughed softly.

  ‘You are too kind, M. Bréon. When I was still but a poor little unknown singer, I have sat at your feet. Your “Rigoletto” – what art, what perfection! No one could touch you.’

  ‘Alas!’ said Bréon, pretending to sigh. ‘My day is over. Scarpia, Rigoletto, Radames, Sharpless, how many times have I not sung them, and now – no more!’

  ‘Yes – tonight.’

  ‘True, Madame – I forgot. Tonight.’

  ‘You have sung with many “Toscas”,’ said Nazorkoff arrogantly; ‘but never with me!’

  The Frenchman bowed.

  ‘It will be an honour,’ he said softly. ‘It is a great part, Madame.’

  ‘It needs not only a singer, but an actress,’ put in Lady Rustonbury.

  ‘That is true,’ Bréon agreed. ‘I remember when I was a young man in Italy, going to a little out of the way theatre in Milan. My seat cost me only a couple of lira, but I heard as good singing that night as I have heard in the Metropolitan Opera House in New York. Quite a young girl sang “Tosca”, she sang it like an angel. Never shall I forget her voice in “Vissi D’Arte”, the clearness of it, the purity. But the dramatic force, that was lacking.’

  Nazorkoff nodded.

  ‘That comes later,’ she said quietly.

  ‘True. This young girl – Bianca Capelli, her name was – I interested myself in her career. Through me she had the chance of big engagements, but she was foolish – regrettably foolish.’

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘How was she foolish?’

  It was Lady Rustonbury’s twenty-four-year-old daughter, Blanche Amery, who spoke. A slender girl with wide blue eyes.

  The Frenchman turned to her at once politely.

  ‘Alas! Mademoiselle, she had embroiled herself with some low fellow, a ruffian, a member of the Camorra. He got into trouble with the police, was condemned to death; she came to me begging me to do something to save her lover.’

  Blanche Amery was staring at him. ‘And did you?’ she asked breathlessly. ‘Me, Mademoiselle, what could I do? A stranger in the country.’

  ‘You might have had influence?’ suggested Nazorkoff, in her low vibrant voice.

  ‘If I had, I doubt whether I should have exerted it. The man was not worth it. I did what I could for the girl.’

  He smiled a little, and his smile suddenly struck the English girl as having something peculiarly disagreeable about it. She felt that, at that moment, his words fell far short of representing his thoughts.

  ‘You did what you could,’ said Nazorkoff. ‘That was kind of you, and she was grateful, eh?’

  The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘The man was executed,’ he said, ‘and the girl entered a convent. Eh, voilà! The world has lost a singer.’

  Nazorkoff gave a low laugh.

  ‘We Russians are more fickle,’ she said lightly.

  Blanche Amery happened to be watching Cowan just as the singer spoke, and she saw his quick look of astonishment, and his lips that half-opened and then shut tight in obedience to some warning glance from Paula.

  The butler appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Dinner,’ said Lady Rustonbury, rising. ‘You poor things, I am so sorry for you, it must be dreadful always to have to starve yourself before singing. But there will be a very good supper afterwards.’

  ‘We shall look forward to it,’ said Paula Nazorkoff. She laughed softly. ‘Afterwards!’

  Inside the theatre, the first act of Tosca had just drawn to a close. The audience stirred, spoke to each other. The royalties, charming and gracious, sat in the three velvet chairs in the front row. Everyone was whispering and murmuring to each other, there was a general feeling that in the first act Nazorkoff had hardly lived up to her great reputation. Most of the audience did not realize that in this the singer showed her art, in the first act she was saving her voice and herself. She made of La Tosca a light, frivolous figure, toying with love, coquettishly jealous and exciting. Bréon, though the glory of his voice was past its prime, still struck a magnificent figure as the cynical Scarpia. There was no hint of the decrepit roué in his conception of the part. He made of Scarpia a handsome, almost benign figure, with just a hint of the subtle malevolence that underlay the outward seeming. In the last passage, with the organ and the procession, when Scarpia stands lost in thought, gloating over his plan to secure Tosca, Bréon had displayed a wonderful art. Now the curtain rose up on the second act, the scene in Scarpia’s apartments.

  This time, when Tosca entered, the ar
t of Nazorkoff at once became apparent. Here was a woman in deadly terror playing her part with the assurance of a fine actress. Her easy greeting of Scarpia, her nonchalance, her smiling replies to him! In this scene, Paula Nazorkoff acted with her eyes, she carried herself with deadly quietness, with an impassive, smiling face. Only her eyes that kept darting glances at Scarpia betrayed her true feelings. And so the story went on, the torture scene, the breaking down of Tosca’s composure, and her utter abandonment when she fell at Scarpia’s feet imploring him vainly for mercy. Old Lord Leconmere, a connoisseur of music, moved appreciatively, and a foreign ambassador sitting next to him murmured:

  ‘She surpasses herself, Nazorkoff, tonight. There is no other woman on the stage who can let herself go as she does.’

  Leconmere nodded.

  And now Scarpia has named his price, and Tosca, horrified, flies from him to the window. Then comes the beat of drums from afar, and Tosca flings herself wearily down on the sofa. Scarpia standing over her, recites how his people are raising up the gallows – and then silence, and again the far-off beat of drums. Nazorkoff lay prone on the sofa, her head hanging downwards almost touching the floor, masked by her hair. Then, in exquisite contrast to the passion and stress of the last twenty minutes, her voice rang out, high and clear, the voice, as she had told Cowan, of a choir boy or an angel.

  ‘Vissi d’arte, vissi d’arte, no feci mai male ad anima viva. Con man furtiva quante miserie conobbi, aiutai.’

  It was the voice of a wondering, puzzled child. Then she is once more kneeling and imploring, till the instant when Spoletta enters. Tosca, exhausted, gives in, and Scarpia utters his fateful words of double-edged meaning. Spoletta departs once more. Then comes the dramatic moment, whe Tosca, raising a glass of wine in her trembling hand, catches sight of the knife on the table, and slips it behind her.

  Bréon rose up, handsome, saturnine, inflamed with passion. ‘Tosca, finalmente mia!’ The lightning stabs with the knife, and Tosca’s hiss of vengeance:

  ‘Questo e il bacio di Tosca!’ (‘It is thus that Tosca kisses.’)

  Never had Nazorkoff shown such an appreciation of Tosca’s act of vengeance. That last fierce whispered ‘Muori dannato,’ and then in a strange, quiet voice that filled the theatre: