Смерть на Ниле / Death on the Nile
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She stretched out a hand. The hand that clasped hers was firm and warm… She liked the way he looked at her, the na"ive genuine admiration.
Jackie had told him she was wonderful, and he clearly thought that she was wonderful…
A warm sweet feeling of intoxication ran through her veins.
‘Isn’t this all lovely?’ she said. ‘Come in, Simon, and let me welcome my new land agent properly.’
And as she turned to lead the way she thought: ‘I’m frightfully – frightfully happy. I like Jackie’s young man… I like him enormously…’
And then a sudden pang: ‘Lucky Jackie…’
Chapter 8
Tim Allerton leant back in his wicker chair and yawned as he looked out over the sea. He shot a quick sidelong glance at his mother.
Mrs Allerton was a good-looking, white-haired woman of fifty. By imparting an expression of pinched severity to her mouth every time she looked at her son, she sought to disguise the fact of her intense affection for him. Even total strangers were seldom deceived by this device and Tim himself saw through it perfectly.
He said:
‘Do you really like Majorca, Mother?’
‘Well-,’ Mrs Allerton considered, ‘it’s cheap.’
‘And cold,’ said Tim with a slight shiver.
He was a tall, thin young man, with dark hair and a rather narrow chest. His mouth had a very sweet expression, his eyes were sad and his chin was indecisive. He had long delicate hands.
Threatened by consumption some years ago, he had never displayed a really robust physique. He was popularly supposed ‘to write’, but it was understood among his friends that enquiries as to literary output were not encouraged.
‘What are you thinking of, Tim?’
Mrs Allerton was alert. Her bright dark-brown eyes looked suspicious.
Tim Allerton grinned at her:
‘I was thinking of Egypt.’
‘Egypt?’ Mrs Allerton sounded doubtful.
‘Real warmth, darling. Lazy golden sands. The Nile. I’d like to go up the Nile, wouldn’t you?’
‘Oh, I’d like it.’ Her tone was dry. ‘But Egypt’s expensive, my dear. Not for those who have to count the pennies.’
Tim laughed. He rose, stretched himself. Suddenly he looked alive and eager. There was an excited note in his voice.
‘The expense will be my affair. Yes, darling. A little flutter on the Stock Exchange. With thoroughly satisfactory results. I heard this morning.’
‘This morning?’ said Mrs Allerton sharply. ‘You only had one letter and that-’
She stopped and bit her lip.
Tim looked momentarily undecided whether to be amused or annoyed. Amusement gained the day.
‘And that was from Joanna,’ he finished coolly. ‘Quite right, Mother. What a queen of detectives you’d make! The famous Hercule Poirot would have to look to his laurels if you were about.’
Mrs Allerton looked rather cross.
‘I just happened to see the handwriting-’
‘And knew it wasn’t that of a stockbroker? Quite right. As a matter of fact it was yesterday I heard from them. Poor Joanna’s handwriting is rather noticeable – sprawls about all over the envelope like an inebriated spider.’
‘What does Joanna say? Any news?’
Mrs Allerton strove to make her voice sound casual and ordinary. The friendship between her son and his second cousin, Joanna Southwood, always irritated her. Not, as she put it to herself, that there was ‘anything in it’. She was quite sure there wasn’t. Tim had never manifested a sentimental interest in Joanna, nor she in him. Their mutual attraction seemed to be founded on gossip and the possession of a large number of friends and acquaintances in common. They both liked people and discussing people. Joanna had an amusing if caustic tongue.
It was not because Mrs Allerton feared that Tim might fall in love with Joanna that she found herself always becoming a little stiff in manner if Joanna were present or when letters from her arrived.
It was some other feeling hard to define – perhaps an unacknowledged jealousy in the unfeigned pleasure Tim always seemed to take in Joanna’s society. He and his mother were such perfect companions that the sight of him absorbed and interested in another woman always startled Mrs Allerton slightly. She fancied, too, that her own presence on these occasions set some barrier between the two members of the younger generation. Often she had come upon them eagerly absorbed in some conversation and, at sight of her, their talk had wavered, had seemed to include her rather too purposefully and as in duty bound. Quite definitely, Mrs Allerton did not like Joanna Southwood. She thought her insincere, affected, and essentially superficial. She found it very hard to prevent herself saying so in unmeasured tones.
In answer to her question, Tim pulled the letter out of his pocket and glanced through it. It was quite a long letter, his mother noted.
‘Nothing much,’ he said. ‘The Devenishes are getting a divorce. Old Monty’s been had up for being drunk in charge of a car. Windlesham’s gone to Canada. Seems he was pretty badly hit when Linnet Ridgeway turned him down. She’s definitely going to marry this land agent person.’
‘How extraordinary! Is he very dreadful?’
‘No, no, not at all. He’s one of the Devonshire Doyles. No money, of course – and he was actually engaged to one of Linnet’s best friends. Pretty thick, that.’
‘I don’t think it’s at all nice,’ said Mrs Allerton, flushing.
Tim flashed her a quick affectionate glance.
‘I know, darling. You don’t approve of snaffling other people’s husbands and all that sort of thing.’
‘In my day we had our standards,’ said Mrs Allerton. ‘And a very good thing too! Nowadays young people seem to think they can just go about doing anything they choose.’
Tim smiled.
‘They don’t only think it. They do it. Vide Linnet Ridgeway!’
‘Well, I think it’s horrid!’
Tim twinkled at her.
‘Cheer up, you old die-hard! Perhaps I agree with you. Anyway, I haven’t helped myself to anyone’s wife or fianc'ee yet.’
‘I’m sure you’d never do such a thing,’ said Mrs Allerton. She added with spirit, ‘I’ve brought you up properly.’
‘So the credit is yours, not mine.’
He smiled teasingly at her as he folded the letter and put it away again. Mrs Allerton let the thought just flash across her mind: ‘Most letters he shows to me. He only reads me snippets from Joanna’s.’