Appointment with Death. Agatha Christie

in the morning and see what can be arranged.’

      A party of people entered the lounge and sat down. Sarah watched them with some interest. She lowered her voice.

      ‘Those people who have just come in, did you notice them on the train the other night? They left Cairo the same time as we did.’

      Dr Gerard screwed in an eyeglass and directed his glance across the room. ‘Americans?’

      Sarah nodded.

      ‘Yes. An American family. But—rather an unusual one, I think.’

      ‘Unusual? How unusual?’

      ‘Well, look at them. Especially at the old woman.’

      Dr Gerard complied. His keen professional glance flitted swiftly from face to face.

      He noticed first a tall rather loose-boned man—age about thirty. The face was pleasant but weak and his manner seemed oddly apathetic. Then there were two good-looking youngsters—the boy had almost a Greek head. ‘Something the matter with him, too,’ thought Dr Gerard. ‘Yes—a definite state of nervous tension.’ The girl was clearly his sister, a strong resemblance, and she also was in an excitable condition. There was another girl younger still—with golden-red hair that stood out like a halo; her hands were very restless, they were tearing and pulling at the handkerchief in her lap. Yet another woman, young, calm, dark-haired with a creamy pallor, a placid face not unlike a Luini Madonna. Nothing jumpy about her! And the centre of the group—‘Heavens!’ thought Dr Gerard, with a Frenchman’s candid repulsion. ‘What a horror of a woman!’ Old, swollen, bloated, sitting there immovable in the midst of them—a distorted old Buddha—a gross spider in the centre of a web!

      To Sarah he said: ‘La Maman, she is not beautiful, eh?’ And he shrugged his shoulders.

      ‘There’s something rather—sinister about her, don’t you think?’ asked Sarah.

      Dr Gerard scrutinized her again. This time his eye was professional, not aesthetic.

      ‘Dropsy—cardiac—’ he added a glib medical phrase.

      ‘Oh, yes, that!’ Sarah dismissed the medical side.

      ‘But there is something odd in their attitude to her, don’t you think?’

      ‘Who are they, do you know?’

      ‘Their name is Boynton. Mother, married son, his wife, one younger son and two younger daughters.’

      Dr Gerard murmured: ‘La famille Boynton sees the world.’

      ‘Yes, but there’s something odd about the way they’re seeing it. They never speak to anyone else. And none of them can do anything unless the old woman says so!’

      ‘She is of the matriarchal type,’ said Gerard thoughtfully.

      ‘She’s a complete tyrant, I think,’ said Sarah.

      Dr Gerard shrugged his shoulders and remarked that the American woman ruled the earth—that was well known.

      ‘Yes, but it’s more than just that.’ Sarah was persistent. ‘She’s—oh, she’s got them all so cowed—so positively under her thumb—that it’s—it’s indecent!’

      ‘To have too much power is bad for women,’ Gerard agreed with sudden gravity. He shook his head.

      ‘It is difficult for a woman not to abuse power.’

      He shot a quick sideways glance at Sarah. She was watching the Boynton family—or rather she was watching one particular member of it. Dr Gerard smiled a quick comprehending Gallic smile. Ah! So it was like that, was it?

      He murmured tentatively: ‘You have spoken with them—yes?’

      ‘Yes—at least with one of them.’

      ‘The young man—the younger son?’

      ‘Yes. On the train coming here from Kantara. He was standing in the corridor. I spoke to him.’

      There was no self-consciousness in her attitude to life. She was interested in humanity and was of a friendly though impatient disposition.

      ‘What made you speak to him?’ asked Gerard.

      Sarah shrugged her shoulders.

      ‘Why not? I often speak to people travelling. I’m interested in people—in what they do and think and feel.’

      ‘You put them under the microscope, that is to say.’

      ‘I suppose you might call it that,’ the girl admitted.

      ‘And what were your impressions in this case?’

      ‘Well,’ she hesitated, ‘it was rather odd…To begin with, the boy flushed right up to the roots of his hair.’

      ‘Is that so remarkable?’ asked Gerard drily.

      Sarah laughed.

      ‘You mean that he thought I was a shameless hussy making advances to him? Oh, no, I don’t think he thought that. Men can always tell, can’t they?’

      She gave him a frank questioning glance. Dr Gerard nodded his head.

      ‘I got the impression,’ said Sarah, speaking slowly and frowning a little, ‘that he was—how shall I put it?—both excited and appalled. Excited out of all proportion—and quite absurdly apprehensive at the same time. Now that’s odd, isn’t it? Because I’ve always found Americans unusually self-possessed. An American boy of twenty, say, has infinitely more knowledge of the world and far more savoir-faire than an English boy of the same age. And this boy must be over twenty.’

      ‘About twenty-three or four, I should say.’

      ‘As much as that?’

      ‘I should think so.’

      ‘Yes…perhaps you’re right…Only, somehow, he seems very young…’

      ‘Maladjustment mentally. The “child” factor persists.’

      ‘Then I am right? I mean, there is something not quite normal about him?’

      Dr Gerard shrugged his shoulders, smiling a little at her earnestness.

      ‘My dear young lady, are any of us quite normal? But I grant you that there is probably a neurosis of some kind.’

      ‘Connected with that horrible old woman, I’m sure.’

      ‘You seem to dislike her very much,’ said Gerard, looking at her curiously.

      ‘I do. She’s got a—oh, a malevolent eye!’

      Gerard murmured: ‘So have many mothers when their sons are attracted to fascinating young ladies!’

      Sarah shrugged an impatient shoulder. Frenchmen were all alike, she thought, obsessed by sex! Though, of course, as a conscientious psychologist she herself was bound to admit that there was always an underlying basis of sex to most phenomena. Sarah’s thoughts ran along a familiar psychological track.

      She came out of her meditations with a start. Raymond Boynton was crossing the room to the centre table. He selected a magazine. As he passed her chair on his return journey she looked at him and spoke.

      ‘Have you been busy sightseeing today?’

      She selected her words at random, her real interest was to see how they would be received.

      Raymond half stopped, flushed, shied like a nervous horse and his eyes went apprehensively to the centre of his family group. He muttered: ‘Oh—oh, yes—why, yes, certainly. I—’

      Then, as suddenly as though he had received the prick of a spur, he hurried back to his family, holding out the magazine.

      The grotesque Buddha-like figure held out a fat hand for it, but as she took it her eyes, Dr Gerard noticed, were on the