Parker Pyne Investigates

  ‘There isn’t much of my story,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘You were the only man who’d picked up things from the ground–that’s what made me think of you. And finding that little pebble was significant. It suggested the trick you’d played. And then–’

  ‘Go on,’ said Carver.

  ‘Well, you see, you’d talked about honesty a little too vehemently last night. Protesting overmuch–well, you know what Shakespeare says. It looked, somehow, as though you were trying to convince yourself. And you were a little too scornful about money.’

  The face of the man in front of him looked lined and weary. ‘Well, that’s that,’ he said. ‘It’s all up with me now. You’ll give the girl back her geegaw, I suppose? Odd thing, the barbaric instinct for ornamentation. You find it going back as far as Palaeolithic times. One of the first instincts of the female sex.’

  ‘I think you misjudge Miss Carol,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘She has brains–and what is more, a heart. I think she will keep this business to herself.’

  ‘Father won’t, though,’ said the archaeologist.

  ‘I think he will. You see “Pop” has his own reasons for keeping quiet. There’s no forty-thousand-dollar touch about this earring. A mere fiver would cover its value.’

  ‘You mean–?’

  ‘Yes. The girl doesn’t know. She thinks they are genuine, all right. I had my suspicions last night. Mr Blundell talked a little too much about all the money he had. When things go wrong and you’re caught in the slump–well, the best thing to do is to put a good face on it and bluff. Mr Blundell was bluffing.’

  Suddenly Doctor Carver grinned. It was an engaging small-boy grin, strange to see on the face of an elderly man.

  ‘Then we’re all poor devils together,’ he said.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Mr Parker Pyne and quoted, ‘“A fellow feeling makes us wondrous kind.”’

  Death on the Nile

  I

  Lady Grayle was nervous. From the moment of coming on board the S.S. Fayoum she complained of everything. She did not like her cabin. She could bear the morning sun, but not the afternoon sun. Pamela Grayle, her niece, obligingly gave up her cabin on the other side. Lady Grayle accepted it grudgingly.

  She snapped at Miss MacNaughton, her nurse, for having given her the wrong scarf and for having packed her little pillow instead of leaving it out. She snapped at her husband, Sir George, for having just bought her the wrong string of beads. It was lapis she wanted, not carnelian. George was a fool!

  Sir George said anxiously, ‘Sorry, me dear, sorry. I’ll go back and change ’em. Plenty of time.’

  She did not snap at Basil West, her husband’s private secretary, because nobody ever snapped at Basil. His smile disarmed you before you began.

  But the worst of it fell assuredly to the dragoman–an imposing and richly dressed personage whom nothing could disturb.

  When Lady Grayle caught sight of a stranger in a basket chair and realized that he was a fellow passenger, the vials of her wrath were poured out like water.

  ‘They told me distinctly at the office that we were the only passengers! It was the end of the season and there was no one else going!’

  ‘That right lady,’ said Mohammed calmly. ‘Just you and party and one gentleman, that’s all.’

  ‘But I was told that there would be only ourselves.’

  ‘That quite right, lady.’

  ‘It’s not all right! It was a lie! What is that man doing here?’

  ‘He come later, lady. After you take tickets. He only decide to come this morning.’

  ‘It’s an absolute swindle!’

  ‘That’s all right, lady; him very quiet gentleman, very nice, very quiet.’

  ‘You’re a fool! You know nothing about it. Miss MacNaughton, where are you? Oh, there you are. I’ve repeatedly asked you to stay near me. I might feel faint. Help me to my cabin and give me an aspirin, and don’t let Mohammed come near me. He keeps on saying “That’s right, lady,” till I feel I could scream.’

  Miss McNaughton proffered an arm without a word.

  She was a tall woman of about thirty-five, handsome in a quiet, dark way. She settled Lady Grayle in the cabin, propped her up with cushions, administered an aspirin and listened to the thin flow of complaint.

  Lady Grayle was forty-eight. She had suffered since she was sixteen from the complaint of having too much money. She had married that impoverished baronet, Sir George Grayle, ten years before.

  She was a big woman, not bad-looking as regarded features, but her face was fretful and lined, and the lavish make-up-she applied only accentuated the blemishes of time and temper. Her hair had been in turn platinum-blonde and henna-red, and was looking tired in consequence. She was overdressed and wore too much jewellery.

  ‘Tell Sir George,’ she finished, while the silent Miss MacNaughton waited with an expressionless face–‘tell Sir George that he must get that man off the boat! I must have privacy. All I’ve gone through lately–’ She shut her eyes.

  ‘Yes, Lady Grayle,’ said Miss MacNaughton, and left the cabin.

  The offending last-minute passenger was still sitting in the deck-chair. He had his back to Luxor and was staring out across the Nile to where the distant hills showed golden above a line of dark green.

  Miss MacNaughton gave him a swift, appraising glance as she passed.

  She found Sir George in the lounge. He was holding a string of beads in his hand and looking at it doubtfully.

  ‘Tell me, Miss MacNaughton, do you think these will be all right?’

  Miss MacNaughton gave a swift glance at the lapis.

  ‘Very nice indeed,’ she said.

  ‘You think Lady Grayle will be pleased–eh?’

  ‘Oh no, I shouldn’t say that, Sir George. You see, nothing would please her. That’s the real truth of it. By the way, she sent me with a message to you. She wants you to get rid of this extra passenger.’

  Sir George’s jaw dropped. ‘How can I? What could I say to the fellow?’

  ‘Of course you can’t.’ Elsie MacNaughton’s voice was brisk and kindly. ‘Just say there was nothing to be done.’

  She added encouragingly, ‘It will be all right.’

  ‘You think it will, eh?’ His face was ludicrously pathetic.

  Elsie MacNaughton’s voice was still kinder as she said: ‘You really must not take these things to heart, Sir George. It’s just health, you know. Don’t take it seriously.’

  ‘You think she’s really bad, nurse?’

  A shadow crossed the nurse’s face. There was something odd in her voice as she answered: ‘Yes, I–I don’t quite like her condition. But please don’t worry, Sir George. You mustn’t. You really mustn’t.’ She gave him a friendly smile and went out.

  Pamela came in, very languid and cool in her white.

  ‘Hallo, Nunks.’

  ‘Hallo, Pam, my dear.’

  ‘What have you got there? Oh, nice!’

  ‘Well, I’m so glad you think so. Do you think your aunt will think so, too?’

  ‘She’s incapable of liking anything. I can’t think why you married the woman, Nunks.’

  Sir George was silent. A confused panorama of unsuccessful racing, pressing creditors and a handsome if domineering woman rose before his mental vision.

  ‘Poor old dear,’ said Pamela. ‘I suppose you had to do it. But she does give us both rather hell, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Since she’s been ill–’ began Sir George.

  Pamela interrupted him.

  ‘She’s not ill! Not really. She can always do anything she wants to. Why, while you were up at Assouan she was as merry as a–a cricket. I bet you Miss MacNaughton knows she’s a fraud.’

  ‘I don’t know what we’d do without Miss MacNaughton,’ said Sir George with a sigh.

  ‘She’s an efficient creature,’ admitted Pamela. ‘I don’t exactly dote on her as you do, though, Nunks. Oh, you do! Don’t contradict. You think she’s wonderful. So she is, in a way.
But she’s a dark horse. I never know what she’s thinking. Still, she manages the old cat quite well.’

  ‘Look here, Pam, you mustn’t speak of your aunt like that. Dash it all, she’s very good to you.’

  ‘Yes, she pays all our bills, doesn’t she? It’s a hell of a life, though.’

  Sir George passed on to a less painful subject. ‘What are we to do about this fellow who’s coming on the trip? Your aunt wants the boat to herself.’

  ‘Well, she can’t have it,’ said Pamela coolly. ‘The man’s quite presentable. His name’s Parker Pyne. I should think he was a civil servant out of the Records Department–if there is such a thing. Funny thing is, I seem to have heard the name somewhere. Basil!’ The secretary had just entered. ‘Where have I seen the name Parker Pyne?’

  ‘Front page of The Times Agony column,’ replied the young man promptly. ‘“Are you happy? If not, consult Mr Parker Pyne.”’

  ‘Never! How frightfully amusing! Let’s tell him all our troubles all the way to Cairo.’

  ‘I haven’t any,’ said Basil West simply. ‘We’re going to glide down the golden Nile, and see temples’–he looked quickly at Sir George, who had picked up a paper–‘together.’

  The last word was only just breathed, but Pamela caught it. Her eyes met his.

  ‘You’re right, Basil,’ she said lightly. ‘It’s good to be alive.’

  Sir George got up and went out. Pamela’s face clouded over.

  ‘What’s the matter, my sweet?’

  ‘My detested aunt by marriage–’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Basil quickly. ‘What does it matter what she gets into her head? Don’t contradict her. You see,’ he laughed, ‘it’s good camouflage.’

  The benevolent figure of Mr Parker Pyne entered the lounge. Behind him came the picturesque figure of Mohammed, prepared to say his piece.

  ‘Lady, gentlemans, we start now. In a few minutes we pass temples of Karnak right-hand side. I tell you story now about little boy who went to buy a roasted lamb for his father…’

  II

  Mr Parker Pyne mopped his forehead. He had just returned from a visit to the Temple of Dendera. Riding on a donkey was, he felt, an exercise ill suited to his figure. He was proceeding to remove his collar when a note propped up on the dressing table caught his attention. He opened it. It ran as follows:

  Dear Sir,–I should be obliged if you should not visit the Temple of Abydos, but would remain on the boat, as I wish to consult you.

  Yours truly,

  Ariadne Grayle

  A smile creased Mr Parker Pyne’s large, bland face. He reached for a sheet of paper and unscrewed his fountain pen.

  Dear Lady Grayle (he wrote), I am sorry to disappoint you, but I am at present on holiday and am not doing any professional business.

  He signed his name and dispatched the letter by a steward. As he completed his change of toilet, another note was brought to him.

  Dear Mr Parker Pyne,–I appreciate the fact that you are on holiday, but I am prepared to pay a fee of a hundred pounds for a consultation.

  Yours truly,

  Ariadne Grayle

  Mr Parker Pyne’s eyebrows rose. He tapped his teeth thoughtfully with his fountain pen. He wanted to see Abydos, but a hundred pounds was a hundred pounds. And Egypt had been even more wickedly expensive than he had imagined.

  Dear Lady Grayle (he wrote),–I shall not visit the Temple of Abydos.

  Yours faithfully,

  J. Parker Pyne

  Mr Parker Pyne’s refusal to leave the boat was a source of great grief to Mohammed.

  ‘Very nice temple. All my gentlemans like see that temple. I get you carriage. I get you chair and sailors carry you.’

  Mr Parker Pyne refused all these tempting offers.

  The others set off.

  Mr Parker Pyne waited on deck. Presently the door of Lady Grayle’s cabin opened and the lady herself trailed out on deck.

  ‘Such a hot afternoon,’ she observed graciously. ‘I see you have stayed behind, Mr Pyne. Very wise of you. Shall we have some tea together in the lounge?’

  Mr Parker Pyne rose promptly and followed her. It cannot be denied that he was curious.

  It seemed as though Lady Grayle felt some difficulty in coming to the point. She fluttered from this subject to that. But finally she spoke in an altered voice.

  ‘Mr Pyne, what I am about to tell you is in the strictest confidence! You do understand that, don’t you?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  She paused, took a deep breath. Mr Parker Pyne waited.

  ‘I want to know whether or not my husband is poisoning me.’

  Whatever Mr Parker Pyne had expected, it was not this. He showed his astonishment plainly. ‘That is a very serious accusation to make, Lady Grayle.’

  ‘Well, I’m not a fool and I wasn’t born yesterday. I’ve had my suspicions for some time. Whenever George goes away I get better. My food doesn’t disagree with me and I feel a different woman. There must be some reason for that.’

  ‘What you say is very serious, Lady Grayle. You must remember I am not a detective. I am, if you like to put it that way, a heart specialist–’

  She interrupted him. ‘Eh–and don’t you think it worries me, all this? It’s not a policeman I want–I can look after myself, thank you–it’s certainty I want. I’ve got to know. I’m not a wicked woman, Mr Pyne. I act fairly by those who act fairly by me. A bargain’s a bargain. I’ve kept my side of it. I’ve paid my husband’s debts and I’ve not stinted him in money.’

  Mr Parker Pyne had a fleeting pang of pity for Sir George. ‘And as for the girl she’s had clothes and parties and this, that and the other. Common gratitude is all I ask.’

  ‘Gratitude is not a thing that can be produced to order, Lady Grayle.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ said Lady Grayle. She went on: ‘Well, there it is! Find out the truth for me! Once I know–’

  He looked at her curiously. ‘Once you know, what then, Lady Grayle?’

  ‘That’s my business.’ Her lips closed sharply.

  Mr Parker Pyne hesitated a minute, then he said: ‘You will excuse me, Lady Grayle, but I have the impression that you are not being entirely frank with me.’

  ‘That’s absurd. I’ve told you exactly what I want you to find out.’

  ‘Yes, but not the reason why?’

  Their eyes met. Hers fell first.

  ‘I should think the reason was self-evident,’ she said.

  ‘No, because I am in doubt upon one point.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Do you want your suspicions proved right or wrong?’

  ‘Really, Mr Pyne!’ The lady rose to her feet, quivering with indignation.

  Mr Parker Pyne nodded his head gently. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘But that doesn’t answer my question, you know.’

  ‘Oh!’ Words seemed to fail her. She swept out of the room.

  Left alone, Mr Parker Pyne became very thoughtful. He was so deep in his own thoughts that he started perceptibly when someone came in and sat down opposite him. It was Miss MacNaughton.

  ‘Surely you’re all back very soon,’ said Mr Parker Pyne.

  ‘The others aren’t back. I said I had a headache and came back alone.’ She hesitated. ‘Where is Lady Grayle?’

  ‘I should imagine lying down in her cabin.’

  ‘Oh, then that’s all right. I don’t want her to know I’ve come back.’

  ‘You didn’t come on her account then?’

  Miss MacNaughton shook her head. ‘No, I came back to see you.’

  Mr Parker Pyne was surprised. He would have said off-hand that Miss MacNaughton was eminently capable of looking after troubles herself without seeking outside advice. It seemed that he was wrong.

  ‘I’ve watched you since we all came on board. I think you’re a person of wide experience and good judgement. And I want advice very badly.’

  ‘And yet–excuse me, Miss MacNaughton–but you’re not the t
ype that usually seeks advice. I should say that you were a person who was quite content to rely on her own judgement.’

  ‘Normally, yes. But I am in a very peculiar position.’

  She hesitated a moment. ‘I do not usually talk about my cases. But in this instance I think it is necessary. Mr Pyne, when I left England with Lady Grayle, she was a straightforward case. In plain language, there was nothing the matter with her. That’s not quite true, perhaps. Too much leisure and too much money do produce a definite pathological condition. Having a few floors to scrub every day and five or six children to look after would have made Lady Grayle a perfectly healthy and a much happier woman.’

  Mr Parker Pyne nodded.

  ‘As a hospital nurse, one sees a lot of these nervous cases. Lady Grayle enjoyed her bad health. It was my part not to minimize her sufferings, to be as tactful as I could–and to enjoy the trip myself as much as possible.’

  ‘Very sensible,’ said Mr Parker Pyne.

  ‘But Mr Pyne, things are not as they were. The suffering that Lady Grayle complains of now is real and not imagined.’

  ‘You mean?’

  ‘I have come to suspect that Lady Grayle is being poisoned.’

  ‘Since when have you suspected this?’

  ‘For the past three weeks.’

  ‘Do you suspect–any particular person?’

  Her eyes dropped. For the first time her voice lacked sincerity. ‘No.’

  ‘I put it to you, Miss MacNaughton, that you do suspect one particular person, and that that person is Sir George Grayle.’

  ‘Oh, no, no, I can’t believe it of him! He is so pathetic, so child-like. He couldn’t be a cold-blooded poisoner.’ Her voice had an anguished note in it.

  ‘And yet you have noticed that whenever Sir George is absent his wife is better and that her periods of illness correspond with his return.’

  She did not answer.

  ‘What poison do you suspect? Arsenic?’

  ‘Something of that kind. Arsenic or antimony.’