“I think perhaps some other time would be better,” he said stiffly. “As—er—Doyle says, if you have to read through all these we shall be here till lunchtime. We mustn’t miss enjoying the scenery. Anyway those first two papers were the only urgent ones. We’ll settle down to business later.”
“It’s frightfully hot in here,” Linnet said. “Let’s go outside.”
The three of them passed through the swing door. Hercule Poirot turned his head. His gaze rested thoughtfully on Mr. Fanthorp’s back; then it shifted to the lounging figure of Mr. Ferguson who had his head thrown back and was still whistling softly to himself.
Finally Poirot looked over at the upright figure of Miss Van Schuyler in her corner. Miss Van Schuyler was glaring at Mr. Ferguson.
The swing door on the port side opened and Cornelia Robson hurried in.
“You’ve been a long time,” snapped the old lady. “Where’ve you been?”
“I’m so sorry, Cousin Marie. The wool wasn’t where you said it was. It was in another case altogether—”
“My dear child, you are perfectly hopeless at finding anything! You are willing, I know, my dear, but you must try to be a little cleverer and quicker. It only needs concentration.”
“I’m so sorry, Cousin Marie. I’m afraid I am very stupid.”
“Nobody need be stupid if they try, my dear. I have brought you on this trip, and I expect a little attention in return.”
Cornelia flushed.
“I’m very sorry, Cousin Marie.”
“And where is Miss Bowers? It was time for my drops ten minutes ago. Please go and find her at once. The doctor said it was most important—”
But at this stage Miss Bowers entered, carrying a small medicine glass.
“Your drops, Miss Van Schuyler.”
“I should have had them at eleven,” snapped the old lady. “If there’s one thing I detest it’s unpunctuality.”
“Quite,” said Miss Bowers. She glanced at her wristwatch. “It’s exactly half a minute to eleven.”
“By my watch it’s ten past.”
“I think you’ll find my watch is right. It’s a perfect timekeeper. It never loses or gains.” Miss Bowers was quite imperturbable.
Miss Van Schuyler swallowed the contents of the medicine glass.
“I feel definitely worse,” she snapped.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Van Schuyler.”
Miss Bowers did not sound sorry. She sounded completely uninterested. She was obviously making the correct reply mechanically.
“It’s too hot in here,” snapped Miss Van Schuyler. “Find me a chair on the deck, Miss Bowers. Cornelia, bring my knitting. Don’t be clumsy or drop it. And then I shall want you to wind some wool.”
The procession passed out.
Mr. Ferguson sighed, stirred his legs and remarked to the world at large, “Gosh, I’d like to scrag that dame.”
Poirot asked interestedly: “She is a type you dislike, eh?”
“Dislike? I should say so. What good has that woman ever been to anyone or anything? She’s never worked or lifted a finger. She’s just battened on other people. She’s a parasite—and a damned unpleasant parasite. There are a lot of people on this boat I’d say the world could do without.”
“Really?”
“Yes. That girl in here just now, signing share transfers and throwing her weight about. Hundreds and thousands of wretched workers slaving for a mere pittance to keep her in silk stockings and useless luxuries. One of the richest women in England, so someone told me—and never done a hand’s turn in her life.”