Appointment With Death (Hercule Poirot 19)

‘A regular family party,’ said Nadine, smiling as she looked round. Then she said to Lennox: ‘I think the children might go to the matinée, don’t you? They’re quite old enough, and they do so want to see Aunt Jinny on the stage!’

Lennox, a sane, happy-looking Lennox with humorous eyes, lifted his glass.

‘To the newly-weds, Mr and Mrs Cope.’

Jefferson Cope and Carol acknowledged the toast.

‘The unfaithful swain!’ said Carol, laughing. ‘Jeff, you’d better drink to your first love as she’s sitting right opposite you.’

Raymond said gaily: ‘Jeff’s blushing. He doesn’t like being reminded of the old days.’

His face clouded suddenly.

Sarah touched his hand with hers, and the cloud lifted. He looked at her and grinned.

‘Seems just like a bad dream!’

A dapper figure stopped by their table. Hercule Poirot, faultlessly and beautifully apparelled, his moustaches proudly twisted, bowed regally.

‘Mademoiselle,’ he said to Ginevra, ‘mes hommages. You were superb!’

They greeted him affectionately, made a place for him beside Sarah.

He beamed round on them all and when they were all talking he leaned a little sideways and said softly to Sarah:

‘Eh bien, it seems that all marches well now with la famille Boynton!’

‘Thanks to you!’ said Sarah.

‘He becomes very eminent, your husband. I read today an excellent review of his

last book.’

‘It’s really rather good—although I say it! Did you know that Carol and Jefferson Cope had made a match of it at last? And Lennox and Nadine have got two of the nicest children—cute, Raymond calls them. As for Jinny—well, I rather think Jinny’s a genius.’

She looked across the table at the lovely face and the red-gold crown of hair, and then she gave a tiny start.

For a moment her face was grave. She raised her glass slowly to her lips.

‘You drink a toast, madame?’ asked Poirot.

Sarah said slowly:

‘I thought—suddenly—of Her. Looking at Jinny, I saw—for the first time—the likeness. The same thing—only Jinny is in light—where She was in darkness…’

And from opposite, Ginevra said unexpectedly:

‘Poor Mother…She was queer…Now—that we’re all so happy—I feel kind of sorry for her. She didn’t get what she wanted out of life. It must have been tough for her.’

Almost without a pause, her voice quivered softly into the lines from Cymbeline while the others listened spell-bound to the music of them:

‘Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,

Nor the furious winter’s rages;

Thou the worldly task hast done,

Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages…’