The Christie Affair(38)

‘May I?’

He nodded and I eased the photograph out of his hand. Agatha stared back at me, hair swept off her face, head tilted, wearing pearls and a suit jacket. I thought of my mother, wresting herself out of her grief over Colleen to help me have the little picture made for Finbarr, to send to him at the front. I had worn my best dress, no jewellery at all, nowhere near so glamorous.

‘Pretty,’ I said. ‘But no, I haven’t seen her in Yorkshire.’ Hopefully he’d remember my precise words, if any connection between the two of us were drawn later. ‘I do hope she’ll be all right.’ I handed the photograph back to him.

‘Ah well,’ Chilton said, as if he hadn’t expected any other reply. ‘Thank you for looking.’

As I entered the dining room, I saw that Mrs Race – the beautiful blonde bride – was now joined by her handsome, scowling husband. The two of them sat by a window, too absorbed in their silent unhappiness to notice my probably obtrusive stare.

My new friend Lizzie Clarke waved me to her table, and her husband stood to offer me a chair. He was a lanky fellow, charmingly inelegant, in the way Americans can be, with dark eyes and a sweet, earnest expression.

‘Donny Clarke,’ he introduced himself.

‘Hello, Mr Clarke.’

‘Please,’ he said. ‘Call me Donny. Thanks so much for entertaining Lizzie this morning. Fun to make a fast friend on vacation.’

I’d scarcely unfolded my napkin before I heard merry, unmistakable laughter as Mrs Marston entered the room with her husband. She looked quite a bit different to how she’d looked when I’d last seen her at the baths. Her hair was curled, and she wore a smart jacket and faux pearls.

‘Well, look who it is,’ Mrs Marston said, stopping by our table. ‘The chummy young ladies.’

Her husband, Mr Marston, stood by her side. He was decades older than she, a weathered, ruddy-faced man in his sixties. He placed a hand at the back of Donny’s chair, his smile the indulgent sort a certain kind of man likes to bestow upon young ladies. I turned my eyes back to our table. Lizzie stared back at him more frankly.

‘How do you do, Mr Marston,’ Lizzie said. ‘I trust married life is treating you well?’

‘Sure it is,’ he said, thickly Irish. A change came over his face and he seemed suddenly eager to return to his table. ‘Are you ready to eat now, Mrs Marston?’

She trilled with delight at the sound of her married name. Mr Marston put his wide, meaty hand at the small of her back and guided her hastily to an empty table.

‘You all right, Lizzie?’ I asked. She nodded emphatically.

The waitress came to take our order. We had a choice of fish pie, roast beef, or chicken stew and we all chose the roast beef. The room had great, tall windows and I found myself staring through them, one at a time, expecting Finbarr to be standing on the other side, watching me. The sun had long since set; even if he’d been there, he wouldn’t be visible. Where was he spending the night? Would he have a hot meal, or any meal at all? Just this morning it had been years since he’d last held me. Now it was merely hours.

I glanced over at the Marstons, busily unfolding their napkins. Mrs Marston appeared as cheerful as ever. Her husband was harder to read.

‘Don’t bother yourself with those two,’ Lizzie said. ‘There’s much better people-watching over there.’ She jutted her chin at the beautiful young couple. Mr Race looked peeved and arrogant, Mrs Race stubbornly tearful.

Almost as if Lizzie had known exactly what was about to happen, a commotion erupted.

‘I don’t care,’ Mrs Race cried, loud enough for every diner to not only hear but also fall silent. She jumped to her feet nimbly, throwing down her napkin. ‘I don’t care how much the wedding cost or what people will say. I can’t go on. I simply can’t!’

‘See here,’ her husband said, in a whisper that was no less audible but far more chilling than his wife’s outburst. ‘Sit down and stop making a scene.’

The young bride turned as though to storm out of the room. Her husband reached out to grab her wrist. Before I had a chance to worry about damage to those slim, delicate bones, she picked up her foot and stomped on his foot, hard enough to make him let go.

‘What will you do?’ she asked. ‘Hit me? In front of all these people?’

There was a scuffle as most of the men in the room – including Donny and Inspector Chilton – rose to their feet and approached their table, ready to intervene. Lizzie stood, too, and stepped towards the scuffle for a better look. Her bravery impressed me but I remained seated, my view of the scene obscured by the crowd of concerned onlookers.

The door to the dining room flew open and in marched the owner of the hotel. ‘Look here,’ Simon Leech said. ‘That’s quite enough of that.’

‘This is nobody’s business but our own,’ Mr Race announced to the room at large.

‘In that case, best not to have rows in public.’ The last thing Mr Leech needed was trouble at his struggling hotel. He kept his voice stern but kind. ‘Let me buy you a bottle of champagne. You’re newlyweds, after all. It’s a time for celebration, not arguing.’

I looked over at Mrs Marston, who was still twisted round in her chair, away from her husband, so as to watch the spectacle. A look of consternation crossed her face, as if she – also newly wedded – deserved a bottle of champagne, too. Mr Marston rose to his feet, but his purpose was not to request equal treatment. He had his hands to his throat, and he sputtered wildly as if he wanted to gasp but couldn’t.