‘No, no. It’s no trouble.’ She rose. ‘I’d like to show you-’
‘What is it, Mother?’
Rosalie was suddenly at her side.
‘Nothing, dear. I was just going up to get a book for Monsieur Poirot.’
‘The Fig Tree? I’ll get it.’
‘You don’t know where it is, dear. I’ll go.’
‘Yes, I do.’
The girl went swiftly across the terrace and into the hotel.
‘Let me congratulate you, Madame, on a very lovely daughter,’ said Poirot, with a bow.
‘Rosalie? Yes, yes – she is good looking. But she’s very hard, Monsieur Poirot. And no sympathy with illness. She always thinks she knows best. She imagines she knows more about my health than I do myself-’
Poirot signalled to a passing waiter.
‘A liqueur, Madame? A chartreuse? A créme de menthe?’
Mrs Otterbourne shook her head vigorously.
‘No, no. I am practically a teetotaller. You may have noticed I never drink anything but water – or perhaps lemonade. I cannot bear the taste of spirits.’
‘Then may I order you a lemon squash, Madame?’
He gave the order – one lemon squash and one benedictine.
The swing door revolved. Rosalie passed through and came towards them, a book in her hand.
‘Here you are,’ she said. Her voice was quite expressionless – almost remarkably so.
‘Monsieur Poirot has just ordered me a lemon squash,’ said her mother.
‘And you, Mademoiselle, what will you take?’
‘Nothing.’ She added, suddenly conscious of the curtness: ‘Nothing, thank you.’
Poirot took the volume which Mrs Otterbourne held out to him. It still bore its original jacket, a gaily coloured affair representing a lady with smartly shingled hair and scarlet fingernails sitting on a tiger skin in the traditional costume of Eve. Above her was a tree with the leaves of an oak, bearing large and improbably coloured apples.
It was entitled Under the Fig Tree, by Salome Otterbourne. On the inside was a publisher’s blurb. It spoke enthusiastically of the superb courage and realism of this study of a modern woman’s love life. Fearless, unconventional, realistic were the adjectives used.
Poirot bowed and murmured:
‘I am honoured, Madame.’
As he raised his head, his eyes met those of the authoress’s daughter. Almost involuntarily he made a little movement. He was astonished and grieved at the eloquent pain they revealed.
It was at that moment that the drinks arrived and created a welcome diversion.