A Death on the Nile

Death on The Nile
A Short Story

by Agatha Christie

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright © 2008 Agatha Christie Limited.

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Ebook Edition © MAY 2013 ISBN 9780007526598

Version: 2017-04-13

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Death on the Nile

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Death on the Nile

‘Death on the Nile’ was first published in the USA in Cosmopolitan, April 1933, and then in Nash’s Pall Mall, July 1933.

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.