him a signed book? Where is he stationed, dear?”
“Right here in London. Or that is, out at St. John’s Wood.”
“Oh, how lovely for you to have your man in the military so close by. Are you able to live together?”
“No, unfortunately. He’s billeted near the station. But we see each other frequently.”
Agatha gestured with open palms. “Well, why don’t you invite him down to the theater, some afternoon, if he can get away from his duties? Or perhaps he could come to our opening night, on Friday.”
Janet’s embarrassed smile curdled into mortification. “Actually, I took the liberty… I talked to your friend…. Oh my.”
“Please, Janet. You’re making me out to be an absolute ogre. What is it?”
“Well… he’s here now. Gordon’s here.”
Janet swiveled in her seat and indicated the back of the theater.
There, just inside the lobby, semi-silhouetted by mote-flecked sunlight, stood a young man in RAF blues, cap in both hands figleafed before him, a broad-shouldered sturdy five nine or ten, a boyishly handsome specimen of Britain’s military who might have stepped right off a recruiting poster.
Agatha touched Janet’s hand. “By all means, dear, let’s go back and say hello. I’d be honored to have you introduce me.”
They moved to the rear of the theater, even as the audition continued, Miss Ward’s voice resounding pleasantly through the stalls as she ably traded lines with Larry Sullivan. She was gaining confidence as the audition went on.
Gordon Cummins shifted on his feet, twisting his cap in his hands in anticipation as Agatha and Mrs. Cummins approached. His boyish good looks only improved on closer inspection—blondish brown hair, a fair complexion, wide-set eyes of a striking clear blue-green, like a country brook on a perfect afternoon. His nose was straight and well-formed, his mouth almost feminine in its poised-for-a-kiss sensuality.
Archie, Agatha thought, eyes widening, the sight of the young man hitting like a physical blow, the image of her first husband jumping into her mind in his own RAF uniform, of the last war. I haven’t seen such a handsome young man in uniform since Archie was my…
“Mrs. Christie, this is such an honor,” the young man blurted.
“Gordon,” Janet whispered, scoldingly. “It’s Mrs. Mallowan. I explained that…”
“It’s all right, dear,” Agatha said. “That’s still my name, my professional name.” She glanced toward the stage where the audition remained under way. “Shall we step into the lobby?”
They did.
The young man had a soft voice, a second tenor, and his manners were impeccable; Agatha noticed he wore a Leading Aircraftsman badge, the white badge (or “flash”) of an Officer Trainee on the hat in his hands.
He was quite charming, really, in a naive way. For several minutes he raved on and on about her books, specifically the Poirot novels, and Agatha allowed herself to bask in the adulation. It was as if Archie were standing there praising her work, adoringly interested in her… which in the reality of their marriage had never occurred.
Finally she said, “You’re very kind, Mr. Cummins. Tell me something about yourself.”
“Not much to tell, really,” he said, with a fleeting grin. “My father was a schoolmaster of sorts.”
“That’s sounds… educational.”
Janet put in, “I’m afraid more so than you know, Mrs. Mallowan. Gordon’s father was rather more a warden than a schoolmaster, I would say—the school was for delinquent boys and girls.”
“Oh,” Agatha said, and frowned sympathetically. “I hope that wasn’t terribly unpleasant for you. Was your father strict, then?”
“By most standards, yes,” the boy said. “But it was good for me. Prepared me for the life I’m leading now.”
Janet, rather proudly, said, “Gordon has something else in common with you, Mrs. Mallowan.”
“Really? What is that, dear?”
“He’s a chemist.”
“Is that right, Mr. Cummins? You do know I work in a pharmacy.”
“I do know,” he said, “that you know your poisons.”
They all laughed. A little.
Shyly, the cadet said, “I can’t say my tour of duty as a chemist is anything to boast about—I trained in a Northampton technical school and worked here in London, as a research chemist.”
“That’s when we met,” Janet explained. “I was already working for Mr. Morris.”
Agatha bestowed on them a smile, one each; then to the young RAF cadet, she asked, “You enjoy the air force?”
“Very much! I’ll be flying a Spitfire soon.”
Janet said, “One of his senior officers—a Schneider Trophy pilot—has personally endorsed Gordon for his commission.”
“How thrilling,” Agatha said. “Do you think you can get a pass to join us on opening night?”
“That would be wonderful. I do so love the book!”
Her smile was apologetic. “Well,