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Odd, Agatha observed, that Irene had no jealousy over Janet, who was a fetching, busty, blue-eyed woman in her later twenties, business-like in a navy suit with white blouse.

“Yes, Miss Helier?” Janet asked, dutifully half-kneeling in the aisle, clipboard in hand.

“How many more?”

“We only have three more to see.”

Irene was studying the stage where a friendly Miss Ward and a smiling Larry were conversing softly, pleasantly. “She really isn’t terrible…. I’m going to read her some more.”

Janet nodded, and then looked over at Agatha and whispered across Irene, “Could I have a word, Mrs. Mallowan?”

Agatha said, “Certainly, my dear.”

Faintly irritated, Irene said to the assistant, “Come around and do it, then.”

Janet crossed the row of seats behind them and entered from the aisle, sidling over, and was about to take the seat Bertie had vacated when Agatha rose and met her halfway, to put a few seats between them and Irene.

They sat.

Janet’s eyes were tight behind the lenses. “Mrs. Mallowan, I hate to bother you… I know how you feel about having a fuss made….”

“Go on, my dear.”

Janet seemed hesitant, even nervous, and was searching for words.

Gently Agatha prodded, “What is it, dear? I don’t bite.”

Janet’s smile was embarrassed. “You’ve heard me mention Gordon….”

“Gordon?”

“My husband.”

“Ah! The RAF pilot. Your brave young hero!”

“Well… I think he will be a hero, one day soon. He’s learning to fly Spitfires, right now…. Anyway, he’s such an enormous fan of yours. He’s simply reading your books day and night, just devouring them, and, well, I wondered if you would mind saying hello to him. For me.”

“Why, not at all! Shall we send 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, the play turns out a little differently…. Why don’t you come in and watch these auditions? We’re finding an understudy for our leading lady.”

Cummins sat toward the back as Agatha returned to Irene’s side, while Janet headed to the stage and the wings, to direct traffic on the auditions. The pert Miss Ward was asked to stay around for a possible callback, and the other actresses read with Larry, none of them terribly good.

A thin blonde actress (who was forty-five if she was a day) was reading when Stephen Glanville strode down the aisle and, with his usual confidence, slid in and over and plopped down next to Agatha.

For an archaeologist, Glanville had personality to spare. He was tall, handsome, mustached, cleft-chinned, forty-two years of age, in a rumpled brown tweed suit with reddish-brown bow tie that identified him as the professor he was; he was also the most despicable rake. Notwithstanding, he was Agatha’s husband’s best friend and sometime cohort in Egyptology, and-despite the man’s faults-Agatha loved him dearly.

Glanville had taken a position in the RAF-strictly bureaucratic, at Whitehall-and had in fact engineered Max’s commission. This had been an enormous favor to Max, whose heritage was against him, ridiculously enough; though born in England, and giving off an Oxbridge air, Max had nary a spot of English blood-French mother, Austrian father.