Chapter 19 #2
‘Oh, Gerald, you couldn’t be further from the truth.
’ She smiled and then, gently, reached for his hand again.
‘Alf is a handyman who is installing a new bathroom in my cottage,’ Hattie explained.
‘He’s a very dear friend whom I’ve known since school days, but as for any romantic interest, I can assure you there is none. ’
‘Oh, I see.’ Gerald slowly nodded. ‘But who is Drake and why would you want to throw him out of a window?’
‘Because he can fly.’
‘Fly?’ Gerald’s brow creased.
‘He’s a duck. My pet duck. His name is Drake, and the damn bird thinks that he’s human.’
Now Gerald began to laugh, still holding Hattie’s hand; he had the urge to kiss it. But Youssef had appeared with champagne, pouring it with skill.
‘To Alf and Drake!’ Gerald said, holding up his glass.
‘To my new bathroom.’ Hattie laughed. ‘And now, let’s enjoy this beautiful view, drink our champagne and then, perhaps you will indulge me . . .’
Hattie’s indulgence, to Gerald’s delight, was a private tour of the rooms that Agatha Christie was said to have occupied when she’d been a resident at the hotel.
‘How did you manage this?’ Gerald asked as they paused beside the door of the Agatha Christie Suite.
‘I emailed ahead and was told it wasn’t generally possible, but they’d make an exception for me,’ Hattie said. Then, she tipped her head closer and added in a whisper, ‘I suspect they regularly let visitors peek inside the rooms but don’t publicise the fact.’
Youssef, now their guide, unlocked the door and ushered them into the foyer, which opened into a grand salon with a high ceiling and chandelier.
Polished wood floors were softened by oriental rugs, and silk-covered sofas clustered around a low coffee table beside a marbled fireplace.
To one side, a dining room held a circular mahogany table that was laid for six.
The bedroom came next, dominated by a vast double bed, its mosquito net suspended from four tall tester posts. The bathroom was no less opulent, with a deep freestanding bath and gold-coloured fittings.
Back in the lounge, Youssef pointed out a large desk paired with a carver chair. ‘This is where Agatha might have written her books,’ he said and gestured to Hattie. ‘Do take a seat.’
Hattie sat down and tried to imagine herself as Agatha, in this room, dreaming up characters and murderous plots.
Instead, she closed her eyes and thought of the rooms as they really would have been in the days before a five-star hotel group sold the suite as a Christie-ness experience.
In the winter of 1937, Agatha had written Death on the Nile here, and Hattie knew that this high-ceilinged room would have been modestly furnished. An armchair, possibly a chaise and most certainly a cocktail cabinet, the only additional furniture in an uncluttered room.
Hattie visualised the bedroom as it must once have been, with an iron bed, perhaps a bedside table, a wardrobe and little else.
The bathroom, too, would have been simple, with a deep tub, basin, and separate loo.
But Hattie thought the heart of the suite for Agatha would have been the shaded terrace beyond the French windows, where a rattan chair and small desk would catch the breeze, and the Nile stretched out before her.
Gerald was chatting with Youssef, asking about the cost of the room. Hattie heard him whistle when told how much per night. Opening her eyes, she asked Youssef what type of guest could afford such a treat.
‘Everyone from famous persons to those wishing to make dreams come true.’ Youssef smiled. ‘We welcome royalty, world leaders and celebrities.’
‘Out of reach for Agatha’s more modest fans,’ Gerald said.
Youssef shrugged. ‘Recently, a lady from England stayed here for two weeks. She told us that she was using her life savings to steep herself in the atmosphere of her favourite author.’
‘How wonderful for her,’ Hattie said, and rising, moved across the room.
‘Yes,’ Youssef continued, opening the French windows. ‘Each day, we set a wicker chair and small desk on the terrace, just as Agatha would have done, so the lady could sit and watch the Nile.’
Hattie and Gerald stepped onto the veranda-like terrace, and Hattie took a moment to visualise the chair and desk, her mind carefully considering the occupants.
The sun was sinking slowly in a rhubarb-coloured sky, and the view of the Nile spread out before them was breathtaking in the fading light.
Hattie breathed a happy sigh. At last!
She gripped the wrought-iron railing and stared ahead. Out here, on the terrace, it was easy to imagine the past and how it would have been in Agatha’s day. So unlike the luxurious suite behind her.
This was where Agatha had immersed herself, with the magnificent view fuelling her creativity. Standing there, watching the river as the sun slowly set, Hattie felt the past and could almost hear the click of Agatha’s typewriter keys.
‘I can finally understand Agatha’s love of Egypt,’ she whispered.
Youssef had disappeared, perhaps sensing a private moment.
Hattie lingered, reluctant to move, her thoughts returning to the simple desk and chair, and to those who’d sat there. She wondered whether the terrace still held the power, as it had for Agatha, to inspire others today.
A hand gently touched her arm.
‘Has this visit been all you expected it to be?’ Gerald asked softly.
Hattie grew thoughtful. This visit had been everything she’d hoped for, yet something niggled at the back of her mind. ‘I’ve enjoyed every moment,’ she finally replied.
But all the while, the cogs in Hattie’s head were turning.
Her sixth sense told her that the walls were whispering of a puzzle yet to be solved, and she wondered, as the visit was ending, whether a mystery had only just begun.