Death on the Riviera Read Free Page A

three enormous palm trees that rose from the exuberant vegetation of the steeply sloping garden. The sparkling air was sweet with the perfume of heliotrope and mimosa; the sky cloudless; the sea, glimpsed above the red roofs of the town below, an unbelievable sheet of blue.
    But all this lavish beauty left Nesta unimpressed. It was too familiar, too unvarying. Her slightly bulbous eyes were fixed with unmitigated loathing on her glass of tomato-juice. She shuddered to think how many gallons of the vile stuff she’d decanted into her interior in the interests of her figure. But for the nagging accusations of her weighing-machine life might have been perfect. She’d money; one of the loveliest villas in Menton; a large and catholic collection of friends; splendid health; a sense of humour; and a virile capacity for enjoyment. Her husband, a successful but dyspeptic stockbroker, had died between the Wars of ptomaine poisoning. For the last twelve years Nesta had spent her time between Larkhill Manor in Gloucestershire and her villa in Menton. During these years of her widowhood she’d steadily and unhappily put on weight. She’d tried everything—from vibro-massage to eurhythmics; from skipping to Swedish drill; from Turkish baths to the most ghoulish forms of diet. With her faith unimpaired she’d lumbered excitedly from one cure to another. It was useless. As inexorably as a minute-hand the pointer of her bathroom scales crept round the dial. The moment was fast approaching—and Nesta was now quite prepared to admit it—when, abandoning all hope, she’d let Nature take the bit between her teeth. From then on, her figure could go to hell!
    However, she was still vain enough to experience a stab of envy as her niece, Dilys, came through the french-windows to join her at the breakfast-table. For Dilys’ slim, straight, brown-limbed figure was perfectly offset by the expensive simplicity of her frock. Nesta flipped a welcoming hand.
    â€œMorning, darling. Sleep well?”
    â€œYes, thank you, auntie. I’m afraid I’m disgustingly late down.”
    â€œAnd you’re not the only one!” snorted Nesta with a scowl. Then as Dilys began to sugar her grape-fruit she leaned forward and added confidentially: “You know, darling, she’ll have to go! She will really. She’s been with me far too long. She takes advantage of me. Don’t you agree?”
    Dilys sighed. Her aunt’s companion, Miss Pilligrew, was an old bone of contention—a stringy rather pathetic little bone for whom Dilys felt profoundly sorry. In her opinion anybody who could have weathered the storm of her aunt’s temperament for fifteen years was eligible for a gold medal. She said soothingly:
    â€œOh poor little Pilly—she does her best. I think she’s rather a pet. You’d be absolutely lost without her.”
    â€œPersonally,” retorted Nesta, “I think she drinks!” Adding, with a sudden vicious turn of her head, “Ah! Here you are at last. I’ve just been telling Dilys that you drink. Do you, Pilly?”
    Miss Bertha Pilligrew granted her employer a wavering smile and sidled like a startled crab into her wicker-chair. She tittered with sycophant amusement:
    â€œAh, you will have your little joke, won’t you, dear?” Adding brightly: “What a heavenly morning. It’s very sinful of me to be down so late.”
    â€œIt’s very rude of you,” corrected Nesta. “I wanted the Tatler. I particularly wanted the Tatler. And was Pilly at hand to fetch me the Tatler ? You know damn well she wasn’t! She was sleeping off the after effects of her overnight binge!” Miss Pilligrew’s leathery hatchet face crinkled with delight at this malicious teasing. She tittered louder. Nesta went on: “Where’s Tony? Has anybody seen Tony this morning?”
    â€œI believe I heard him drive off in his car,”