Feminine Social Networks

The Ripples on the Nile

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman of extraordinary wealth, traveling the Nile in a state of matrimonial ambiguity, must be in want of companionship—though whether for love or for leverage remains an open question. The moon, full and aloof, cast its silver judgment upon the waters, but below, the surface of the river quivered in patterns that no celestial body could orchestrate. These ripples came from within, from the intricate web of connections among the passengers aboard the Karnak, each of whom regarded Linnet Doyle not merely as a person but as a force.

There are two things in the world I can’t abide — It’s heat and heathens.

Fig. 4 Let’s start with casting — Ustinov as Poirot (he played him many times on the big screen and on TV), David Niven as Col. Race, Bette Davis, Maggie Smith, Mia Farrow, her “Great Gatsby” co-star Lois Chiles (onetime Bond girl), a somewhat miscast George Kennedy (not awful), a seemingly more miscast Jack Warden, playing a German-Swiss doctor (he grows on you), and Olivia Hussey and Simon McCorkindale. Source: Movie Nation

To the untrained observer—or a man untrained in this particular way—it might seem that the passengers dined, conversed, and moved about the deck with the usual rhythm of polite society. But to Jacqueline de Bellefort, who sat quietly in a shadowed corner of the salon, the air itself vibrated with the ceaseless hum of social dynamics. A gaze too long, a laugh too loud, the fleeting shuffle of feet when a name was mentioned—these were the ripples. Linnet’s presence was the stone that had been cast, and every other passenger was a leaf caught in the current.

Jacqueline watched as Simon, the husband, tilted his head toward Linnet with a blend of dutiful affection and restless constraint. His smile was too mechanical to be entirely sincere, though the other women nodded approvingly, as though a handsome husband’s smiles were currency they could someday cash in. Men like Simon were rarely conscious of the unseen economy in which they operated, but the women—ah, the women knew.

Rosalie Otterbourne, for instance, who could not suppress the frown that flickered across her face each time Linnet spoke. It was not jealousy, precisely, nor was it admiration. It was recognition—a dim awareness that she had been cast as an extra in Linnet’s elaborate production. Her mother, Mrs. Otterbourne, oblivious to such subtleties, chattered on about her novels, entirely unaware that her daughter’s discontent stemmed not from filial embarrassment but from the inescapable gravitational pull of wealth and beauty.

Linnet herself, resplendent in ivory silk, reclined in a deck chair with the unselfconscious grace of someone accustomed to the weight of others’ attention. She was both the sun and the shadow, her mere existence casting every other person into a position of alignment or opposition. Even her maid, Louise, carried herself with a certain hauteur, as though proximity to wealth had lent her its own pale glow. Louise’s sharp eyes darted around the deck, cataloging movements with a precision that would have made Hercule Poirot proud, though for motives distinctly her own.

Poirot, of course, observed all this with the bemused detachment of a scientist studying an unfamiliar species. He had seen this before, in the drawing rooms of Paris and the villas of Nice, but the Nile lent the spectacle a peculiar intensity. The river was both stage and metaphor, its currents mirroring the unseen connections that bound these people together. He knew that if one wished to understand a murder, one must first understand the ripples.

And so the edges formed: a whispered conversation between Cornelia Robson and Dr. Bessner, a glance exchanged between Pennington and Fleetwood, a sudden laugh from Tim Allerton that rang hollow against the cool night air. Poirot did not yet know which edge would snap under the strain, which connection would become a catalyst for violence. But he knew it would happen soon. The air was thick with inevitability.

Jacqueline rose from her chair, her movement as deliberate as the tightening of a snare. “Good night,” she said, her voice carrying just enough sweetness to veil the venom beneath. Poirot watched as she passed Simon without a word, her shadow trailing behind her like an accusation.

Linnet, noticing nothing—or everything—adjusted her shawl and smiled. For the briefest moment, her eyes met Poirot’s, and in that instant, he saw what the others could not: the hub of the wheel, the magnetic center around which all these nodes revolved. It was not merely her wealth or beauty that drew them; it was her force, her undeniable presence in a world that preferred women to be seen as edges rather than nodes.

The ripples widened. The night deepened. And somewhere in the darkness, the first thread of the web began to fray.