Peril At End House Part 12

'What?' I exclaimed.

'Yes.'

'But when did you find out?'

'Whilst I was eating my breakfast, Hastings. It stared me in the face.'

'Tell me.'

'No, I will leave you to hear it from Mademoiselle.'

Then, as if to distract my mind, he pushed an open letter across to me.

It was a report by the expert Poirot had sent to examine the picture of old Nicholas Buckley. It stated definitely that the picture was worth at most twenty pounds.

'So that is one matter cleared up,' said Poirot.

'No mouse in that mouse-hole,' I said, remembering a metaphor of Poirot's on one past occasion.

'Ah! you remember that? No, as you say, no mouse in that mouse-hole. Twenty pounds and M. Lazarus offered fifty. What an error of judgement for a seemingly astute young man. But there, there, we must start on our errand.'

The nursing home was set high on a hill overlooking the bay. A white-coated orderly received us. We were put into a little room downstairs and presently a brisk-looking nurse came to us.

One glance at Poirot seemed to be enough. She had clearly received her instructions from Dr Graham together with a minute description of the little detective. She even concealed a smile.

'Miss Buckley has pa.s.sed a very fair night,' she said. 'Come up, will you?'

In a pleasant room with the sun streaming into it, we found Nick. In the narrow iron bed, she looked like a tired child. Her face was white and her eyes were suspiciously red, and she seemed listless and weary.

'It's good of you to come,' she said in a flat voice.

Poirot took her hand in both of his.

'Courage, Mademoiselle. There is always something to live for.'

The words startled her. She looked up in his face.

'Oh!' she said. 'Oh!'

'Will you not tell me now, Mademoiselle, what it was that has been worrying you lately? Or shall I guess? And may I offer you, Mademoiselle, my very deepest sympathy.'

Her face flushed.

'So you know. Oh, well, it doesn't matter who knows now. Now that it's all over. Now that I shall never see him again.'

Her voice broke.

'Courage, Mademoiselle.'

'I haven't got any courage left. I've used up every bit in these last weeks. Hoping and hoping and-just lately-hoping against hope.'

I stared. I could not understand one word.

'Regard the poor Hastings,' said Poirot. 'He does not know what we are talking about.'

Her unhappy eyes met mine.

'Michael Seton, the airman,' she said. 'I was engaged to him-and he's dead.'

Chapter 11 The Motive.

I was dumbfounded.

I turned on Poirot.

'Is this what you meant?'

'Yes, mon ami. This morning-I knew.'

'How did you know? How did you guess? You said it stared you in the face at breakfast.'

'So it did, my friend. From the front page of the newspaper. I remembered the conversation at dinner last night-and I saw everything.'

He turned to Nick again.

'You heard the news last night?'

'Yes. On the wireless. I made an excuse about the telephone. I wanted to hear the news alone-in case...' She swallowed hard. 'And I heard it...'

'I know, I know.' He took her hand in both of his.

'It was-pretty ghastly. And all the people arriving. I don't know how I got through it. It all felt like a dream. I could see myself from outside-behaving just as usual. It was queer somehow.'

'Yes, yes, I understand.'

'And then, when I went to fetch Freddie's wrap-I broke down for a minute. I pulled myself together quite quickly. But Maggie kept calling up about her coat. And then at last she took my shawl and went, and I put on some powder and some rouge and followed her out. And there she was-dead...'

'Yes, yes, it must have been a terrible shock.'

'You don't understand. I was angry! I wished it had been me! I wanted to be dead-and there I was-alive and perhaps to live for years! And Michael dead-drowned far away in the Pacific.'

'Pauvre enfant.'

'I don't want to be alive. I don't want to live, I tell you!' she cried, rebelliously.

'I know-I know. To all of us, Mademoiselle, there comes a time when death is preferable to life. But it pa.s.ses-sorrow pa.s.ses and grief. You cannot believe that now, I know. It is useless for an old man like me to talk. Idle words-that is what you think-idle words.'

'You think I'll forget-and marry someone else? Never!'

She looked rather lovely as she sat up in bed, her two hands clenched and her cheeks burning.

Poirot said gently: 'No, no. I am not thinking anything of the kind. You are very lucky, Mademoiselle. You have been loved by a brave man-a hero. How did you come to meet him?'

'It was at Le Touquet-last September. Nearly a year ago.'

'And you became engaged-when?'

'Just after Christmas. But it had to be a secret.'

'Why was that?'

'Michael's uncle-old Sir Matthew Seton. He loved birds and hated women.'

'Ah! ce n'est pas raisonnable!'

'Well-I don't mean quite that. He was a complete crank. Thought women ruined a man's life. And Michael was absolutely dependent on him. He was frightfully proud of Michael and it was he who financed the building of the Albatross and the expenses of the round-the-world flight. It was the dearest dream of his life as well as of Michael's. If Michael had pulled it off-well, then he could have asked his uncle anything. And even if old Sir Matthew had still cut up rough, well, it wouldn't have really mattered. Michael would have been made-a kind of world hero. His uncle would have come round in the end.'

'Yes, yes, I see.'

'But Michael said it would be fatal if anything leaked out. We must keep it a dead secret. And I did. I never told anyone-not even Freddie.'

Poirot groaned.

'If only you had told me, Mademoiselle.'

Nick stared at him.

'But what difference would it have made? It couldn't have anything to do with these mysterious attacks on me? No, I'd promised Michael-and I kept my word. But it was awful-the anxiety, wondering and getting in a state the whole time. And everyone saying one was so nervy. And being unable to explain.'

'Yes, I comprehend all that.'

'He was missing once before, you know. Crossing the desert on the way to India. That was pretty awful, and then after all, it was all right. His machine was damaged, but it was put right, and he went on. And I kept saying to myself that it would be the same this time. Everyone said he must be dead-and I kept telling myself that he must be all right, really. And then-last night...'

Her voice trailed away. 'You had hoped up till then?'

'I don't know. I think it was more that I refused to believe. It was awful never being able to talk to anyone.'

'Yes, I can imagine that. Were you never tempted to tell Madame Rice, for instance?'

'Sometimes I wanted to frightfully.'

'You do not think she-guessed?'

'I don't think so.' Nick considered the idea carefully. 'She never said anything. Of course she used to hint things sometimes. About our being great friends and all that.'

'You never considered telling her when M. Seton's uncle died? You know that he died about a week ago?'

'I know. He had an operation or something. I suppose I might have told anybody then. But it wouldn't have been a nice way of doing it, would it? I mean, it would have seemed rather boastful-to do it just then-when all the papers were full of Michael. And reporters would have come and interviewed me. It would all have been rather cheap. And Michael would have hated it.'

'I agree with you, Mademoiselle. You could not have announced it publicly. I only meant that you could have spoken of it privately to a friend.'

'I did sort of hint to one person,' said Nick. 'I-thought it was only fair. But I don't know how much he-the person took in.'

Poirot nodded.

'Are you on good terms with your cousin M. Vyse?' he asked, with a rather abrupt change of subject.

'Charles? What put him into your head?' 'I was just wondering-that was all.'

'Charles means well,' said Nick. 'He's a frightful stick, of course. Never moves out of this place. He disapproves of me, I think.'

'Oh! Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle. And I hear that he has laid all his devotion at your feet!'

'Disapproving of a person doesn't keep you from having a pash for them. Charles thinks my mode of life is reprehensible and he disapproves of my c.o.c.ktails, my complexion, my friends and my conversation. But he still feels my fatal fascination. He always hopes to reform me, I think.'

She paused and then said, with a ghost of a twinkle: 'Who have you been pumping to get the local information?'

'You must not give me away, Mademoiselle. I had a little conversation with the Australian lady, Madame Croft.'

'She's rather an old dear-when one has time for her. Terribly sentimental. Love and home and children-you know the sort of thing.'

'I am old-fas.h.i.+oned and sentimental myself, Mademoiselle.'

'Are you? I should have said that Captain Hastings was the sentimental one of you two.'

I blushed indignantly.

'He is furious,' said Poirot, eying my discomfiture with a good deal of pleasure. 'But you are right, Mademoiselle. Yes, you are right.'

'Not at all,' I said, angrily.

'Hastings has a singularly beautiful nature. It has been the greatest hindrance to me at times.'

'Don't be absurd, Poirot.'

'He is, to begin with, reluctant to see evil anywhere, and when he does see it his righteous indignation is so great that he is incapable of dissembling. Altogether a rare and beautiful nature. No, mon ami, I will not permit you to contradict me. It is as I say.'

'You've both been very kind to me,' said Nick, gently.

'La, la, Mademoiselle. That is nothing. We have much more to do. To begin with, you will remain here. You will obey orders. You will do what I tell you. At this juncture I must not be hampered.'

Nick sighed wearily.