After the Funeral - Agatha Christie [78]
“We all thought so really,” said Rosamund. And his name isn’t Pontarlier—it’s Hercules something.”
“Hercule Poirot—at your service.”
Poirot bowed.
There were no gasps of astonishment or of apprehension. His name seemed to mean nothing at all to them.
They were less alarmed by it than they had been by the single word “detective.”
“May I ask what conclusions you have come to?” asked George.
“He won’t tell you, darling,” said Rosamund. “Or if he does tell you, what he says won’t be true.”
Alone of all the company she appeared to be amused.
Hercule Poirot looked at her thoughtfully.
II
Hercule Poirot did not sleep well that night. He was perturbed, and he was not quite sure why he was perturbed. Elusive snatches of conversation, various glances, odd movements—all seemed fraught with a tantalizing significance in the loneliness of the night. He was on the threshold of sleep, but sleep would not come. Just as he was about to drop off, something flashed into his mind and woke him up again. Paint—Timothy and paint. Oil paint—the smell of oil paint—connected somehow with Mr. Entwhistle. Paint and Cora. Cora’s paintings—picture postcards… Cora was deceitful about her painting… No, back to Mr. Entwhistle—something Mr. Entwhistle had said—or was it Lanscombe? A nun who came to the house on the day that Richard Abernethie died. A nun with a moustache. A nun at Stansfield Grange—and at Lytchett St. Mary. Altogether too many nuns! Rosamund looking glamorous as a nun on the stage. Rosamund—saying that he was a detective—and everyone staring at her when she said it. That was the way that they must all have stared at Cora that day when she said, “But he was murdered, wasn’t he?” What was it Helen Abernethie had felt to be “wrong” on that occasion? Helen Abernethie—leaving the past behind—going to Cyprus… Helen dropping the wax flowers with a crash when he had said—what was it he had said? He couldn’t quite remember….
He slept then, and as he slept he dreamed….
He dreamed of the green malachite table. On it was the glass-covered stand of wax flowers—only the whole thing had been painted over with thick crimson oil paint. Paint the colour of blood. He could smell the paint, and Timothy was groaning, was saying, “I’m dying—dying…this is the end.” And Maude, standing by, tall and stern, with a large knife in her hand was echoing him, saying, “Yes, it’s the end…” The end—a deathbed, with candles and a nun praying. If he could just see the nun’s face, he would know….
Hercule Poirot woke up—and he did know!
Yes, it was the end….
Though there was still a long way to go.
He sorted out the various bits of the mosaic.
Mr. Entwhistle, the smell of paint, Timothy’s house and something that must be in it—or might be in it…the wax flowers… Helen… Broken glass….
III
Helen Abernethie, in her room, took some time in going to bed. She was thinking.
Sitting in front of her dressing table, she stared at herself unseeingly in the glass.
She had been forced into having Hercule Poirot in the house. She had not wanted it. But Mr. Entwhistle had made it hard for her to refuse. And now the whole thing had come out into the open. No question any more of letting Richard Abernethie lie quiet in his grave. All started by those few words of Cora’s….
That day after the funeral… How had they all looked, she wondered? How had they looked to Cora? How had she herself looked?
What was it George had said? About seeing oneself?
There was some quotation, too. To see ourselves as others see us… As others see us.
The eyes that were staring into the glass unseeingly suddenly focused. She was seeing herself—but not really herself—not herself as others saw her—not as Cora had seen her that day.
Her right—no, her left eyebrow was arched a little higher than the right. The mouth? No, the curve of the mouth was symmetrical. If she met herself she would surely not see much difference from this mirror image. Not like Cora.
Cora—the picture came quite clearly… Cora, on the day of the funeral, her head tilted sideways—asking her question—looking at Helen….
Suddenly