Black Coffee - Agatha Christie [58]
He pushed Hastings towards Barbara and shepherded them both towards the french windows. ‘Ah, my pet,’ Barbara sighed comically to Hastings as they went out into the garden.
Richard Amory was about to address Poirot, when the door to the hall opened and Lucia entered. Giving a start when she saw her husband, Lucia murmured uncertainly, ‘Richard –’
Richard turned to look at her. ‘Lucia!’
Lucia moved a few steps into the room. ‘I –,’ she began, and then broke off.
Richard approached her, and then stopped. ‘You –’
They both looked extremely nervous, and ill at ease with each other. Then Lucia suddenly caught sight of Poirot and went to him with outstretched hands. ‘Monsieur Poirot! How can we ever thank you?’
Poirot took both her hands in his. ‘So, madame, your troubles are over!’ he announced.
‘A murderer has been caught. But my troubles, are they really over?’ Lucia asked wistfully.
‘It is true that you do not look quite happy yet, my child,’ Poirot observed.
‘Shall I ever be happy again, I wonder?’
‘I think so,’ said Poirot with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Trust in your old Poirot.’ Guiding Lucia to the chair by the table in the centre of the room, he picked up the spills from the coffee table, went across to Richard, and handed them to him. ‘Monsieur,’ he declared, ‘I have pleasure in restoring to you Sir Claud’s formula! It can be pieced together – what is the expression you use? – it will be as good as new.’
‘My God, the formula!’ Richard exclaimed. ‘I’d almost forgotten it. I can hardly bear to look at it again. Think what it has done to us all. It’s cost my father his life, and it’s all but ruined the lives of all of us as well.’
‘What are you going to do with it, Richard?’ Lucia asked him.
‘I don’t know. What would you do with it?’
Rising and moving to him, Lucia whispered, ‘Would you let me?’
‘It’s yours,’ her husband told her, handing her the spills. ‘Do as you like with the wretched thing.’
‘Thank you, Richard,’ murmured Lucia. She went to the fireplace, took a match from the box on the mantelpiece, and set fire to the spills, dropping the pieces one by one into the fireplace. ‘There is so much suffering already in the world. I cannot bear to think of any more.’
‘Madame,’ said Poirot, ‘I admire the manner in which you burn many thousands of pounds with as little emotion as though they were just a few pence.’
‘They are nothing but ashes,’ Lucia sighed. ‘Like my life.’
Poirot gave a snort. ‘Oh, là, là! Let us all order our coffins,’ he remarked in a tone of mock gloom. ‘No! Me, I like to be happy, to rejoice, to dance, to sing. See you, my children,’ he continued, turning to address Richard as well, ‘I am about to take a liberty with you both. Madame looks down her nose and thinks, “I have deceived my husband.” Monsieur looks down his nose and thinks, “I have suspected my wife.” And yet what you really want, both of you, is to be in each other’s arms, is it not?’
Lucia took a step towards her husband. ‘Richard –’ she began in a low voice.
‘Madame,’ Poirot interrupted her, ‘I fear that Sir Claud may have suspected you of planning to steal his formula because, a few weeks ago, someone – no doubt an ex-colleague of Carelli, for people of that kind are continually falling out with one another – someone, I say, sent Sir Claud an anonymous letter about your mother. But, do you know, my foolish child, that your husband tried to accuse himself to Inspector Japp – that he actually confessed to the murder of Sir Claud – in order to save you?’
Lucia gave a little cry, and looked adoringly at Richard.
‘And you, monsieur,’ Poirot continued. ‘Figure to yourself that, not more than half an hour ago, your wife was shouting in my ear that she had killed your father, all because she feared that you might have done so.’
‘Lucia,’ Richard murmured tenderly, going to her.
‘Being English,’ Poirot remarked as he moved away from them, ‘you