Cards on the Table - Agatha Christie [55]
‘I suppose he did,’ she murmured, passing a tongue over her dry lips.
Poirot leaned forward. He achieved a little tap on her knee.
‘He knew, for instance, that your husband did not die of fever.’
She stared at him. Her eyes looked wild and desperate.
He leaned back and watched the effect of his words.
She pulled herself together with an effort.
‘I don’t—I don’t know what you mean.’
It was very unconvincingly said.
‘Madame,’ said Poirot, ‘I will come out into the open. I will,’ he smiled, ‘place my cards upon the table. Your husband did not die of fever. He died of a bullet!’
‘Oh!’ she cried.
She covered her face with her hands. She rocked herself to and fro. She was in terrible distress. But somewhere, in some remote fibre of her being, she was enjoying her own emotions. Poirot was quite sure of that.
‘And therefore,’ said Poirot in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘you might just as well tell me the whole story.’
She uncovered her face and said:
‘It wasn’t in the least way you think.’
Again Poirot leaned forward—again he tapped her knee.
‘You misunderstand me—you misunderstand me utterly,’ he said. ‘I know very well that it was not you who shot him. It was Major Despard. But you were the cause.’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know. I suppose I was. It was all too terrible. There is a sort of fatality that pursues me.’
‘Ah, how true that is,’ cried Poirot. ‘How often have I not seen it? There are some women like that. Wherever they go, tragedies follow in their wake. It is not their fault. These things happen in spite of themselves.’
Mrs Luxmore drew a deep breath.
‘You understand. I see you understand. It all happened so naturally.’
‘You travelled together into the interior, did you not?’
‘Yes. My husband was writing a book on various rare plants. Major Despard was introduced to us as aman who knew the conditions and would arrange the necessary expedition. My husband liked him very much. We started.’
There was a pause. Poirot allowed it to continue for about a minute and a half and then murmured as though to himself.
‘Yes, one can picture it. The winding river—the tropical night—the hum of the insects—the strong soldierly man—the beautiful woman…’
Mrs Luxmore sighed.
‘My husband was, of course, years older than I was. I married as a mere child before I knew what I was doing…’
Poirot shook his head sadly.
‘I know. I know. How often does that not occur?’
‘Neither of us would admit what was happening,’ went on Mrs Luxmore. ‘John Despard never said anything. He was the soul of honour.’
‘But a woman always knows,’ prompted Poirot.
‘How right you are…Yes, a woman knows…But I never showed him that I knew. We were Major Despard and Mrs Luxmore to each other right up to the end…We were both determined to play the game.’
She was silent, lost in admiration of that noble attitude.
‘True,’ murmured Poirot. ‘One must play the cricket. As one of your poets so finely says, “I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not cricket more.”’
‘Honour,’ corrected Mrs Luxmore with a slight frown.
‘Of course—of course—honour. “Loved I not honour more.”’
‘Those words might have been written for us,’ murmured Mrs Luxmore. ‘No matter what it cost us, we were both determined never to say the fatal word. And then—’
‘And then—’ prompted Poirot.
‘That ghastly night.’ Mrs Luxmore shuddered.
‘Yes?’
‘I suppose they must have quarrelled—John and Timothy, I mean. I came out of my tent…I came out of my tent…’
‘Yes—yes?’
Mrs Luxmore’s eyes were wide and dark. She was seeing the scene as though it were being repeated in front of her.
‘I came out of my tent,’ she repeated. ‘John and Timothy were—Oh!’ she shuddered. ‘I can’t remember it all clearly. I came between them…I said “No—no, it isn’t true!” Timothy wouldn’t listen. He was threatening John. John had to fire—in self-defence. Ah!’ she gave a cry and covered her face with her hands. ‘He was dead—stone dead—shot through the