Cat Among the Pigeons - Agatha Christie [91]
“Don’t think about it anymore,” said Miss Bulstrode.
“But I can’t—you’ll never—I’ll never forgive myself—”
“Listen, dear,” she said. “You saved my life, you know. My life and the life of that nice woman, Mrs. Upjohn. That counts for something, doesn’t it?”
“I only wish,” said Miss Chadwick, “I could have given my life for you both. That would have made it all right….”
Miss Bulstrode looked at her with great pity. Miss Chadwick took a great breath, smiled, then, moving her head very slightly to one side, she died….
“You did give your life, my dear,” said Miss Bulstrode softly. “I hope you realize that—now.”
Twenty-five
LEGACY
I
“A Mr. Robinson has called to see you, sir.”
“Ah!” said Hercule Poirot. He stretched out his hand and picked up a letter from the desk in front of him. He looked down on it thoughtfully.
He said: “Show him in, Georges.”
The letter was only a few lines,
Dear Poirot,
A Mr. Robinson may call upon you in the near future. You may already know something about him. Quite a prominent figure in certain circles. There is a demand for such men in our modern world … I believe, if I may so put it, that he is, in this particular matter, on the side of the angels. This is just a recommendation, if you should be in doubt. Of course, and I underline this, we have no idea as to the matter on which he wishes to consult you …
Ha ha! and likewise ho ho!
Yours ever,
Ephraim Pikeaway
Poirot laid down the letter and rose as Mr. Robinson came into the room. He bowed, shook hands, indicated a chair.
Mr. Robinson sat, pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his large yellow face. He observed that it was a warm day.
“You have not, I hope, walked here in this heat?”
Poirot looked horrified at the idea. By a natural association of ideas, his fingers went to his moustache. He was reassured. There was no limpness.
Mr. Robinson looked equally horrified.
“No, no, indeed. I came in my Rolls. But these traffic blocks … One sits for half an hour sometimes.”
Poirot nodded sympathetically.
There was a pause—the pause that ensues on part one of conversation before entering upon part two.
“I was interested to hear—of course one hears so many things—most of them quite untrue—that you had been concerning yourself with the affairs of a girls’ school.”
“Ah,” said Poirot. “That!”
He leaned back in his chair.
“Meadowbank,” said Mr. Robinson thoughtfully. “Quite one of the premier schools of England.”
“It is a fine school.”
“Is? Or was?”
“I hope the former.”
“I hope so, too,” said Mr. Robinson. “I fear it may be touch and go. Ah well, one must do what one can. A little financial backing to tide over a certain inevitable period of depression. A few carefully chosen new pupils. I am not without influence in European circles.”
“I, too, have applied persuasion in certain quarters. If, as you say, we can tide things over. Mercifully, memories are short.”
“That is what one hopes. But one must admit that events have taken place there that might well shake the nerves of fond mammas—and papas also. The Games Mistress, the French Mistress, and yet another mistress—all murdered.”
“As you say.”
“I hear,” said Mr. Robinson, “(one hears so many things), that the unfortunate young woman responsible has suffered from a phobia about schoolmistresses since her youth. An unhappy childhood at school. Psychiatrists will make a good deal of this. They will try at least for a verdict of diminished responsibility, as they call it nowadays.”
“That line would seem to be the best choice,” said Poirot. “You will pardon me for saying that I hope it will not succeed.”
“I agree with you entirely. A most cold-blooded killer. But they will make much of her excellent character, her work as secretary to various well-known people, her war record—quite distinguished, I believe—counterespionage—”
He let the last words out with a certain significance—a hint of a question in his voice.
“She was very good, I believe,” he said more briskly. “So young—but quite brilliant, of great use—to both sides. That was her métier