Peril at End House - Agatha Christie [38]
Then she broke off—staring at the scene before her.
With a sharp exclamation, Poirot turned over the body on the lawn and I pressed forward to see.
I looked down into the dead face of Maggie Buckley.
In another minute Nick was beside us. She gave a sharp cry.
‘Maggie—Oh! Maggie—it—it can’t—’
Poirot was still examining the girl’s body. At last very slowly he rose to his feet.
‘Is she—is—’ Nick’s voice broke off.
‘Yes, Mademoiselle. She is dead.’
‘But why? But why? Who could have wanted to kill her?’
Poirot’s reply came quickly and firmly.
‘It was not her they meant to kill, Mademoiselle! It was you! They were misled by the shawl.’
A great cry broke from Nick.
‘Why couldn’t it have been me?’ she wailed. ‘Oh! why couldn’t it have been me? I’d so much rather. I don’t want to live—now. I’d be glad—willing—happy—to die.’
She flung up her arms wildly and then staggered slightly. I passed an arm round her quickly to support her.
‘Take her into the house, Hastings,’ said Poirot. ‘Then ring up the police.’
‘The police?’
‘Mais oui! Tell them someone has been shot. And afterwards stay with Mademoiselle Nick. On no account leave her.’
I nodded comprehension of these instructions, and supporting the half-fainting girl, made my way through the drawing-room window. I laid the girl on the sofa there, with a cushion under her head, and then hurried out into the hall in search of the telephone.
I gave a slight start on almost running into Ellen. She was standing there with a most peculiar expression on her meek, respectable face. Her eyes were glittering and she was passing her tongue repeatedly over her dry lips. Her hands were trembling, as though with excitement. As soon as she saw me, she spoke.
‘Has—has anything happened, sir?’
‘Yes,’ I said curtly. ‘Where’s the telephone?’
‘Nothing—nothing wrong, sir?’
‘There’s been an accident,’ I said evasively. ‘Somebody hurt. I must telephone.’
‘Who has been hurt, sir?’
There was a positive eagerness in her face.
‘Miss Buckley. Miss Maggie Buckley.’
‘Miss Maggie? Miss Maggie? Are you sure, sir—I mean are you sure that—that it’s Miss Maggie?’
‘I’m quite sure,’ I said. ‘Why?’
‘Oh!—nothing. I—I thought it might be one of the other ladies. I thought perhaps it might be—Mrs Rice.’
‘Look here,’ I said. ‘Where’s the telephone?’
‘It’s in the little room here, sir.’ She opened the door for me and indicated the instrument.
‘Thanks,’ I said. And, as she seemed disposed to linger, I added: ‘That’s all I want, thank you.’
‘If you want Dr Graham—’
‘No, no,’ I said. ‘That’s all. Go, please.’
She withdrew reluctantly, as slowly as she dared. In all probability she would listen outside the door, but I could not help that. After all, she would soon know all there was to be known.
I got the police station and made my report. Then, on my own initiative, I rang up the Dr Graham Ellen had mentioned. I found his number in the book. Nick, at any rate, should have medical attention, I felt—even though a doctor could do nothing for that poor girl lying out there. He promised to come at once and I hung up the receiver and came out into the hall again.
If Ellen had been listening outside the door she had managed to disappear very swiftly. There was no one in sight when I came out. I went back into the drawing-room. Nick was trying to sit up.
‘Do you think—could you get me—some brandy?’
‘Of course.’
I hurried into the dining-room, found what I wanted and came back. A few sips of the spirit revived the girl. The colour began to come back into her cheeks. I rearranged the cushion for her head.
‘It’s all—so awful.’ She shivered. ‘Everything—everywhere.’
‘I know, my dear, I know.’
‘No, you don’t! You can’t. And it’s all such a waste. If it were only me. It would be all over…’
‘You mustn’t,’ I said, “be morbid”.’
She only shook her head, reiterating: ‘You don’t know! You don’t know!’
Then, suddenly, she began to cry. A quiet, hopeless sobbing like a child. That, I thought, was probably the best thing for her, so I made no effort to stem her tears.