Peril at End House - Agatha Christie [40]
Nick was not looking at him. Her eyes had gone to Poirot.
‘Is it—because of the shock?’ she asked.
He came forward.
‘I want you to feel safe, mon enfant. And I want to feel, too, that you are safe. There will be a nurse there—a nice practical unimaginative nurse. She will be near you all night. When you wake up and cry out—she will be there, close at hand. You understand?’
‘Yes,’ said Nick, ‘I understand. But you don’t. I’m not afraid any longer. I don’t care one way or another. If anyone wants to murder me, they can.’
‘Hush, hush,’ I said. ‘You’re over-strung.’
‘You don’t know. None of you know!’
‘I really think M. Poirot’s plan is a good one,’ the doctor broke in soothingly. ‘I will take you in my car. And we will give you a little something to ensure a good night’s rest. Now what do you say?’
‘I don’t mind,’ said Nick. ‘Anything you like. It doesn’t matter.’
Poirot laid his hand on hers.
‘I know, Mademoiselle. I know what you must feel. I stand before you ashamed and stricken to the heart. I, who promised protection, have not been able to protect. I have failed. I am a miserable. But believe me, Mademoiselle, my heart is in agony because of that failure. If you know what I am suffering you would forgive, I am sure.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Nick, still in the same dull voice. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself. I’m sure you did the best you could. Nobody could have helped it—or done more, I’m sure. Please don’t be unhappy.’
‘You are very generous, Mademoiselle.’
‘No, I—’
There was an interruption. The door flew open and George Challenger rushed into the room.
‘What’s all this?’ he cried. ‘I’ve just arrived. To find a policeman at the gate and a rumour that somebody’s dead. What is it all about? For God’s sake, tell me. Is it—is it—Nick?’
The anguish in his tone was dreadful to hear. I suddenly realized that Poirot and the doctor between them completely blotted out Nick from his sight.
Before anyone had time to answer, he repeated his question.
‘Tell me—it can’t be true—Nick isn’t dead?’
‘No, mon ami,’ said Poirot, gently. ‘She is alive.’
And he drew back so that Challenger could see the little figure on the sofa.
For a moment or two Challenger stared at her incredulously. Then, staggering a little, like a drunken man, he muttered:
‘Nick—Nick.’
And suddenly dropping on his knees beside the sofa and hiding his head in his hands, he cried in a muffled voice:
‘Nick—my darling—I thought that you were dead.’
Nick tried to sit up.
‘It’s all right, George. Don’t be an idiot. I’m quite safe.’
He raised his head and looked round wildly.
‘But somebody’s dead? The policeman said so.’
‘Yes,’ said Nick. ‘Maggie. Poor old Maggie. Oh!—’
A spasm twisted her face. The doctor and Poirot came forward. Graham helped her to her feet. He and Poirot, one on each side, helped her from the room.
‘The sooner you get to your bed the better,’ remarked the doctor. ‘I’ll take you along at once in my car. I’ve asked Mrs Rice to pack a few things ready for you to take.’
They disappeared through the door. Challenger caught my arm.
‘I don’t understand. Where are they taking her?’
I explained.
‘Oh! I see. Now, then, Hastings, for God’s sake give me the hang of this thing. What a ghastly tragedy! That poor girl.’
‘Come and have a drink,’ I said. ‘You’re all to pieces.’
‘I don’t mind if I do.’
We adjourned to the dining-room.
‘You see,’ he explained, as he put away a stiff whisky and soda, ‘I thought it was Nick.’
There was very little doubt as to the feelings of Commander George Challenger. A more transparent lover never lived.
Chapter 9
A. to J.
I doubt if I shall ever forget the night that followed. Poirot was a prey to such an agony of self-reproach that I was really alarmed. Ceaselessly he strode up and down the room heaping anathemas on his own head and deaf to my well-meant remonstrances.
‘What it is to have too good an opinion