Peril at End House - Agatha Christie [46]
‘Poirot,’ I cried. ‘You have thought of something.’
He nodded. He leaned forward, tapping the table in front of him.
‘Tell me, Hastings, the answer to these three questions. Why has Mademoiselle Nick been sleeping badly lately? Why did she buy a black evening dress—she never wears black? Why did she say last night, “I have nothing to live for—now”?’
I stared. The questions seemed beside the point.
‘Answer those questions, Hastings, answer them.’
‘Well—as to the first—she said she had been worried lately.’
‘Precisely. What has she been worried about?’
‘And the black dress—well, everybody wants a change sometimes.’
‘For a married man, you have very little appreciation of feminine psychology. If a woman thinks she does not look well in a colour, she refuses to wear it.’
‘And the last—well, it was a natural thing to say after that awful shock.’
‘No, mon ami, it was not a natural thing to say. To be horror-struck by her cousin’s death, to reproach herself for it—yes, all that is natural enough. But the other, no. She spoke of life with weariness—as of a thing no longer dear to her. Never before had she displayed that attitude. She had been defiant—yes—she had snapped the fingers, yes—and then, when that broke down, she was afraid. Afraid, mark you, because life was sweet and she did not wish to die. But weary of life—no! That never! Even before dinner that was not so. We have there, Hastings, a psychological change. And that is interesting. What was it caused her point of view to change?’
‘The shock of her cousin’s death.’
‘I wonder. It was the shock that loosed her tongue. But suppose the change was before that. Is there anything else could account for it?’
‘I don’t know of anything.’
‘Think, Hastings. Use your little grey cells.’
‘Really—’
‘What was the last moment we had the opportunity of observing her?’
‘Well, actually, I suppose, at dinner.’
‘Exactly. After that, we only saw her receiving guests, making them welcome—purely a formal attitude. What happened at the end of dinner, Hastings?’
‘She went to telephone,’ I said, slowly.
‘A la bonne heure. You have got there at last. She went to telephone. And she was absent a long time. Twenty minutes at least. That is a long time for a telephone call. Who spoke to her over the telephone? What did they say? Did she really telephone? We have to find out, Hastings, what happened in that twenty minutes. For there, or so I fully believe, we shall find the clue we seek.’
‘You really think so?’
‘Mais oui, mais oui! All along, Hastings, I have told you that Mademoiselle has been keeping something back. She doesn’t think it has any connection with the murder—but I, Hercule Poirot, know better! It must have a connection. For, all along, I have been conscious that there is a factor lacking. If there were not a factor lacking—why then, the whole thing would be plain to me! And as it is not plain to me—eh bien—then the missing factor is the keystone of the mystery! I know I am right, Hastings.
I must know the answer to those three questions. And, then—and then—I shall begin to see…
‘Well,’ I said, stretching my stiffened limbs, ‘I think a bath and a shave are indicated.’
By the time I had had a bath and changed into day clothing I felt better. The stiffness and weariness of a night passed in uncomfortable conditions passed off. I arrived at the breakfast table feeling that one drink of hot coffee would restore me to my normal self.
I glanced at the paper, but there was little news in it beyond the fact that Michael Seton’s death was now definitely confirmed. The intrepid airman had perished. I wondered whether, tomorrow, new headlines would have sprung into being: ‘GIRL MURDERED DURING FIREWORK PARTY. MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY.’ Something like that.
I had just finished breakfast when Frederica Rice came up to my table. She was wearing a plain