Peril at End House - Agatha Christie [49]
‘It’s good of you to come,’ she said in a flat voice.
Poirot took her hand in both of his.
‘Courage, Mademoiselle. There is always something to live for.’
The words startled her. She looked up in his face.
‘Oh!’ she said. ‘Oh!’
‘Will you not tell me now, Mademoiselle, what it was that has been worrying you lately? Or shall I guess? And may I offer you, Mademoiselle, my very deepest sympathy.’
Her face flushed.
‘So you know. Oh, well, it doesn’t matter who knows now. Now that it’s all over. Now that I shall never see him again.’
Her voice broke.
‘Courage, Mademoiselle.’
‘I haven’t got any courage left. I’ve used up every bit in these last weeks. Hoping and hoping and—just lately—hoping against hope.’
I stared. I could not understand one word.
‘Regard the poor Hastings,’ said Poirot. ‘He does not know what we are talking about.’
Her unhappy eyes met mine.
‘Michael Seton, the airman,’ she said. ‘I was engaged to him—and he’s dead.’
Chapter 11
The Motive
I was dumbfounded.
I turned on Poirot.
‘Is this what you meant?’
‘Yes, mon ami. This morning—I knew.’
‘How did you know? How did you guess? You said it stared you in the face at breakfast.’
‘So it did, my friend. From the front page of the newspaper. I remembered the conversation at dinner last night—and I saw everything.’
He turned to Nick again.
‘You heard the news last night?’
‘Yes. On the wireless. I made an excuse about the telephone. I wanted to hear the news alone—in case…’ She swallowed hard. ‘And I heard it…’
‘I know, I know.’ He took her hand in both of his.
‘It was—pretty ghastly. And all the people arriving. I don’t know how I got through it. It all felt like a dream. I could see myself from outside—behaving just as usual. It was queer somehow.’
‘Yes, yes, I understand.’
‘And then, when I went to fetch Freddie’s wrap—I broke down for a minute. I pulled myself together quite quickly. But Maggie kept calling up about her coat. And then at last she took my shawl and went, and I put on some powder and some rouge and followed her out. And there she was—dead…’
‘Yes, yes, it must have been a terrible shock.’
‘You don’t understand. I was angry! I wished it had been me! I wanted to be dead—and there I was—alive and perhaps to live for years! And Michael dead—drowned far away in the Pacific.’
‘Pauvre enfant.’
‘I don’t want to be alive. I don’t want to live, I tell you!’ she cried, rebelliously.
‘I know—I know. To all of us, Mademoiselle, there comes a time when death is preferable to life. But it passes—sorrow passes and grief. You cannot believe that now, I know. It is useless for an old man like me to talk. Idle words—that is what you think—idle words.’
‘You think I’ll forget—and marry someone else? Never!’
She looked rather lovely as she sat up in bed, her two hands clenched and her cheeks burning.
Poirot said gently:
‘No, no. I am not thinking anything of the kind. You are very lucky, Mademoiselle. You have been loved by a brave man—a hero. How did you come to meet him?’
‘It was at Le Touquet—last September. Nearly a year ago.’
‘And you became engaged—when?’
‘Just after Christmas. But it had to be a secret.’
‘Why was that?’
‘Michael’s uncle—old Sir Matthew Seton. He loved birds and hated women.’
‘Ah! ce n’est pas raisonnable!’
‘Well—I don’t mean quite that. He was a complete crank. Thought women ruined a man’s life. And Michael was absolutely dependent on him. He was frightfully proud of Michael and it was he who financed the building of the Albatross and the expenses of the round-the-world flight. It was the dearest dream of his life as well as of Michael’s. If Michael had pulled it off—well, then he could have asked his uncle anything. And even if old Sir Matthew had still cut up rough, well, it wouldn’t have really mattered. Michael would have been made—a kind of world hero. His uncle would have come round in the end.’
‘Yes, yes, I see.’
‘But Michael said it would