Peril at End House - Agatha Christie [50]
Poirot groaned.
‘If only you had told me, Mademoiselle.’
Nick stared at him.
‘But what difference would it have made? It couldn’t have anything to do with these mysterious attacks on me? No, I’d promised Michael—and I kept my word. But it was awful—the anxiety, wondering and getting in a state the whole time. And everyone saying one was so nervy. And being unable to explain.’
‘Yes, I comprehend all that.’
‘He was missing once before, you know. Crossing the desert on the way to India. That was pretty awful, and then after all, it was all right. His machine was damaged, but it was put right, and he went on. And I kept saying to myself that it would be the same this time. Everyone said he must be dead—and I kept telling myself that he must be all right, really. And then—last night…’
Her voice trailed away.
‘You had hoped up till then?’
‘I don’t know. I think it was more that I refused to believe. It was awful never being able to talk to anyone.’
‘Yes, I can imagine that. Were you never tempted to tell Madame Rice, for instance?’
‘Sometimes I wanted to frightfully.’
‘You do not think she—guessed?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Nick considered the idea carefully. ‘She never said anything. Of course she used to hint things sometimes. About our being great friends and all that.’
‘You never considered telling her when M. Seton’s uncle died? You know that he died about a week ago?’
‘I know. He had an operation or something. I suppose I might have told anybody then. But it wouldn’t have been a nice way of doing it, would it? I mean, it would have seemed rather boastful—to do it just then—when all the papers were full of Michael. And reporters would have come and interviewed me. It would all have been rather cheap. And Michael would have hated it.’
‘I agree with you, Mademoiselle. You could not have announced it publicly. I only meant that you could have spoken of it privately to a friend.’
‘I did sort of hint to one person,’ said Nick. ‘I—thought it was only fair. But I don’t know how much he—the person took in.’
Poirot nodded.
‘Are you on good terms with your cousin M. Vyse?’ he asked, with a rather abrupt change of subject.
‘Charles? What put him into your head?’
‘I was just wondering—that was all.’
‘Charles means well,’ said Nick. ‘He’s a frightful stick, of course. Never moves out of this place. He disapproves of me, I think.’
‘Oh! Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle. And I hear that he has laid all his devotion at your feet!’
‘Disapproving of a person doesn’t keep you from having a pash for them. Charles thinks my mode of life is reprehensible and he disapproves of my cocktails, my complexion, my friends and my conversation. But he still feels my fatal fascination. He always hopes to reform me, I think.’
She paused and then said, with a ghost of a twinkle:
‘Who have you been pumping to get the local information?’
‘You must not give me away, Mademoiselle. I had a little conversation with the Australian lady, Madame Croft.’
‘She’s rather an old dear—when one has time for her. Terribly sentimental. Love and home and children—you know the sort of thing.’
‘I am old-fashioned and sentimental myself, Mademoiselle.’
‘Are you? I should have said that Captain Hastings was the sentimental one of you two.’
I blushed indignantly.
‘He is furious,’ said Poirot, eying my discomfiture with a good deal of pleasure. ‘But you are right, Mademoiselle. Yes, you are right.’
‘Not at all,’ I said, angrily.
‘Hastings has a singularly beautiful nature. It has been the greatest hindrance to me at times.’
‘Don’t be absurd, Poirot.’
‘He is, to begin with, reluctant to see evil anywhere, and when he does see it his righteous indignation is so great that he is incapable of dissembling. Altogether a rare and beautiful nature. No, mon ami, I will not permit you to contradict me. It is as I say.’
‘You’ve both been very kind to me,’ said Nick, gently.
‘Là, là, Mademoiselle. That is nothing. We have much more to do. To begin with,