Peril at End House - Agatha Christie [63]
‘Tell me, M. Poirot, did you—’
She stopped. Her tall figure swayed and her face turned whiter still. Her eyes were fixed on the centre of the table.
‘You are not well, Madame.’
I pushed forward a chair, helped her to sink into it. She shook her head, murmured, ‘I’m all right,’ and leaned forward, her face between her hands. We watched her awkwardly.
She sat up in a minute.
‘How absurd! George, darling, don’t look so worried. Let’s talk about murders. Something exciting. I want to know if M. Poirot is on the track.’
‘It is early to say, Madame,’ said Poirot, noncommittally.
‘But you have ideas—yes?’
‘Perhaps. But I need a great deal more evidence.’
‘Oh!’ She sounded uncertain.
Suddenly she rose.
‘I’ve got a head. I think I’ll go and lie down. Perhaps tomorrow they’ll let me see Nick.’
She left the room abruptly. Challenger frowned.
‘You never know what that woman’s up to. Nick may have been fond of her, but I don’t believe she was fond of Nick. But there, you can’t tell with women. It’s darling—darling—darling—all the time—and “damn you” would probably express it much better. Are you going out, M. Poirot?’ For Poirot had risen and was carefully brushing a speck off his hat.
‘Yes, I am going into the town.’
‘I’ve got nothing to do. May I come with you.’
‘Assuredly. It will be a pleasure.’
We left the room. Poirot, with an apology, went back.
‘My stick,’ he explained, as he rejoined us.
Challenger winced slightly. And indeed the stick, with its embossed gold band, was somewhat ornate.
Poirot’s first visit was to a florist.
‘I must send some flowers to Mademoiselle Nick,’ he explained.
He proved difficult to suit.
In the end he chose an ornate gold basket to be filled with orange carnations. The whole to be tied up with a large blue bow.
The shopwoman gave him a card and he wrote on it with a flourish: ‘With the Compliments of Hercule Poirot.’
‘I sent her some flowers this morning,’ said Challenger. ‘I might send her some fruit.’
‘Inutile!’ said Poirot.
‘What?’
‘I said it was useless. The eatable—it is not permitted.’
‘Who says so?’
‘I say so. I have made the rule. It has already been impressed on Mademoiselle Nick. She understands.’
‘Good Lord!’ said Challenger.
He looked thoroughly startled. He stared at Poirot curiously.
‘So that’s it, is it?’ he said. ‘You’re still—afraid.’
Chapter 16
Interview with Mr Whitfield
The inquest was a dry proceeding—mere bare bones. There was evidence of identification, then I gave evidence of the finding of the body. Medical evidence followed.
The inquest was adjourned for a week.
The St Loo murder had jumped into prominence in the daily press. It had, in fact, succeeded ‘Seton Still Missing. Unknown Fate of Missing Airman.’
Now that Seton was dead and due tribute had been paid to his memory, a new sensation was due. The St Loo Mystery was a godsend to papers at their wits’ end for news in the month of August.
After the inquest, having successfully dodged reporters, I met Poirot, and we had an interview with the Rev. Giles Buckley and his wife.
Maggie’s father and mother were a charming pair, completely unworldly and unsophisticated.
Mrs Buckley was a woman of character, tall and fair and showing very plainly her northern ancestry. Her husband was a small man, grey-haired, with a diffident appealing manner.
Poor souls, they were completely dazed by the misfortune that had overtaken them and robbed them of a well-beloved daughter. ‘Our Maggie’, as they called her.
‘I can scarcely realize it even now,’ said Mr Buckley. ‘Such a dear child, M. Poirot. So quiet and unselfish—always thinking of others. Who could wish to harm her?’
‘I could hardly understand the telegram,’ said Mrs Buckley. ‘Why it was only the morning before that we had seen her off.’
‘In the midst of life we are in death,’ murmured her husband.
‘Colonel Weston has been very kind,’ said Mrs Buckley. ‘He assures us that everything is being done to find the man who did this thing. He must be a madman. No other explanation is possible.’
‘Madame, I cannot tell you how