Sad cypress - Agatha Christie [43]
II
There was suddenly a poignant sense of loss, of something exquisite destroyed…
In his mind phrase after phrase succeeded each other. Peter Lord’s ‘She was a nice kid.’ Nurse Hopkins’ ‘She could have gone on the films any time.’ Mrs Bishop’s venomous ‘No patience with her airs and graces.’ And now last, putting to shame, laying aside those other views, the quiet wondering: ‘She was like a flower.’
Hercule Poirot said:
‘But, then…?’
He spread out his hands in a wide, appealing foreign gesture.
Ted Bigland nodded his head. His eyes had still the dumb, glazed look of an animal in pain.
He said:
‘I know, sir. I know what you say’s true. She didn’t die natural. But I’ve been wondering…’
He paused.
Poirot said:
‘Yes?’
Ted Bigland said slowly:
‘I’ve been wondering if in some way it couldn’t have been an accident?’
‘An accident? But what kind of an accident?’
‘I know, sir. I know. It doesn’t sound like sense. But I keep thinking and thinking, and it seems to me it must have been that way. Something that wasn’t meant to happen or something that was all a mistake. Just – well, just an accident!’
He looked pleadingly at Poirot, embarrassed by his own lack of eloquence.
Poirot was silent a moment or two. He seemed to be considering. He said at last:
‘It is interesting that you feel that.’
Ted Bigland said deprecatingly:
‘I dare say it doesn’t make sense to you, sir. I can’t figure out any how and why about it. It’s just a feeling I’ve got.’
Hercule Poirot said:
‘Feeling is sometimes an important guide…You will pardon me, I hope, if I seem to tread on painful ground, but you cared very much for Mary Gerrard, did you not?’
A little dark colour came up in the tanned face.
Ted said simply:
‘Everyone knows that around here, I reckon.’
‘You wanted to marry her?’
‘Yes.’
‘But she – was not willing?’
Ted’s face darkened a little. He said, with a hint of surpressed anger:
‘Mean well, people do, but they shouldn’t muck up people’s lives by interfering. All this schooling and going abroad! It changed Mary. I don’t mean spoilt her, or that she was stuck-up – she wasn’t. But it…oh, it bewildered her! She didn’t know where she was any more. She was – well, put it crudely – she was too good for me; but she still wasn’t good enough for a real gentleman like Mr Welman.’
Hercule Poirot said, watching him:
‘You don’t like Mr Welman?’
Ted Bigland said with simple violence:
‘Why the hell should I? Mr Welman’s all right. I’ve nothing against him. He’s not what I call much of a man! I could pick him up and break him in two. He’s got brains, I suppose…But that’s not much help to you if your car breaks down, for instance. You may know the principle that makes a car run; but it doesn’t stop you from being as helpless as a baby when all that’s needed is to take the mag out and give it a wipe.’
Poirot said:
‘Of course, you work in a garage?’
Ted Bigland nodded.
‘Henderson’s, down the road.’
‘You were there on the morning when – this thing happened?’
Ted Bigland said:
‘Yes, testing out a car for a gentleman. A choke somewhere, and I couldn’t locate it. Ran it round for a bit. Seems odd to think of now. It was a lovely day, some honeysuckle still in the hedges…Mary used to like honeysuckle. We used to go picking it together before she went away abroad…’
Again there was that puzzled child-like wonder on his face.
Hercule Poirot was silent.
With a start Ted Bigland came out of his trance.
He said:
‘Sorry, sir, forget what I said about Mr Welman. I was sore – because of his hanging round after Mary. He ought to have left her alone. She wasn’t his sort – not really.’
Poirot said:
‘Do you think she cared for him?’
Again Ted Bigland frowned.
‘I don’t – not really. But she might have done. I couldn’t say.’
Poirot asked:
‘Was there any other man in Mary’s life? Anyone, for instance, she had met abroad?’
‘I couldn’t say, sir. She never mentioned anybody.’
‘Any