Taken at the Flood - Agatha Christie [57]
‘That,’ murmured Poirot, ‘is indeed the question.’
Chapter 6
Poirot left the police station frowning to himself. His steps grew slower as he walked. In the market square he paused, looking about him. There was Dr Cloade’s house with its worn brass plate, and a little way along was the post office. On the other side was Jeremy Cloade’s house. In front of Poirot, set back a little, was the Roman Catholic Church of the Assumption, a small modest affair, a shrinking violet compared to the aggressiveness of St Mary’s which stood arrogantly in the middle of the square facing the Cornmarket, and proclaiming the dominance of the Protestant religion.
Moved by an impulse Poirot went through the gate and along the path to the door of the Roman Catholic building. He removed his hat, genuflected in front of the altar and knelt down behind one of the chairs. His prayers were interrupted by the sound of stifled heartbroken sobs.
He turned his head. Across the aisle a woman in a dark dress was kneeling, her head buried in her hands. Presently she got up and, still sobbing under her breath, went towards the door. Poirot, his eyes wide with interest, got up and followed her. He had recognized Rosaleen Cloade.
She stood in the porch, fighting for control, and there Poirot spoke to her, very gently:
‘Madame, can I help you?’
She showed no signs of surprise, but answered with the simplicity of an unhappy child.
‘No,’ she said. ‘No one can help me.’
‘You are in very bad trouble. That is it, is it not?’
She said: ‘They’ve taken David away…I’m all alone. They say he killed — But he didn’t! He didn’t!’
She looked at Poirot and said: ‘You were there today? At the inquest. I saw you!’
‘Yes. If I can help you, Madame, I shall be very glad to do so.’
‘I’m frightened. David said I’d be safe as long as he was there to look after me. But now they’ve taken him away — I’m afraid. He said — they all wanted me dead. That’s a dreadful thing to say. But perhaps it’s true.’
‘Let me help you, Madame.’
She shook her head.
‘No,’ she said. ‘No one can help me. I can’t go to confession, even. I’ve got to bear the weight of my wickedness all alone. I’m cut off from the mercy of God.’
‘Nobody,’ said Hercule Poirot, ‘is cut off from the mercy of God. You know that well, my child.’
Again she looked at him — a wild unhappy look.
‘I’d have to confess my sins — to confess. If I could confess — ’
‘Can’t you confess? You came to the church for that, did you not?’
‘I came to get comfort — comfort. But what comfort is there for me? I’m a sinner.’
‘We are all sinners.’
‘But you’d have to repent — I’d have to say — to tell — ’ Her hands went up to her face. ‘Oh, the lies I’ve told — the lies I’ve told.’
‘You told a lie about your husband? About Robert Underhay? It was Robert Underhay who was killed here, wasn’t it?’
She turned sharply on him. Her eyes were suspicious, wary. She cried out sharply:
‘I tell you it was not my husband. It wasn’t the least like him!’
‘The dead man was not in the least like your husband?’
‘No,’ she said defiantly.
‘Tell me,’ said Poirot, ‘what was your husband like?’
Her eyes stared at him. Then her face hardened into alarm. Her eyes grew dark with fear.
She cried out:
‘I’ll not talk to you any more!’
Going swiftly past him, she ran down the path and passed through the gate out into the market square.
Poirot did not try and follow her. Instead he nodded his head with a good deal of satisfaction.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘So that is that!’
He walked slowly out into the square.
After a momentary hesitation he followed the High Street until he came to the Stag, which was the last building before the open country.
In the doorway of the Stag he met Rowley Cloade and Lynn Marchmont.
Poirot looked at the girl with interest. A handsome girl, he thought, and intelligent also. Not the type he himself admired. He preferred something softer, more feminine. Lynn Marchmont, he thought, was essentially a modern type