Taken at the Flood - Agatha Christie [75]
She had lived in Furrowbank as a foreign visitor might live at the Ritz or at the Savoy.
‘I wonder,’ thought Poirot, ‘if the other — ’
Lynn broke the chain of his thought by asking him of what he was thinking, and why he looked so grim.
‘The wages of sin, Mademoiselle, are said to be death. But sometimes the wages of sin seem to be luxury. Is that any more endurable, I wonder? To be cut off from one’s own home life. To catch, perhaps, a single glimpse of it when the way back to it is barred — ’
He broke off. The parlourmaid, her superior manner laid aside, a mere frightened middle-aged woman, came running into the room, stammering and choking with words she could hardly get out.
‘Oh Miss Marchmont! Oh, sir, the mistress — upstairs — she’s very bad — she doesn’t speak and I can’t rouse her and her hand’s so cold.’
Sharply, Poirot turned and ran out of the room. Lynn and the maid came behind him. He raced up to the first floor. The parlourmaid indicated the open door facing the head of the stairs.
It was a large beautiful bedroom, the sun pouring in through the open windows on to pale beautiful rugs.
In the big carved bedstead Rosaleen was lying — apparently asleep. Her long dark lashes lay on her cheeks, her head turned naturally into the pillow. There was a crumpled-up handkerchief in one hand. She looked like a sad child who had cried itself to sleep.
Poirot picked up her hand and felt for the pulse. The hand was ice-cold and told him what he already guessed.
He said quietly to Lynn:
‘She has been dead some time. She died in her sleep.’
‘Oh, sir — oh — what shall we do?’ The parlourmaid burst out crying.
‘Who was her doctor?’
‘Uncle Lionel,’ said Lynn.
Poirot said to the parlourmaid: ‘Go and telephone to Dr Cloade.’ She went out of the room, still sobbing. Poirot moved here and there about the room. A small white cardboard box beside the bed bore a label, ‘One powder to be taken at bedtime.’ Using his handkerchief, he pushed the box open. There were three powders left. He moved across to the mantelpiece, then to the writing-table. The chair in front of it was pushed aside, the blotter was open. A sheet of paper was there, with words scrawled in an unformed childish hand.
‘I don’t know what to do…I can’t go on…I’ve been so wicked. I must tell someone and get peace…I didn’t mean to be so wicked to begin with. I didn’t know all that was going to come of it. I must write down —’
The words sprawled off in a dash. The pen lay where it had been flung down. Poirot stood looking down at those written words. Lynn still stood by the bed looking down at the dead girl.
Then the door was pushed violently open and David Hunter strode breathlessly into the room.
‘David,’ Lynn started forward. ‘Have they released you? I’m so glad — ’
He brushed her words aside, as he brushed her aside, thrusting her almost roughly out of the way as he bent over the still white figure.
‘Rosa! Rosaleen…’ He touched her hand, then he swung round on Lynn, his face blazing with anger. His words came high and deliberate!
‘So you’ve killed her, have you? You’ve got rid of her at last! You got rid of me, sent me to gaol on a trumped-up charge, and then, amongst you all, you put her out of the way! All of you? Or just one of you? I don’t care which it is! You killed her! You wanted the damned money — now you’ve got it! Her death gives it to you! You’ll all be out of Queer Street now. You’ll all be rich — a lot of dirty murdering thieves, that’s what you are! You weren’t able to touch her so long as I was by. I knew how to protect my sister — she was never one to be able to protect herself. But when she was alone here, you saw your chance and you took it.’ He paused, swayed slightly, and said in a low quivering voice, ‘Murderers.