The Hollow - Agatha Christie [96]
She paused and then went on: ‘I kept it with me in that satchel bag of mine until I could take it up to London. Then I hid it in the studio until I could bring it back, and put it where the police would not find it.’
‘The clay horse,’ murmured Poirot.
‘How did you know? Yes, I put it in a sponge bag and wired the armature round it, and then slapped up the clay model round it. After all, the police couldn’t very well destroy an artist’s masterpiece, could they? What made you know where it was?’
‘The fact that you chose to model a horse. The horse of Troy was the unconscious association in your mind. But the fingerprints–how did you manage the fingerprints?’
‘An old blind man who sells matches in the street. He didn’t know what it was I asked him to hold for a moment while I got some money out!’
Poirot looked at her for a moment.
‘C’est formidable!’ he murmured. ‘You are one of the best antagonists, Mademoiselle, that I have ever had.’
‘It’s been dreadfully tiring always trying to keep one move ahead of you!’
‘I know. I began to realize the truth as soon as I saw that the pattern was always designed not to implicate any one person but to implicate everyone–other than Gerda Christow. Every indication always pointed away from her. You deliberately planted Ygdrasil to catch my attention and bring yourself under suspicion. Lady Angkatell, who knew perfectly what you were doing, amused herself by leading poor Inspector Grange in one direction after another. David, Edward, herself.
‘Yes, there is only one thing to do if you want to clear a person from suspicion who is actually guilty. You must suggest guilt elsewhere but never localize it. That is why every clue looked promising and then petered out and ended in nothing.’
Henrietta looked at the figure huddled pathetically in the chair. She said: ‘Poor Gerda.’
‘Is that what you have felt all along?’
‘I think so. Gerda loved John terribly, but she didn’t want to love him for what he was. She built up a pedestal for him and attributed every splendid and noble and unselfish characteristic to him. And if you cast down an idol, there’s nothing left.’ She paused and then went on: ‘But John was something much finer than an idol on a pedestal. He was a real, living, vital human being. He was generous and warm and alive, and he was a great doctor–yes, a great doctor. And he’s dead, and the world has lost a very great man. And I have lost the only man I shall ever love.’
Poirot put his hand gently on her shoulder. He said:
‘But you are one of those who can live with a sword in their hearts–who can go on and smile–’
Henrietta looked up at him. Her lips twisted into a bitter smile.
‘That’s a little melodramatic, isn’t it?’
‘It is because I am a foreigner and I like to use fine words.’
Henrietta said suddenly:
‘You have been very kind to me.’
‘That is because I have admired you always very much.’
‘M. Poirot, what are we going to do? About Gerda, I mean.’
Poirot drew the raffia workbag towards him. He turned out its contents, scraps of brown suède and other coloured leathers. There were some pieces of thick shiny brown leather. Poirot fitted them together.
‘The holster. I take this. And poor Madame Christow, she was overwrought, her husband’s death was too much for her. It will be brought in that she took her life whilst of unsound mind–’
Henrietta said slowly:
‘And no one will ever know what really happened?’
‘I think one person will know. Dr Christow’s son. I think that one day he will come to me and ask me for the truth.’
‘But you won’t tell him,’ cried Henrietta.
‘Yes. I shall tell him.’
‘Oh, no!’
‘You do not understand. To you it is unbearable that anyone should be hurt. But to some minds there is something more unbearable still–not to know. You heard the poor woman just a little while ago say: “Terry always has to know.” To the scientific mind, truth comes first. Truth, however bitter, can be accepted, and woven into a design for living.’
Henrietta got up.
‘Do you