While the Light Lasts - Agatha Christie [55]
‘You mean–why I’m so sure? Well, but I know. I know Major Rich so well.’
‘You know Major Rich so well,’ repeated Poirot tonelessly.
The colour flamed into her cheeks.
‘Yes, that’s what they’ll say–what they’ll think! Oh, I know!’
‘C’est vrai. That is what they will ask you about–how well you knew Major Rich. Perhaps you will speak the truth, perhaps you will lie. It is very necessary for a woman to lie, it is a good weapon. But there are three people, madame, to whom a woman should speak the truth. To her Father Confessor, to her hairdresser and to her private detective–if she trusts him. Do you trust me, madame?’
Marguerita Clayton drew a deep breath. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I do. I must,’ she added rather childishly.
‘Then, how well do you know Major Rich?’
She looked at him for a moment in silence, then she raised her chin defiantly.
‘I will answer your question. I loved Jack from the first moment I saw him–two years ago. Lately I think–I believe–he has come to love me. But he has never said so.’
‘E´patant!’ said Poirot. ‘You have saved me a good quarter of an hour by coming to the point without beating the bush. You have the good sense. Now your husband–did he suspect your feelings?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Marguerita slowly. ‘I thought–lately–that he might. His manner has been different…But that may have been merely my fancy.’
‘Nobody else knew?’
‘I do not think so.’
‘And–pardon me, madame–you did not love your husband?’
There were, I think, very few women who would have answered that question as simply as this woman did. They would have tried to explain their feelings.
Marguerita Clayton said quite simply: ‘No.’
‘Bien. Now we know where we are. According to you, madame, Major Rich did not kill your husband, but you realize that all the evidence points to his having done so. Are you aware, privately, of any flaw in that evidence?’
‘No. I know nothing.’
‘When did your husband first inform you of his visit to Scotland?’
‘Just after lunch. He said it was a bore, but he’d have to go. Something to do with land values, he said it was.’
‘And after that?’
‘He went out–to his club, I think. I–I didn’t see him again.’
‘Now as to Major Rich–what was his manner that evening? Just as usual?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘You are not sure?’
Marguerita wrinkled her brows.
‘He was–a little constrained. With me–not with the others. But I thought I knew why that was. You understand? I am sure the constraint or–or–absentmindedness perhaps describes it better–had nothing to do with Edward. He was surprised to hear that Edward had gone to Scotland, but not unduly so.’
‘And nothing else unusual occurs to you in connection with that evening?’
Marguerita thought.
‘No, nothing whatever.’
‘You–noticed the chest?’
She shook her head with a little shiver.
‘I don’t even remember it–or what it was like. We played poker most of the evening.’
‘Who won?’
‘Major Rich. I had very bad luck, and so did Major Curtiss. The Spences won a little, but Major Rich was the chief winner.’
‘The party broke up–when?’
‘About half-past twelve, I think. We all left together.’
‘Ah!’
Poirot remained silent, lost in thought.
‘I wish I could be more helpful to you,’ said Mrs Clayton. ‘I seem to be able to tell you so little.’
‘About the present–yes. What about the past, madame?’
‘The past?’
‘Yes. Have there not been incidents?’
She flushed.
‘You mean that dreadful little man who shot himself. It wasn’t my fault, M. Poirot. Indeed it wasn’t.’
‘It was not precisely of that incident that I was thinking.’
‘That ridiculous duel? But Italians do fight duels. I was so thankful the man wasn’t killed.’
‘It must have been a relief to you,’ agreed Poirot gravely.
She was looking at him doubtfully. He rose and took her hand in his.
‘I shall not fight a duel for you, madame,’ he said. ‘But I will do what you have asked me. I will discover the truth. And let us hope that your instincts are correct–that the truth will help and not harm you.’
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