Agatha Christie - Peril at End House

‘Of course.'

I hurried into the dining-room, found what I wanted and came back. A few sips of the spirit revived the girl. The colour began to come back into her cheeks. I rearranged the cushion for her head.

'It's all-so awful.' She shivered. 'Everything-everywhere.’

‘I know, my dear, I know.'

'No, you don't! You can't. And it's all such a waste. If it were only me. It would be all over…'

'You mustn't,' I said, ‘be morbid.'

She only shook her head, reiterating: 'You don't know! You don't know!'

Then, suddenly, she began to cry. A quiet, hopeless sobbing like a child. That, I thought, was probably the best thing for her, so I made no effort to stem her tears.

When their first violence had died down a little, I stole across to the window and looked out. I had heard an outcry of voices a few minutes before. They were all there by now, a semi-circle round the scene of the tragedy, with Poirot like a fantastical sentinel, keeping them back.

As I watched, two uniformed figures came striding across the grass. The police had arrived.

I went quietly back to my place by the sofa. Nick lifted her tear-stained face. 'Oughtn't I to be doing something?'

'No, my dear. Poirot will see to it. Leave it to him.' Nick was silent for a minute or two, then she said: 'Poor Maggie. Poor dear old Maggie. Such a good sort who never harmed a soul in her life. That this should happen to her. I feel as though I'd killed her-bringing her down in the way that I did.'

I shook my head sadly. How little one can foresee the future. When Poirot insisted on Nick's inviting a friend, how little did he think that he was signing an unknown girl's death warrant.

We sat in silence. I longed to know what was going on outside, but I loyally fulfilled Poirot's instructions and stuck to my post.

It seemed hours later when the door opened and Poirot and a police inspector entered the room. With them came a man who was evidently Dr Graham. He came over at once to Nick.

'And how are you feeling, Miss Buckley? This must have been a terrible shock.' His fingers were on her pulse.

'Not too bad.'

He turned to me.

'Has she had anything?'

'Some brandy,' I said.

'I'm all right,' said Nick, bravely.

'Able to answer a few questions, eh?'

'Of course.'

The police inspector moved forward with a preliminary cough. Nick greeted him with the ghost of a smile.

'Not impeding the traffic this time,' she said.

I gathered they were not strangers to each other.

'This is a terrible business, Miss Buckley,' said the inspector. 'I'm very sorry about it. Now Mr Poirot here, whose name I'm very familiar with (and proud we are to have him with us, I'm sure), tells me that to the best of his belief you were shot at in the grounds of the Majestic Hotel the other morning?'

Nick nodded.

'I thought it was just a wasp,' she explained. 'But it wasn't.'

'And you'd had some rather peculiar accidents before that?'

'Yes-at least it was odd their happening so close together.'

She gave a brief account of the various circumstances.

'Just so. Now how came it that your cousin was wearing your shawl tonight?'

'We came in to fetch her coat-it was rather cold watching the fireworks. I flung off the shawl on the sofa here. Then I went upstairs and put on the coat I'm wearing now-a light nutria one. I also got a wrap for my friend Mrs Rice out of her room. There it is on the floor by the window. Then Maggie called out that she couldn't find her coat. I said it must be downstairs. She went down and called up she still couldn't find it. I said it must have been left in the car-it was a tweed coat she was looking for-she hasn't got an evening furry one-and I said I'd bring her down something of mine. But she said it didn't matter-she'd take my shawl if I didn't want it. And I said of course but would that be enough? And she said Oh, yes, because she really didn't feel it particularly cold after Yorkshire. She just wanted something. And I said all right, I'd be out in a minute. And when I did-did come out-'

She stopped, her voice breaking…

'Now, don't distress yourself, Miss Buckley. Just tell me this. Did you hear a shot-or two shots?'

Nick shook her head.

'No-only just the fireworks popping and the squibs going off.'

'That's just it,' said the inspector. 'You'd never notice a shot with all that going on. It's no good asking you, I suppose, if you've any clue to who it is making these attacks upon you?'

'I haven't the least idea,' said Nick. 'I can't imagine.'

'And you wouldn't be likely to,' said the inspector. 'Some homicidal maniac-that's what it looks like to me. Nasty business. Well, I won't need to ask you any more questions to-night, miss. I'm more sorry about this than I can say.'

Dr Graham stepped forward.

'I'm going to suggest, Miss Buckley, that you don't stay here. I've been talking it over with M. Poirot. I know of an excellent nursing home. You've had a shock, you know. What you need is complete rest-'

Nick was not looking at him. Her eyes had gone to Poirot. 'Is it-because of the shock?' she asked. He came forward.

'I want you to feel safe, mon enfant. And I want to feel, too, that you are safe. There will be a nurse there-a nice practical unimaginative nurse. She will be near you all night. When you wake up and cry out-she will be there, close at hand. You understand?'

'Yes,' said Nick, 'I understand. But you don't. I'm not afraid any longer. I don't care one way or another. If anyone wants to murder me, they can.'

'Hush, hush,' I said. 'You're over-strung.’

‘You don't know. None of you know!'

'I really think M. Poirot's plan is a good one,' the doctor broke in soothingly. 'I will take you in my car. And we will give you a little something to ensure a good night's rest. Now what do you say?'

'I don't mind,' said Nick. 'Anything you like. It doesn't matter.'

Poirot laid his hand on hers.

'I know, Mademoiselle. I know what you must feel. I stand before you ashamed and stricken to the heart. I, who promised protection, have not been able to protect. I have failed. I am a miserable. But believe me, Mademoiselle, my heart is in agony because of that failure. If you know what I am suffering you would forgive, I am sure.'

'That's all right,' said Nick, still in the same dull voice. 'You mustn't blame yourself. I'm sure you did the best you could. Nobody could have helped it-or done more, I'm sure. Please don't be unhappy.'

'You are very generous, Mademoiselle.’

‘No, I-'

There was an interruption. The door flew open and George Challenger rushed into the room.

'What's all this?' he cried. 'I've just arrived. To find a policeman at the gate and a rumour that somebody's dead. What is it all about? For God's sake, tell me. Is it-is it-Nick?'

The anguish in his tone was dreadful to hear. I suddenly realized that Poirot and the doctor between them completely blotted out Nick from his sight.

Before anyone had time to answer, he repeated his question.

'Tell me-it can't be true-Nick isn't dead?'

'No, mon ami,' said Poirot, gently. 'She is alive.'

And he drew back so that Challenger could see the little figure on the sofa.

For a moment or two Challenger stared at her incredulously. Then, staggering a little, like a drunken man, he muttered: 'Nick-Nick.'

And suddenly dropping on his knees beside the sofa and hiding his head in his hands, he cried in a muffled voice: 'Nick-my darling-I thought that you were dead.'

Nick tried to sit up.

'It's all right, George. Don't be an idiot. I'm quite safe.'

He raised his head and looked round wildly.

'But somebody's dead? The policeman said so.'

'Yes,' said Nick. 'Maggie. Poor old Maggie. Oh!-'