Agatha Christie - The A.B.C. Murders

"Really, Poirot," I cried, scandalized. "I'm sure none of those people was thinking of anything but—"

"Oh! my dear friend. And what about yourself?"

"I?"

"Mais oui, as they departed, did you not come back from the door humming a tune?"

"One may do that without being callous."

"Certainly, but that tune told me your thoughts."

"Indeed?"

"Yes. To hum a tune is extremely dangerous. It reveals the subconscious mind. The tune you hummed dates, I think, from the days of the war. Comme ca," Poirot sang in an abominable falsetto voice:

"Some of the time I love a brunette,

Some of the time I love a blonde (who comes from Eden by way of Sweden).

"What could be more revealing? Mais je crois que la blonde l'emporte sur la brunette.''

"Really, Poirot," I cried, blushing slightly.

"C'est tout naturel. Did you observe how Franklin Clarke was suddenly at one and in sympathy with Mademoiselle Megan? How he leaned forward and looked at her? And did you also notice how very much annoyed Mademoiselle Thora Grey was about it? And Mr. Donald Fraser, he—"

"Poirot," I said, "your mind is incurably sentimental."

"That is the last thing my mind is. You are the sentimental one, Hastings."

I was about to argue the point hotly, but at that moment the door opened. To my astonishment it was Thora Grey who entered.

"Forgive me for coming back," she said composedly. "But there was something that I think I would like to tell you, M. Poirot."

"Certainly, mademoiselle. Sit down, will you not?"

She took a seat and hesitated for just a minute as though choosing her words.

"It is just this, Mr. Poirot. Mr. Clarke very generously gave you to understand just now that I had left Combeside by my own wish. He is a very kind and loyal person. But as a matter of fact, it is not quite like that. I was quite prepared to stay on—there is any amount of work to be done in connection with the collections. It was Lady Clarke who wished me to leave! I can make allowances. She is a very ill woman, and her brain is somewhat muddled with the drugs they give her. It makes her suspicious and fanciful. She took an unreasoning dislike to me and insisted that I should leave the house."

I could not but admire the girl's courage. She did not attempt to gloss over facts, as so many might have been tempted to do, but went straight to the point with an admirable candour. My heart went out to her in admiration and sympathy.

"I call it splendid of you to come and tell us this," I said.

"It's always better to have the truth," she said with a little smile. "I don't want to shelter behind Mr. Clarke's chivalry. He is a very chivalrous man."

There was a warm glow in her words. She evidently admired Franklin Clarke enormously.

"You have been very honest, mademoiselle," said Poirot.

"It is rather a blow to me," said Thora ruefully. "I had no idea Lady Clarke disliked me so much. In fact, I always thought she was rather fond of me." She made a wry face. "One lives and learns."

She rose. "That is all I came to say. Goodbye."

I accompanied her downstairs. "I call that very sporting of her," I said as I returned to the room. "She has courage, that girl."

"And calculation."

"What do you mean—calculation?"

"I mean that she has the power of looking ahead."

I looked at him doubtfully. "She really is a lovely girl," I said.

"And wears very lovely clothes. That crepe marocain and the silky fox collar—dernier cri!"

"You're a man milliner, Poirot. I never notice what people have on."

"You should join a nudist colony."

As I was about to make an indignant rejoinder, he said, with a sudden change of subject: "Do you know, Hastings, I cannot rid my mind of the impression that already, in our conversations this afternoon, something was said that was significant. It is odd—I cannot pin down exactly what it was. Just an impression that passed through my mind. That reminds me of something I have already heard or seen or noted—"

"Something at Churston?"

"No—not at Churston . . . . Before that . . . . No matter, presently it will come to me . . . ."

He looked at me (perhaps I had not been attending very closely), laughed and began once more to hum.

"She is an angel, is she not? From Eden, by way of Sweden."

"Poirot," I said. "Go to the devil!"

There was an air of deep and settled melancholy over Combeside when we came for the second time. This may, perhaps, have been partly due to the weather—it was a moist September day with a little humidity in the air—and partly no doubt it was the semi-shut state of autumn in the small house.

The downstairs rooms were closed and shuttered, and the room into which we were shown smelt damp and airless.

A capable-looking hospital nurse came to us there pulling down her starched cuffs.

"M. Poirot?" she said briskly. "I am Nurse Capstick. I got Mr. Clarke's letter saying you were coming."

Poirot inquired after Lady Clarke's health.

"Not bad at all really, all things considered."

"All things considered," I presumed meant considering she was under sentence of death.

"One can't hope for much improvement, of course, but some treatment has made things a little easier for her. Dr. Logan is quite pleased with her condition."

"But it is true, is it not, that she can never recover?"

"Oh, we never actually say that," said Nurse Capstick, shocked by this plain speaking.

"I suppose her husband's death was a terrible shock to her?"

"Well M. Poirot if you understand what I mean, it wasn't of a shock as it would have been to anyone in full possession of health and faculties. Things are dimmed by Lady Clarke in her condition.''

"Pardon my asking, but was she deeply attached to her husband and he to her?"

"Oh, yes, they were a very happy couple. He was very worried and upset about her, poor man. It's always worse for a doctor, you know. They can't buoy themselves up with false hopes. I'm afraid it preyed on his mind very much to begin with."

"To begin with? Not so much afterwards?"

"One gets used to everything, doesn't one? And then Sir Carmichael had his collection. A hobby is a great consolation to a man. He used to run up to sales occasionally, and then he and Miss Grey were busy recataloguing and rearranging the museum on a new system."

"Oh, yes—Miss Grey. She has left, has she not?"

"Yes—I'm very sorry about it—but ladies do take these fancies sometimes when they're not well. And there's no arguing with them. It's better to give in. Miss Grey was very sensible about it."

"Has Lady Clarke always disliked her?"

"No—that is to say, not disliked. As a matter of fact, I think she rather liked her to begin with. But there, I mustn't keep you gossiping. My patient will be wondering what has become of us."

She led us upstairs to a room on the first floor. What had at one time been a bedroom had been turned into a cheerful-looking sitting room.

Lady Clarke was sitting in a big armchair near the window. She was painfully thin, and her face had the grey, haggard look of one who suffers much pain. She had a slightly far-away, dreamy look, and I noticed that the pupils of her eyes were mere pinpoints.

"This is M. Poirot whom you wanted to see," said Nurse Capstick in her high, cheerful voice.

"Oh, yes, M. Poirot," said Lady Clarke vaguely. She extended her hand.

"My friend Captain Hastings, Lady Clarke."

"How do you do? So good of you both to come."

We sat down as her vague gesture directed. There was a silence. Lady Clarke seemed to have lapsed into a dream.

Presently with a slight effort she roused herself. "It was about Car, wasn't it? About Car's death. Oh, yes."