Agatha Christie - Murder in Mesopotamia

Emmott replied gravely: ‘Yes, it’s much the best thing. It’s not been any too easy loafing about the house and making conversation.’

‘Knowing all the time that one of you was a murderer.’

Emmott did not answer. He made no gesture of dissent. I knew now that he had had a suspicion of the truth from the very first when he had questioned the house-boys.

After a few minutes he asked quietly: ‘Are you getting anywhere, M. Poirot?’

Poirot said gravely: ‘Will you help me to get somewhere?’

‘Why, naturally.’

Watching him closely, Poirot said: ‘The hub of the case is Mrs Leidner. I want to know about Mrs Leidner.’

David Emmott said slowly: ‘What do you mean by know about her?’

‘I do not mean where she came from and what her maiden name was. I do not mean the shape of her face and the colour of her eyes. I mean her – herself.’

‘You think that counts in the case?’

‘I am quite sure of it.’

Emmott was silent for a moment or two, then he said: ‘Maybe you’re right.’

‘And that is where you can help me. You can tell me what sort of a woman she was.’

‘Can I? I’ve often wondered about it myself.’

‘Didn’t you make up your mind on the subject?’

‘I think I did in the end.’

‘Eh bien?’

But Mr Emmott was silent for some minutes, then he said: ‘What did nurse think of her? Women are said to sum up other women quickly enough, and a nurse has a wide experience of types.’

Poirot didn’t give me any chance of speaking even if I had wanted to. He said quickly: ‘What I want to know is what a man thought of her?’

Emmott smiled a little.

‘I expect they’d all be much the same.’ He paused and said, ‘She wasn’t young, but I think she was about the most beautiful woman I’ve ever come across.’

‘That’s hardly an answer, Mr Emmott.’

‘It’s not so far off one, M. Poirot.’

He was silent a minute or two and then he went on: ‘There used to be a fairy story I read when I was a kid. A Northern fairy tale about the Snow Queen and Little Kay. I guess Mrs Leidner was rather like that – always taking Little Kay for a ride.’

‘Ah yes, a tale of Hans Andersen, is it not? And there was a girl in it. Little Gerda, was that her name?’

‘Maybe. I don’t remember much of it.’

‘Can’t you go a little further, Mr Emmott?’

David Emmott shook his head.

‘I don’t even know if I’ve summed her up correctly. She wasn’t easy to read. She’d do a devilish thing one day, and a really fine one the next. But I think you’re about right when you say that she’s the hub of the case. That’s what she always wanted to be – at the centre of things. And she liked to get at other people – I mean, she wasn’t just satisfied with being passed the toast and the peanut butter, she wanted you to turn your mind and soul inside out for her to look at it.’

‘And if one did not give her that satisfaction?’ asked Poirot.

‘Then she could turn ugly!’

I saw his lips close resolutely and his jaw set.

‘I suppose, Mr Emmott, you would not care to express a plain unofficial opinion as to who murdered her?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Emmott. ‘I really haven’t the slightest idea. I rather think that, if I’d been Carl – Carl Reiter, I mean – I would have had a shot at murdering her. She was a pretty fair devil to him. But, of course, he asks for it by being so darned sensitive. Just invites you to give him a kick in the pants.’

‘And did Mrs Leidner give him – a kick in the pants?’ inquired Poirot.

Emmott gave a sudden grin.

‘No. Pretty little jabs with an embroidery needle-that was her method. He was irritating, of course. Just like some blubbering, poor-spirited kid. But a needle’s a painful weapon.’

I stole a glance at Poirot and thought I detected a slight quiver of his lips.

‘But you don’t really believe that Carl Reiter killed her?’ he asked.

‘No. I don’t believe you’d kill a woman because she persistently made you look a fool at every meal.’

Poirot shook his head thoughtfully.

Of course, Mr Emmott made Mrs Leidner sound quite inhuman. There was something to be said on the other side too.

There had been something terribly irritating about Mr Reiter’s attitude. He jumped when she spoke to him, and did idiotic things like passing her the marmalade again and again when he knew she never ate it. I’d have felt inclined to snap at him a bit myself.

Men don’t understand how their mannerisms can get on women’s nerves so that you feel you just have to snap.

I thought I’d just mention that to Mr Poirot some time.

We had arrived back now and Mr Emmott offered Poirot a wash and took him into his room.

I hurried across the courtyard to mine.

I came out again about the same time they did and we were all making for the dining-room when Father Lavigny appeared in the doorway of his room and invited Poirot in.

Mr Emmott came on round and he and I went into the dining-room together. Miss Johnson and Mrs Mercado were there already, and after a few minutes Mr Mercado, Mr Reiter and Bill Coleman joined us.

We were just sitting down and Mercado had told the Arab boy to tell Father Lavigny lunch was ready when we were all startled by a faint, muffled cry.

I suppose our nerves weren’t very good yet, for we all jumped, and Miss Johnson got quite pale and said: ‘What was that? What’s happened?’

Mrs Mercado stared at her and said: ‘My dear, what is the matter with you? It’s some noise outside in the fields.’

But at that minute Poirot and Father Lavigny came in.

‘We thought someone was hurt,’ Miss Johnson said.

‘A thousand pardons, mademoiselle,’ cried Poirot. ‘The fault is mine. Father Lavigny, he explains to me some tablets, and I take one to the window to see better – and, ma foi, not looking where I was going, I steb the toe, and the pain is sharp for the moment and I cry out.’

‘We thought it was another murder,’ said Mrs Mercado, laughing.

‘Marie!’ said her husband.

His tone was reproachful and she flushed and bit her lip.

Miss Johnson hastily turned the conversation to the dig and what objects of interest had turned up that morning. Conversation all through lunch was sternly archaeological.

I think we all felt it was the safest thing.

After we had had coffee we adjourned to the living-room. Then the men, with the exception of Father Lavigny, went off to the dig again.

Father Lavigny took Poirot through into the antika-room and I went with them. I was getting to know the things pretty well by now and I felt a thrill of pride – almost as though it were my own property – when Father Lavigny took down the gold cup and I heard Poirot’s exclamation of admiration and pleasure.

‘How beautiful! What a work of art!’

Father Lavigny agreed eagerly and began to point out its beauties with real enthusiasm and knowledge.

‘No wax on it today,’ I said.

‘Wax?’ Poirot stared at me.

‘Wax?’ So did Father Lavigny.

I explained my remark.

‘Ah, je comprends,’ said Father Lavigny. ‘Yes, yes, candle grease.’

That led direct to the subject of the midnight visitor. Forgetting my presence they both dropped into French, and I left them together and went back into the living-room.

Mrs Mercado was darning her husband’s socks and Miss Johnson was reading a book. Rather an unusual thing for her. She usually seemed to have something to work at.

After a while Father Lavigny and Poirot came out, and the former excused himself on the score of work. Poirot sat down with us.

‘A most interesting man,’ he said, and asked how much work there had been for Father Lavigny to do so far.