Agatha Christie - Appointment with Death

Her face grew very pale. He saw the clutch of her other hand on the table. Her eyes dropped. She sat very still. She was like a Madonna carved in stone.

"Well, Madame," said Poirot at last. "What have you say to that?"

The seconds ticked on but she did not speak. It was quite two minutes before she raised her head, and he started a little when he saw the look in her eyes.

"M. Poirot, I did not kill my mother-in-law. That you know! She was alive and well when I left her. There are many people who can testify to that! Therefore, being innocent of the crime, I can venture to appeal to you. Why must you mix yourself up in this business? If I swear to you on my honor that justice and only justice has been done. Will you not abandon this inquiry? There has been so much suffering-you do not know. Now that at last there is peace and the possibility of happiness, must you destroy it all?"

Poirot sat up very straight. His eyes shone with a green light. "Let me be clear, Madame. What are you asking me to do?"

"I am telling you that my mother-in-law died a natural death and I am asking you to accept that statement."

"Let us be definite. You believe that your mother-in-law was deliberately killed, and you are asking me to condone-murder!"

"I am asking you to have pity!"

"Yes-on someone who had no pity!"

"You don't understand-it was not like that."

"Did you commit the crime yourself, Madame, that you know so well?"

Nadine shook her head. She showed no signs of guilt. "No," she said quietly. "She was alive when I left her."

"Then what happened? You know-or you suspect-"

Nadine said passionately: "I have heard, M. Poirot, that once, in that affair of the Orient Express, you accepted an official verdict of what had happened?"

Poirot looked at her curiously. "I wonder who told you that."

"Is it true?"

He said slowly: "That case was-different."

"No. No, it was not different! The man who was killed was evil," her voice dropped, "as she was…"

Poirot said: "The moral character of the victim has nothing to do with it! A human being who has exercised the right of private judgment and taken the life of another human being is not safe to exist amongst the community. I tell you that! I, Hercule Poirot!"

"How hard you are!"

"Madame, in some ways I am adamant. I will not condone murder! That is the final word of Hercule Poirot."

She got up. Her dark eyes flashed with sudden fire. "Then go on! Bring ruin and misery into the lives of innocent people! I have nothing more to say."

"But I-I think, Madame, that you have a lot to say."

"No, nothing more."

"What happened, Madame, after you left your mother-in-law? Whilst you and your husband were in the marquee together?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "How should I know?"

"You do know-or you suspect."

She looked him straight in the eyes. "I know nothing, M. Poirot." Turning, she left the room.

After noting on his pad "N. B. 4:40," Poirot opened the door and called to the orderly whom Colonel Carbury had left at his disposal, an intelligent man with a good knowledge of English. He asked him to fetch Miss Carol Boynton.

Poirot looked with some interest at the girl as she entered: at the chestnut hair, the poise of the head on the long neck, the nervous energy of the beautifully shaped hands.

He said: "Sit down Mademoiselle."

She sat down obediently. Her face was colorless and expressionless.

Poirot began with a mechanical expression of sympathy to which the girl acquiesced without any change of expression.

"And now, Mademoiselle, will you recount to me how you spent the afternoon of the day in question?"

Her answer came promptly, raising the suspicion that it had already been well rehearsed.

"After luncheon we all went for a stroll. I returned to the camp-"

Poirot interrupted. "A little minute. Were you all together until then?"

"No, I was with my brother Raymond and Miss King or most of the time. Then I strolled off on my own."

"Thank you. And you were saying you returned to the camp. Do you know the approximate time?"

"I believe it was just about ten minutes past five."

Poirot put down "C. B. 5:10."

"And what then?"

"My mother was still sitting where she had been when we set out. I went up and spoke to her and then went on to my tent."

"Can you remember exactly what passed between you?"

"I just said it was very hot and that I was going to lie down. My mother said she would remain where she was. That was all."

"Did anything in her appearance strike you as out of the ordinary?"

"No. At least-that is-" She paused doubtfully, staring at Poirot.

"It is not from me that you can get the answer, Mademoiselle," said Poirot quietly.

She flushed and looked away. "I was just considering. I hardly noticed at the time, but now, looking back-"

"Yes?"

Carol said slowly: "It is true-she was a funny color-her face was very red-more so than usual."

"She might, perhaps, have had a shock of some kind." Poirot suggested.

"A shock?" She stared at him.

"Yes, she might have had, let us say, some trouble with one of the Arab servants."

"Oh!" Her face cleared. "Yes-she might."

"She did not mention such a thing having happened?"

"No, no, nothing at all."

Poirot went on: "And what did you do next Mademoiselle?"

"I went to my tent and lay down for about half an hour. Then I went down to the marquee. My brother and his wife were there reading."

"And what did you do?"

"Oh! I had some sewing to do. And then I picked up a magazine."

"Did you speak to your mother again on your way to the marquee?"

"No, I went straight down. I don't think I even glanced in her direction."

"And then?"

"I remained in the marquee until-until Miss King told us she was dead."

"And that is all you know, Mademoiselle?"

"Yes."

Poirot leaned forward. His tone was the same, light and conversational. "And what did you feel, Mademoiselle?"

"What did I feel?"

"Yes, when you found that your mother-pardon-your stepmother was she not?-what did you feel when you learned she was dead?"

She stared at him. "I don't understand what you mean!"

"I think you understand very well."

Her eyes dropped. She said, uncertainly: "It was-a great shock."

"Was it?"

The blood rushed to her face. She stared at him helplessly.

Now he saw fear in her eyes. "Was it such a great shock, Mademoiselle? Remembering a certain conversation you had with your brother Raymond one night in Jerusalem?"

His shot proved right. He saw it in the way the color drained out of her cheeks again. "You know about that?" she whispered.

"Yes, I know."

"But how-how?"

"Part of your conversation was overheard."

"Oh!" Carol Boynton buried her face in her hands. Her sobs shook the table. Hercule Poirot waited a minute, then he said quietly: "You were planning together to bring about your stepmother's death."

Carol sobbed out brokenly: "We were mad-mad-that evening!"

"Perhaps."

"It's impossible for you to understand the state we were in!" She sat up, pushing back the hair from her face. "It would sound fantastic. It wasn't so bad in America-but traveling brought it home to us so."

"Brought what home to you?" His voice was kind now, sympathetic.

"Our being different from-other people! We-we got desperate about it. And there was Jinny."

"Jinny?"

"My sister. You haven't seen her. She was going-well-queer. And Mother was making her worse. She didn't seem to realize. We were afraid, Ray and I, that Jinny was going quite mad! And we saw [unreadable]

Poirot nodded his head slowly. "Yes, it has seemed so, I know, to many. That is, by history."