Agatha Christie - Cat Among the Pigeons

‘I think I have an idea,’ said Miss Bulstrode.

‘Just so,’ said Poirot. ‘Children nowadays know all the facts of life—but their eyes often retain innocence.’

He added that he, too, must be getting along, and slipped out.

‘That was it, wasn’t it?’ said Miss Bulstrode. Her voice was brisk and businesslike. ‘Jennifer merely described it as fat. She didn’t realize it was a pregnant woman she had seen.’

‘Yes,’ said Eileen Rich. ‘That was it. I was going to have a child. I didn’t want to give up my job here. I carried on all right through the autumn, but after that, it was beginning to show. I got a doctor’s certificate that I wasn’t fit to carry on, and I pleaded illness. I went abroad to a remote spot where I thought I wasn’t likely to meet anyone who knew me. I came back to this country and the child was born—dead. I came back this term and I hoped that no one would ever know…But you understand now, don’t you, why I said I should have had to refuse your offer of a partnership if you’d made it? Only now, with the school in such a disaster, I thought that, after all, I might be able to accept.’

She paused and said in a matter of fact voice,

‘Would you like me to leave now? Or wait until the end of term?’

‘You’ll stay till the end of the term,’ said Miss Bulstrode, ‘and if there is a new term here, which I still hope, you’ll come back.’

‘Come back?’ said Eileen Rich. ‘Do you mean you still want me?’

‘Of course I want you,’ said Miss Bulstrode. ‘You haven’t murdered anyone, have you?—not gone mad over jewels and planned to kill to get them? I’ll tell you what you’ve done. You’ve probably denied your instincts too long. There was a man, you fell in love with him, you had a child. I suppose you couldn’t marry.’

‘There was never any question of marriage,’ said Eileen Rich. ‘I knew that. He isn’t to blame.’

‘Very well, then,’ said Miss Bulstrode. ‘You had a love affair and a child. You wanted to have that child?’

‘Yes,’ said Eileen Rich. ‘Yes, I wanted to have it.’

‘So that’s that,’ said Miss Bulstrode. ‘Now I’m going to tell you something. I believe that in spite of this love affair, your real vocation in life is teaching. I think your profession means more to you than any normal woman’s life with a husband and children would mean.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Eileen Rich. ‘I’m sure of that. I’ve known that all along. That’s what I really want to do—that’s the real passion of my life.’

‘Then don’t be a fool,’ said Miss Bulstrode. ‘I’m making you a very good offer. If, that is, things come right. We’ll spend two or three years together putting Meadowbank back on the map. You’ll have different ideas as to how that should be done from the ideas that I have. I’ll listen to your ideas. Maybe I’ll even give in to some of them. You want things to be different, I suppose, at Meadowbank?’

‘I do in some ways, yes,’ said Eileen Rich. ‘I won’t pretend. I want more emphasis on getting girls that really matter.’

‘Ah,’ said Miss Bulstrode, ‘I see. It’s the snob element that you don’t like, is that it?’

‘Yes,’ said Eileen, ‘it seems to me to spoil things.’

‘What you don’t realize,’ said Miss Bulstrode, ‘is that to get the kind of girl you want you’ve got to have that snob element. It’s quite a small element really, you know. A few foreign royalties, a few great names and everybody, all the silly parents all over this country and other countries want their girls to come to Meadowbank. Fall over themselves to get their girl admitted to Meadowbank. What’s the result? An enormous waiting list, and I look at the girls and I see the girls and I choose! You get your pick, do you see? I choose my girls. I choose them very carefully, some for character, some for brains, some for pure academic intellect. Some because I think they haven’t had a chance but are capable of being made something of that’s worth while. You’re young, Eileen. You’re full of ideals—it’s the teaching that matters to you and the ethical side of it. Your vision’s quite right. It’s the girls that matter, but if you want to make a success of anything, you know, you’ve got to be a good tradesman as well. Ideas are like everything else. They’ve got to be marketed. We’ll have to do some pretty slick work in future to get Meadowbank going again. I’ll have to get my hooks into a few people, former pupils, bully them, plead with them, get them to send their daughters here. And then the others will come. You let me be up to my tricks, and then you shall have your way. Meadowbank will go on and it’ll be a fine school.’

‘It’ll be the finest school in England,’ said Eileen Rich enthusiastically.

‘Good,’ said Miss Bulstrode, ‘—and Eileen, I should go and get your hair properly cut and shaped. You don’t seem able to manage that bun. And now,’ she said, her voice changing, ‘I must go to Chaddy.’

She went in and came up to the bed. Miss Chadwick was lying very still and white. The blood had all gone from her face and she looked drained of life. A policeman with a notebook sat nearby and Miss Johnson sat on the other side of the bed. She looked at Miss Bulstrode and shook her head gently.

‘Hallo, Chaddy,’ said Miss Bulstrode. She took up the limp hand in hers. Miss Chadwick’s eyes opened.

‘I want to tell you,’ she said, ‘Eleanor—it was—it was me.’

‘Yes, dear, I know,’ said Miss Bulstrode.

‘Jealous,’ said Chaddy. ‘I wanted—’

‘I know,’ said Miss Bulstrode.

Tears rolled very slowly down Miss Chadwick’s cheeks. ‘It’s so awful…I didn’t mean—I don’t know how I came to do such a thing!’

‘Don’t think about it any more,’ said Miss Bulstrode.

‘But I can’t—you’ll never—I’ll never forgive myself—’

‘Listen, dear,’ she said. ‘You saved my life, you know. My life and the life of that nice woman, Mrs Upjohn. That counts for something, doesn’t it?’

‘I only wish,’ said Miss Chadwick, ‘I could have given my life for you both. That would have made it all right…’

Miss Bulstrode looked at her with great pity. Miss Chadwick took a great breath, smiled, then, moving her head very slightly to one side, she died…

‘You did give your life, my dear,’ said Miss Bulstrode softly. ‘I hope you realize that—now.’

Chapter 25 Legacy

‘A Mr Robinson has called to see you, sir.’

‘Ah!’ said Hercule Poirot. He stretched out his hand and picked up a letter from the desk in front of him. He looked down on it thoughtfully.

He said: ‘Show him in, Georges.’

The letter was only a few lines,

Dear Poirot,

A Mr Robinson may call upon you in the near future. You may already know something about him. Quite a prominent figure in certain circles. There is a demand for such men in our modern world…I believe, if I may so put it, that he is, in this particular matter, on the side of the angels. This is just a recommendation, if you should be in doubt. Of course, and I underline this, we have no idea as to the matter on which he wishes to consult you…

Ha ha! and likewise ho ho!

Yours ever,

Ephraim Pikeaway

Poirot laid down the letter and rose as Mr Robinson came into the room. He bowed, shook hands, indicated a chair.

Mr Robinson sat, pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his large yellow face. He observed that it was a warm day.

‘You have not, I hope, walked here in this heat?’

Poirot looked horrified at the idea. By a natural association of ideas, his fingers went to his moustache. He was reassured. There was no limpness.