'Of course, dear,' said Dagmar Ferrier.
And she smiled, the gentle, maternal smile of a devoted wife.
'And you never told me!'
'But, Edward, you would never have let M. Poirot do it.'
'Indeed I would not!'
Dagmar smiled. 'That's what we thought.'
'We?'
'I and M. Poirot.'
She smiled at Hercule Poirot and at her husband.
She added: 'I had a very restful time with the dear Bishop – I feel full of energy now. They want me to christen the new battleship at Liverpool next month – I think it would be a popular thing to do.'
Chapter 6
THE STYMPHALEAN BIRDS
I
Harold Waring noticed them first walking up the path from the lake. He was sitting outside the hotel on the terrace. The day was fine, the lake was blue, and the sun shone. Harold was smoking a pipe and feeling that the world was a pretty good place.
His political career was shaping well. An under-secretary-ship at the age of thirty was something to be justly proud of. It had been reported that the Prime Minister had said to someone that 'young Waring would go far'. Harold was, not unnaturally, elated. Life presented itself to him in rosy colours. He was young, sufficiently good- looking, in first-class condition, and quite unencumbered with romantic ties.
He had decided to take a holiday in Herzoslovakia so as to get right off the beaten track and have a real rest from everyone and everything. The hotel at Lake Stempka, though small, was comfortable and not overcrowded. The few people there were mostly foreigners. So far the only other English people were an elderly woman, Mrs Rice, and her married daughter, Mrs Clayton. Harold liked them both. Elsie Clayton was pretty in a rather old- fashioned style. She made up very little, if at all, and was gentle and rather shy. Mrs Rice was what is called a woman of character. She was tall, with a deep voice and a masterful manner, but she had a sense of humour and was good company. Her life was clearly bound up in that of her daughter.
Harold had spent some pleasant hours in the company of mother and daughter, but they did not attempt to monopolise him and relations remained friendly and unexacting between them.
The other people in the hotel had not aroused Harold's notice. Usually they were hikers, or members of a motorcoach tour. They stayed a night or two and then went on. He had hardly noticed any one else – until this afternoon.
They came up the path from the lake very slowly and it just happened that at the moment when Harold's attention was attracted to them, a cloud came over the sun. He shivered a little.
Then he stared. Surely there was something odd about these two women? They had long, curved noses, like birds, and their faces, which were curiously alike, were quite immobile. Over their shoulders they wore loose cloaks that flapped in the wind like the wings of two big birds.
Harold thought to himself. 'They are like birds.' He added almost without volition, 'birds of ill omen.'
The women came straight up on the terrace and passed close by him. They were not young – perhaps nearer fifty than forty, and the resemblance between them was so close that they were obviously sisters. Their expression was forbidding. As they passed Harold the eyes of both of them rested on him for a minute. It was a curious, appraising glance – almost inhuman.
Harold's impression of evil grew stronger. He noticed the hand of one of the two sisters, a long claw-like hand… Although the sun had come out, he shivered once again.
He thought: 'Horrible creatures. Like birds of prey…'
He was distracted from these imaginings by the emergence of Mrs Rice from the hotel. He jumped up and drew forward a chair. With a word of thanks she sat down and, as usual, began to knit vigorously.
Harold asked: 'Did you see those two women who just went into the hotel?'
'With cloaks on? Yes, I passed them.'
'Extraordinary creatures, didn't you think?'
'Well – yes, perhaps they are rather odd. They only arrived yesterday, I think. Very alike – they must be twins.'
Harold said: 'I may be fanciful, but I distinctly felt there was something evil about them.'
'How curious. I must look at them more closely and see if I agree with you.'
She added: 'We'll find out from the concierge who they are. Not English, I imagine?'
'Oh no.'
Mrs Rice glanced at her watch.
She said: 'Tea-time. I wonder if you'd mind going in and ringing the bell, Mr Waring?'
'Certainly, Mrs Rice.'
He did so and then as he returned to his seat he asked: 'Where's your daughter this afternoon?'
'Elsie? We went for a walk together. Part of the way round the lake and then back through the pinewoods. It really was lovely.'
A waiter came out and received orders for tea. Mrs Rice went on, her needles flying vigorously: 'Elsie had a letter from her husband. She mayn't come down to tea.'
'Her husband?' Harold was surprised. 'Do you know, I always thought she was a widow.'
Mrs Rice shot him a sharp glance.
She said dryly: 'Oh no, Elsie isn't a widow.' She added with emphasis: 'Unfortunately!'
Harold was startled.
Mrs Rice, nodding her head grimly, said: 'Drink is responsible for a lot of unhappiness, Mr Waring.'
'Does he drink?'
'Yes. And a good many other things as well. He's insanely jealous and has a singularly violent temper.' She sighed. 'It's a difficult world, Mr Waring. I'm devoted to Elsie, she's my only child – and to see her unhappy isn't an easy thing to bear.'
Harold said with real emotion: 'She's such a gentle creature.'
'A little too gentle, perhaps.'
'You mean -'
Mrs Rice said slowly: 'A happy creature is more arrogant. Elsie's gentleness comes, I think, from a sense of defeat. Life has been too much for her.'
Harold said with some slight hesitation: 'How – did she come to marry this husband of hers?'
Mrs Rice answered: 'Philip Clayton was a very attractive person. He had (still has) great charm, he had a certain amount of money – and there was no one to advise us of his real character. I had been a widow for many years. Two women, living alone, are not the best judges of a man's character.'
Harold said thoughtfully: 'No, that's true.'
He felt a wave of indignation and pity sweep over him. Elsie Clayton could not be more than twenty-five at the most. He recalled the clear friendliness of her blue eyes, the soft droop of her mouth. He realised, suddenly, that his interest in her went a little beyond friendship.
And she was tied to a brute…
