Helen said quickly:
'And what do you really want, George? Leaving out the Spode service.'
George grinned and the tension relaxed.
'Rather a shame to bait old Timothy,' he said. 'But he really is quite unbelievable. He's had his own way in everything so long that he's become quite pathological about it.'
'You have to humour an invalid, Mr Crossfield,' said Miss Gilchrist.
'Ruddy old hypochondriac, that's what he is,' said George.
'Of course he is,' Susan agreed. 'I don't believe there's anything whatever the matter with him, do you, Rosamund?'
'What?'
'Anything the matter with Uncle Timothy.'
'No – no, I shouldn't think so.' Rosamund was vague. She apologised. 'I'm sorry. I was thinking about what lighting would be right for the table.'
'You see?' said George. 'A woman of one idea. Your wife's a dangerous woman, Michael. I hope you realise it.'
'I realise it,' said Michael rather grimly.
George went on with every appearance of enjoyment.
'The Battle of the Table! To be fought tomorrow – politely – but with grim determination: We ought all to take sides. I back Rosamund who looks so sweet and yielding and isn't. Husbands, presumably back their own wives. Miss Gilchrist? On Susan's side, obviously.'
'Oh, really, Mr Crossfield, I wouldn't venture to -'
'Aunt Helen?' George paid no attention to Miss Gilchrist's flutterings. 'You have the casting vote. Oh, er – I forgot. M. Pontarlier?'
'Pardon?' Hercule Poirot looked blank.
George considered explanations, but decided against it. The poor old boy hadn't understood a word of what was going on. He said: 'Just a family joke.'
'Yes, yes, I comprehend.' Poirot smiled amiably.
'So yours is the casting vote, Aunt Helen. Whose side are you on?'
Helen smiled.
'Perhaps I want it myself, George.'
She changed the subject deliberately, turning to her foreign guest.
'I'm afraid this is all very dull for you, M. Pontarlier?'
'Not at all, Madame. I consider myself privileged to be admitted to your family life -' he bowed. 'I would like to say – I cannot quite express my meaning – my regret that this house had to pass out of your hands into the hands of strangers. It is without doubt – a great sorrow.'
'No, indeed, we don't regret at all,' Susan assured him.
'You are very amiable, Madame. It will be, let me tell you, perfection here for my elderly sufferers of persecution. What a haven! What peace! I beg you to remember that, when the harsh feelings come to you as assuredly they must. I hear that there was also the question of a school coming here – not a regular school, a convent – run by religieuses – by 'nuns,' I think you say? You would have preferred that, perhaps?'
'Not at all,' said George.
'The Sacred Heart of Mary,' continued Poirot. 'Fortunately, owing to the kindness of an unknown benefactor we were able to make a slightly higher offer.' He addressed Miss Gilchrist directly. 'You do not like nuns, I think?'
Miss Gilchrist flushed and looked embarrassed.
'Oh, really, Mr Pontarlier, you mustn't – I mean, it's nothing personal. But I never do see that it's right to shut yourself up from the world in that way – not necessary, I mean, and really almost selfish, though not teaching ones, of course, or the ones that go about amongst the poor – because I'm sure they're thoroughly unselfish women and do a lot of good.'
'I simply can't imagine wanting to be a nun,' said Susan.
'It's very becoming,' said Rosamund. 'You remember – when they revived The Miracle last year. Sonia Wells looked absolutely too glamorous for words.'
'What beats me,' said George, 'is why it should be pleasing to the Almighty to dress oneself up in medieval dress. For after all, that's all a nun's dress is. Thoroughly cumbersome, unhygienic and impractical.'
'And it makes them look so alike, doesn't it?' said Miss Gilchrist. 'It's silly, you know, but I got quite a turn when I was at Mrs Abernethie's and a nun came to the door, collecting. I got it into my head she was the same as a nun who came to the door on the day of the inquest on poor Mrs Lansquenet at Lychett St Mary. I felt, you know, almost as though she had been following me round!'
'I thought nuns always collected in couples,' said George. 'Surely a detective story hinged on that point once?'
'There was only one this time,' said Miss Gilchrist. 'Perhaps they've got to economise,' she added vaguely. 'And anyway it couldn't have been the same nun, for the other one was collecting for an organ for St – Barnabas, I think – and this one was for something quite different – some thing to do with children.'
'But they both had the same type of features?' Hercule Poirot asked. He sounded interested. Miss Gilchrist turned to him.
'I suppose that must be it. The upper lip – almost as though she had a moustache. I think you know, that that is really what alarmed me – being in a rather nervous state at the time, and remembering those stories during the war of nuns who were really men and in the Fifth Column and landed by parachute. Of course it was very foolish of me. I knew that afterwards.'
'A nun would be a good disguise,' said Susan thoughtfully. 'It hides your feet.'
'The truth is,' said George, 'that one very seldom looks properly at anyone. That's why one gets such wildly differing accounts of a person from different witnesses in court. You'd be surprised. A man is often described as tall – short; thin – stout; fair – dark; dressed in a dark – light – suit; and so on. There's usually one reliable observer, but one has to make up one's mind who that is.'
'Another queer thing,' said Susan, 'is that you sometimes catch sight of yourself in a mirror unexpectedly and don't know who it is. It just looks vaguely familiar. And you say to yourself, 'That s somebody I know quite well', and then suddenly realise it's yourself!'
George said: 'It would be more difficult still if you could really see yourself – and not a mirror image.'
'Why?' asked Rosamund, looking puzzled.
'Because, don't you see, nobody ever sees themselves – as they appear to other people. They always see themselves in a glass – that is – as a reversed image.'
'But does that look any different?'
'Oh, yes,' said Susan quickly. 'It must. Because people's faces aren’t the same both sides. Their eyebrows are different, and their mouths go up one side, and their noses aren't really straight. You can see with a pencil – who's got a pencil?'
Somebody produced a pencil, and they experimented, holding a pencil each side of the nose and laughing to see the ridiculous variation in angle.
The atmosphere now had lightened a good deal. Everybody was in a good humour. They were no longer the heirs of Richard Abernethie gathered together for a division of property. They were a cheerful and normal set of people gathered together for a weekend in the country.
Only Helen Abernethie remained silent and abstracted.
With a sigh, Hercule Poirot rose to his feet and bade his hostess a polite good night.
'And perhaps, Madame, I had better say good-bye. My train departs itself at nine o'clock tomorrow morning. That is very early. So I will thank you now for all your kindness and hospitality. The date of possession – that will be arranged with the good Mr Entwhistle. To suit your convenience, of course.'
'It can be any time you please, M. Pontarlier. I – I have finished all that I came here to do.'
'You will return now to your villa at Cyprus?'
'Yes.' A little smile curved Helen Abernethie's lips.
Poirot said:
