Chapter 16
I
I gave Norton Poirot's message.
'I'll go up and see him, certainly. I'd like to. But you know, Hastings, I'm rather sorry I mentioned the matter even to you.'
'By the way,' I said. 'You haven't said anything to anyone else about it, have you?'
'No – at least – no, of course not.'
'You're quite sure?'
'No, no, I haven't said anything.'
'Well, don't. Not until after you've seen Poirot.'
I had noticed the slight hesitation in his tone when he first answered, but his second assurance was quite firm. I was to remember that slight hesitation afterwards, though.
II
I went up again to the grassy knoll where we had been on that day. Someone else was there already. Elizabeth Cole. She turned her head as I came up the slope.
She said:
'You look very excited, Captain Hastings. Is anything the matter?'
I tried to calm myself.
'No, no, nothing at all. I'm just out of breath with walking fast.' I added in an everyday commonplace voice:
'It's going to rain.'
She looked up at the sky.
'Yes, I think it is.'
We stood there silent for a minute or two. There was something about this woman that I found very sympathetic. Ever since she had told me who she really was, and the tragedy that had ruined her life, I had taken an interest in her. Two people who have suffered unhappiness have a great bond in common. Yet for her there was, or so I suspected, a second spring. I said now impulsively:
'Far from being excited, I'm depressed today. I've had bad news about my dear old friend.'
'About M. Poirot?'
Her sympathetic interest led me to unburden myself.
When I had finished, she said softly:
'I see. So – the end might come any time?'
I nodded, unable to speak.
After a minute or two I said:
'When he's gone, I shall indeed be alone in the world.'
'Oh no, you've got Judith – and your other children.'
'They're scattered over the world, and Judith – well, she's got her work. She doesn't need me.'
'I suspect that children don't ever need their parents until they are in trouble of some kind. You should make up your mind to that as to some fundamental law. I'm far more lonely than you are. My two sisters are far away – one in America and one in Italy.'
'My dear girl,' I said. 'Your life's beginning.'
'At thirty-five?'
'What's thirty-five? I wish I were thirty-five.' I added maliciously: 'I'm not quite blind, you know.'
She turned an enquiring glance on me, then blushed.
'You don't think – oh! Stephen Norton and I are only friends. We've got a good deal in common -'
'All the better.'
'He's – he's just awfully kind.'
'Oh, my dear,' I said. 'Don't believe it's all kindness. We men aren't made that way.'
But Elizabeth Cole had turned suddenly white. She said in a low, strained voice:
'You're cruel – blind! How can I ever think of – of marriage? With my history. With my sister a murderess – or if not that, insane. I don't know which is worse.'
I said strongly:
'Don't let that prey on your mind. Remember, it may not be true.'
'What do you mean? It is true.'
'Don't you remember saying to me once: 'It wasn't Maggie'?'
She caught her breath.
'One feels like that.'
'What one feels is often – true.'
She stared at me.
'What do you mean?'
'Your sister,' I said, 'did not kill her father.'
Her hand crept up to her mouth. Her eyes, wide and scared, looked into mine.
'You're mad,' she said. 'You must be mad. Who told you that?'
'Never mind,' I said. 'It's true. Someday I'll prove it to you.'
III
Near the house I ran into Boyd Carrington.
'This is my last evening,' he told me. 'I move out tomorrow.'
'To Knatton?'
'Yes.'
'That's very exciting for you.'
'Is it? I suppose it is.' He gave a sigh. 'Anyway, Hastings, I don't mind telling you, I shall be glad to leave here.'
'The food is certainly pretty bad and the service isn't good.'
'I don't mean that. After all, it's cheap, and you can't expect much from these paying guest places. No, Hastings, I mean more than discomfort. I don't like this house – there's some malign influence about it. Things happen here.'
'They certainly do.'
'I don't know what it is. Perhaps a house that has once had a murder in it is never quite the same afterwards… But I don't like it. First there was that accident to Mrs Luttrell – a damned unlucky thing to happen. And then there was poor little Barbara.'
He paused.
'The most unlikely person in the world to have committed suicide, I should have said.'
I hesitated.
'Well, I don't know that I'd go as far as that -'
He interrupted me.
'Well, I would. Hang it all, I was with her most of the day before. She was in good spirits – enjoyed our
