Nicholas. It was the same then.'
Poirot looked at her attentively.
'In an old house,' she said, 'there is sometimes an atmosphere of evil.'
'That's it, sir,' said Ellen, eagerly. 'Evil. Bad thoughts and bad deeds too. It's like dry rot in a house, sir, you can't get it out. It's a sort of feeling in the air. I always knew something bad would happen in this house, someday.'
'Well, you have been proved right.’
‘Yes, sir.'
There was a very slight underlying satisfaction in her tone, the satisfaction of one whose gloomy prognostications have been shown to be correct.
'But you didn't think it would be Miss Maggie.'
'No, indeed, I didn't, sir. Nobody hated her -I'm sure of it.'
It seemed to me that in those words was a clue. I expected Poirot to follow it up, but to my surprise he shifted to quite a different subject.
'You didn't hear the shots fired?'
'I couldn't have told with the fireworks going on. Very noisy they were.'
'You weren't out watching them?'
'No, I hadn't finished clearing up dinner.'
'Was the waiter helping you?'
'No, sir, he'd gone out into the garden to have a look at the fireworks.'
'But you didn't go.'
'No, sir.'
'Why was that?'
'I wanted to get finished.'
'You don't care for fireworks?'
'Oh, yes, sir, it wasn't that. But you see, there's two nights of them, and William and I get the evening off tomorrow and go down into the town and see them from there.'
'I comprehend. And you heard Mademoiselle Maggie asking for her coat and unable to find it?'
'I heard Miss Nick run upstairs, sir, and Miss Buckley call up from the front hall saying she couldn't find something and I heard her say, 'All right-I'll take the shawl-''
'Pardon,' Poirot interrupted. 'You did not endeavour to search for the coat for her-or get it from the car where it had been left?'
'I had my work to do, sir.'
'Quite so-and doubtless neither of the two young ladies asked you because they thought you were out looking at the fireworks?'
'Yes, sir.'
'So that, other years, you have been out looking at the fireworks?'
A sudden flush came into her pale cheeks.
'I don't know what you mean, sir. We're always allowed to go out into the garden. If I didn't feel like it this year, and would rather get on with my work and go to bed, well, that's my business, I imagine.'
'Mais oui. Mais oui. I did not intend to offend you. Why should you not do as you prefer. To make a change, it is pleasant.'
He paused and then added: 'Now another little matter in which I wonder whether you can help me. This is an old house. Are there, do you know, any secret chambers in it?'
'Well-there's a kind of sliding panel-in this very room. I remember being shown it as a girl. Only I can't remember just now where it is. Or was it in the library? I can't say, I'm sure.'
'Big enough for a person to hide in?'
'Oh, no indeed, sir! A little cupboard place-a kind of niche. About a foot square, sir, not more than that.'
'Oh! that is not what I mean at all.' The blush rose to her face again.
'If you think I was hiding anywhere-I wasn't! I heard Miss Nick run down the stairs and out and I heard her cry out-and I came into the hall to see if-if anything was the matter. And that's the gospel truth, sir. That's the gospel truth.'
Chapter 13 – Letters
Having successfully got rid of Ellen, Poirot turned a somewhat thoughtful face towards me.
'I wonder now-did she hear those shots? I think she did. She heard them, she opened the kitchen door. She heard Nick rush down the stairs and out, and she herself came into the hall to find out what had happened. That is natural enough. But why did she not go out and watch the fireworks that evening? That is what I should like to know, Hastings.'
'What was your idea in asking about a secret hiding place?'
'A mere fanciful idea that, after all, we might not have disposed of J.'
'J?'
'Yes. The last person on my list. The problematical outsider. Supposing for some reason connected with Ellen, that J. had come to the house last night. He (I assume a he) conceals himself in a secret chamber in this room. A girl passes through whom he takes to be Nick. He follows her out-and shoots her. Non-c'est idiot! And anyway, we know that there is no hiding place. Ellen's decision to remain in the kitchen last night was a pure hazard. Come, let us search for the will of Mademoiselle Nick.'
There were no papers in the drawing-room. We adjourned to the library, a rather dark room looking out on the drive. Here there was a large old-fashioned walnut bureau-writing-table.
It took us some time to go through it. Everything was in complete confusion. Bills and receipts were mixed up together. Letters of invitation, letters pressing for payment of accounts, letters from friends.
'We will arrange these papers,' said Poirot, sternly, 'with order and method.'
He was as good as his word. Half an hour later, he sat back with a pleased expression on his face. Everything was neatly sorted, docketed and filed.
'C'est bien, ca. One thing is at least to the good. We have had to go through everything so thoroughly that there is no possibility of our having missed anything.'
'No, indeed. Not that there's been much to find.’
‘Except possibly this.'
He tossed across a letter. It was written in large sprawling handwriting, almost indecipherable.
'Darling,-Party was too, too marvellous. Feel rather a worm today. You were wise not to touch that stuff- don't ever start, darling. It's too damned hard to give up. I'm writing the boy friend to hurry up the supply. What Hell life is!
'Yours, 'Freddie.'
'Dated last February,' said Poirot thoughtfully. 'She takes drugs, of course, I knew that as soon as I looked at her.'
'Really? I never suspected such a thing.'
'It is fairly obvious. You have only to look at her eyes. And then there are her extraordinary variations of mood. Sometimes she is all on edge, strung up-sometimes she is lifeless-inert.'
'Drug-taking affects the moral sense, does it not?'
'Inevitably. But I do not think Madame Rice is a real addict. She is at the beginning-not the end.'
'And Nick?'
'There are no signs of it. She may have attended a dope party now and then for fun, but she is no taker of drugs.'
'I'm glad of that.'
I remembered suddenly what Nick had said about Frederica: that she was not always herself. Poirot nodded and tapped the letter he held.
