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The sailor’s face flushed.
‘I’ve always wanted to marry her,’ he said huskily.
‘Precisely. Eh bien—Mademoiselle Nick was engaged to another man. A reason, perhaps, for killing the other man. But that is unnecessary—he dies the death of a hero.’
‘So it is true—that Nick was engaged to Michael Seton? There’s a rumour to that effect all over the town this morning.’
‘Yes—it is interesting how soon news spreads. You never suspected it before?’
‘I knew Nick was engaged to someone—she told me so two days ago. But she didn’t give me a clue as to whom it was.’
‘It was Michael Seton. Entre nous, he has left her, I fancy, a very pretty fortune. Ah! assuredly, it is not a moment for killing Mademoiselle Nick—from your point of view. She weeps for her lover now, but the heart consoles itself. She is young. And I think, Monsieur, that she is very fond of you…’
Challenger was silent for a moment or two.
‘If it should be…’ he murmured.
There was a tap on the door.
It was Frederica Rice.
‘I’ve been looking for you,’ she said to Challenger. ‘They told me you were here. I wanted to know if you’d got my wrist-watch back yet.’
‘Oh, yes, I called for it this morning.’
He took it from his pocket and handed it to her. It was a watch of rather an unusual shape—round, like a globe, set on a strap of plain black moiré. I remembered that I had seen one much the same shape on Nick Buckley’s wrist.
‘I hope it will keep better time now.’
‘It’s rather a bore. Something is always going wrong with it.’
‘It is for beauty, Madame, and not for utility,’ said Poirot.
‘Can’t one have both?’ She looked from one to the other of us. ‘Am I interrupting a conference?’
‘No, indeed, Madame. We were talking gossip—not the crime. We were saying how quickly news spreads—how that everyone now knows that Mademoiselle Nick was engaged to that brave airman who perished.’
‘So Nick was engaged to Michael Seton!’ exclaimed Frederica.
‘It surprises you, Madame?’
‘It does a little. I don’t know why. Certainly I did think he was very taken with her last autumn. They went about a lot together. And then, after Christmas, they both seemed to cool off. As far as I know, they hardly met.’
‘The secret, they kept it very well.’
‘That was because of old Sir Matthew, I suppose. He was really a little off his head, I think.’
‘You had no suspicion, Madame? And yet Mademoiselle was such an intimate friend.’
‘Nick’s a close little devil when she likes,’ murmured Frederica. ‘But I understand now why she’s been so nervy lately. Oh! and I ought to have guessed from something she said only the other day.’
‘Your little friend is very attractive, Madame.’
‘Old Jim Lazarus used to think so at one time,’ said Challenger, with his loud, rather tactless laugh.
‘Oh! Jim—’ She shrugged her shoulders, but I thought she was annoyed.
She turned to Poirot.
‘Tell me, M. Poirot, did you—’
She stopped. Her tall figure swayed and her face turned whiter still. Her eyes were fixed on the centre of the table.
‘You are not well, Madame.’
I pushed forward a chair, helped her to sink into it. She shook her head, murmured, ‘I’m all right,’ and leaned forward, her face between her hands. We watched her awkwardly.
She sat up in a minute.
‘How absurd! George, darling, don’t look so worried. Let’s talk about murders. Something exciting. I want to know if M. Poirot is on the track.’
‘It is early to say, Madame,’ said Poirot, noncommittally.
‘But you have ideas—yes?’
‘Perhaps. But I need a great deal more evidence.’
‘Oh!’ She sounded uncertain.
Suddenly she rose.
‘I’ve got a head. I think I’ll go and lie down. Perhaps tomorrow they’ll let me see Nick.’
She left the room abruptly. Challenger frowned.
‘You never know what that woman’s up to. Nick may have been fond of her, but I don’t believe she was fond of Nick. But there, you can’t tell with women. It’s darling—darling—darling—all the time—and “damn you” would probably express it much better. Are you going out, M. Poirot?’ For Poirot had risen and was carefully brushing a speck off his hat.
‘Yes, I am going into the town.’
‘I’ve got nothing to do. May I come with you.’
‘Assuredly. It will be a pleasure.’
We left the room. Poirot, with an apology, went back.
‘My stick,’ he explained, as he rejoined us.
Challenger winced slightly. And indeed the stick, with its embossed gold band, was somewhat ornate.
Poirot’s first visit was to a florist.
‘I must send some flowers to Mademoiselle Nick,’ he explained.
He proved difficult to suit.
In the end he chose an ornate gold basket to be filled with orange carnations. The whole to be tied up with a large blue bow.
The shopwoman gave him a card and he wrote on it with a flourish: ‘With the Compliments of Hercule Poirot.’
‘I sent her some flowers this morning,’ said Challenger. ‘I might send her some fruit.’
‘Inutile!’ said Poirot.
‘What?’
‘I said it was useless. The eatable—it is not permitted.’
‘Who says so?’
‘I say so. I have made the rule. It has already been impressed on Mademoiselle Nick. She understands.’
‘Good Lord!’ said Challenger.
He looked thoroughly startled. He stared at Poirot curiously.
‘So that’s it, is it?’ he said. ‘You’re still—afraid.’
Chapter 16
Interview with Mr Whitfield
The inquest was a dry proceeding—mere bare bones. There was evidence of identification, then I gave evidence of the finding of the body. Medical evidence followed.
The inquest was adjourned for a week.
The St Loo murder had jumped into prominence in the daily press. It had, in fact, succeeded ‘Seton Still Missing. Unknown Fate of Missing Airman.’
Now that Seton was dead and due tribute had been paid to his memory, a new sensation was due. The St Loo Mystery was a godsend to papers at their wits’ end for news in the month of August.
After the inquest, having successfully dodged reporters, I met Poirot, and we had an interview with the Rev. Giles Buckley and his wife.
Maggie’s father and mother were a charming pair, completely unworldly and unsophisticated.
Mrs Buckley was a woman of character, tall and fair and showing very plainly her northern ancestry. Her husband was a small man, grey-haired, with a diffident appealing manner.
Poor souls, they were completely dazed by the misfortune that had overtaken them and robbed them of a well-beloved daughter. ‘Our Maggie’, as they called her.
‘I can scarcely realize it even now,’ said Mr Buckley. ‘Such a dear child, M. Poirot. So quiet and unselfish—always thinking of others. Who could wish to harm her?’
‘I could hardly understand the telegram,’ said Mrs Buckley. ‘Why it was only the morning before that we had seen her off.’
‘In the midst of life we are in death,’ murmured her husband.
‘Colonel Weston has been very kind,’ said Mrs Buckley. ‘He assures us that everything is being done to find the man who did this thing. He must be a madman. No other explanation is possible.’
‘Madame, I cannot tell you how I sympathize with you in your loss—and how I admire your bravery!’
‘Breaking down would not bring Maggie back to us,’ said Mrs Buckley, sadly.
‘My wife is wonderful,’ said the clergyman. ‘Her faith and courage are greater than mine. It is al
l so—so bewildering, M. Poirot.’
‘I know—I know, Monsieur.’
‘You are a great detective, M. Poirot?’ said Mrs Buckley.
‘It has been said, Madame.’
‘Oh! I know. Even in our remote country village we have heard of you. You are going to find out the truth, M. Poirot?’
‘I shall not rest until I do, Madame.’
‘It will be revealed to you, M. Poirot,’ quavered the clergyman. ‘Evil cannot go unpunished.’
‘Evil never goes unpunished, Monsieur. But the punishment is sometimes secret.’
‘What do you mean by that, M. Poirot?’
Poirot only shook his head.
