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“If I am to believe you, Madame—and I do not say that I will not believe you—then you must help me.”
“Help you?”
“Yes. The reason for the murder lies in the past—in that tragedy which broke up your home and saddened your young life. Take me back into the past, Mademoiselle, that I may find there the link that explains the whole thing.”
“What can there be to tell you? They are all dead.” She repeated mournfully. “All dead—all dead—Robert, Sonia—darling, darling Daisy. She was so sweet—so happy—she had such lovely curls. We were all just crazy about her.”
“There was another victim, Madame. An indirect victim, you might say.”
“Poor Susanne? Yes, I had forgotten about her. The police questioned her. They were convinced she had something to do with it. Perhaps she had—but if so, only innocently. She had, I believe, chatted idly with someone, giving information as to the time of Daisy’s outings. The poor thing got terribly wrought up—she thought she was being held responsible.” She shuddered. “She threw herself out of the window. Oh it was horrible.”
She buried her face in her hands.
“What nationality was she, Madame?”
“She was French.”
“What was her last name?”
“It’s absurd, but I can’t remember—we all called her Susanne. A pretty laughing girl. She was devoted to Daisy.”
“She was the nurserymaid, was she not?”
“Yes.”
“Who was the nurse?”
“She was a trained hospital nurse. Stengelberg her name was. She, too, was devoted to Daisy—and to my sister.”
“Now, Madame, I want you to think carefully before you answer this question. Have you, since you were on this train, seen anyone that you recognized?”
She stared at him.
“I? No, no one at all.”
“What about Princess Dragomiroff?”
“Oh, her? I know her, of course. I thought you meant anyone—anyone from—from that time.”
“So I did, Madame. Now think carefully. Some years have passed, remember. The person might have altered their appearance.”
Helena pondered deeply. Then she said:
“No—I am sure—there is no one.”
“You yourself—you were a young girl at the time—did you have no one to superintend your studies or to look after you?”
“Oh, yes, I had a dragon—a sort of governess to me and secretary to Sonia combined. She was English or rather Scotch—a big, red-haired woman.”
“What was her name?”
“Miss Freebody.”
“Young or old?”
“She seemed frightfully old to me. I suppose she couldn’t have been more than forty. Susanne, of course, used to look after my clothes and maid me.”
“And there were no other inmates of the house?”
“Only servants.”
“And you are certain—quite certain, Madame—that you have recognized no one on the train?”
She replied earnestly:
“No one, Monsieur. No one at all.”
Five
THE CHRISTIAN NAME OF PRINCESS DRAGOMIROFF
When the Count and Countess had departed, Poirot looked across at the other two.
“You see,” he said, “we make progress.”
“Excellent work,” said M. Bouc cordially. “For my part, I should never have dreamed of suspecting Count and Countess Andrenyi. I will admit I thought them quite hors de combat. I suppose there is no doubt that she committed the crime? It is rather sad. Still, they will not guillotine her. There are extenuating circumstances. A few years’ imprisonment—that will be all.”
“In fact you are quite certain of her guilt.”
“My dear friend, surely there is no doubt of it? I thought your reassuring manner was only to smooth things over till we are dug out of the snow and the police take charge.”
“You do not believe the Count’s positive assertion—on his word of honour—that his wife is innocent?”
“Mon cher—naturally—what else could he say? He adores his wife. He wants to save her! He tells his lie very well—quite in the grand Seigneur manner, but what else than a lie could it be?”
“Well, you know, I had the preposterous idea that it might be the truth.”
“No, no. The handkerchief, remember. The handkerchief clinches the matter.”
“Oh, I am not so sure about the handkerchief. You remember, I always told you that there were two possibilities as to the ownership of the handkerchief.”
“All the same—”
M. Bouc broke off. The door at the end had opened, and Princess Dragomiroff entered the dining car. She came straight to them and all three men rose to their feet.
She spoke to Poirot, ignoring the others.
“I believe, Monsieur,” she said, “that you have a handkerchief of mine.”
Poirot shot a glance of triumph at the other two.
“Is this it, Madame?”
He produced the little square of fine cambric.
“That is it. It has my initial in the corner.”
“But, Madame la Princesse, t
hat is the letter H,” said M. Bouc. “Your Christian name—pardon me—is Natalia.”
She gave him a cold stare.
“That is correct, Monsieur. My handkerchiefs are always initialled in the Russian characters. H is N in Russian.”
M. Bouc was somewhat taken aback. There was something about this indomitable old lady which made him feel flustered and uncomfortable.
“You did not tell us that this handkerchief was yours at the inquiry this morning.”
“You did not ask me,” said the Princess dryly.
“Pray be seated, Madame,” said Poirot.
She sighed.
“I may as well, I suppose.”
She sat down.
“You need not make a long business of this, Messieurs. Your next question will be—how did my handkerchief come to be lying by a murdered man’s body? My reply to that is that I have no idea.”
“You have really no idea.”
“None whatever.”
“You will excuse me, Madame, but how much can we rely upon the truthfulness of your replies?”
Poirot said the words very softly. Princess Dragomiroff answered contemptuously.
“I suppose you mean because I did not tell you that Helena Andrenyi was Mrs. Armstrong’s sister?”
“In fact you deliberately lied to us in the matter.”
“Certainly. I would do the same again. Her mother was my friend. I believe, Messieurs, in loyalty—to one’s friends and one’s family and one’s caste.”
“You do not believe in doing your utmost to further the ends of justice?”
“In this case I consider that justice—strict justice—has been done.”
Poirot leaned forward.
“You see my difficulty, Madame. In this matter of the handkerchief, even, am I to believe you? Or are you shielding your friend’s daughter?”
“Oh! I see what you mean.” Her face broke into a grim smile. “Well, Messieurs, this statement of mine can be easily proved. I will give you the address of the people in Paris who make my handkerchiefs. You have only to show them the one in question and they will inform you that it was made to my order over a year ago. The handkerchief is mine, Messieurs.”
