Appointment with Death hp-21

by Agatha Christie

  "I mean was she sewing, or reading, did she look anxious, did she say anything?"

  "Well, really-" Lady Westholme frowned. "She-er-she just sat there, as far as I can remember."

  "She twiddled her fingers," said Miss Pierce suddenly. "I remember noticing-poor thing; I thought, it shows what she's feeling! Not that there was anything to show in her face, you know-just her hands turning and twisting."

  "Once," went on Miss Pierce conversationally, "I remember tearing up a pound note that way-not thinking of what I was doing. 'Shall I catch the first train and go to her?' I thought (it was a great aunt of mine-taken suddenly ill), 'or shall I not?' And I couldn't make up my mind one way or the other and then I looked down, and instead of the telegram I was tearing up a pound note-a pound note!-into tiny pieces!" Miss Pierce paused dramatically.

  Not entirely approving of this sudden bid for the limelight on the part of her satellite Lady Westholme said coldly: "Is there anything else, M. Poirot?"

  With a start, Poirot seemed to come out of a brown study. "Nothing, nothing. You have been most clear-most definite."

  "I have an excellent memory," said Lady Westholme with satisfaction.

  "One last little demand. Lady Westholme," said Poirot. "Please continue to sit as you are sitting-without looking around. Now, would you be so kind as to describe to me just what Miss Pierce is wearing today-that is, if Miss Pierce does not object?"

  "Oh, no, not in the least!" twittered Miss Pierce. "Really, M. Poirot, is there any object-"

  "Please be so kind as to do as I ask, Madame."

  Lady Westholme shrugged her shoulders and then said with a rather bad grace: "Miss Pierce has on a striped brown and white cotton dress and is wearing with it a Sudanese belt of red, blue and beige leather. She is wearing beige silk stockings and brown glace strap shoes. There is a ladder in her left stocking. She has a necklace of cornelian beads and one of bright royal blue beads and is wearing a brooch with a pearl butterfly on it. She has an imitation scarab ring on the third finger of her right hand. On her head she has a double terai of pink and brown felt." She paused-a pause of quiet competence. Then: "Is there anything further?" she asked coldly.

  Poirot spread out his hands in a wide gesture. "You have my entire admiration, Madame. Your observation is of the highest order."

  "Details rarely escape me." Lady Westholme rose, made a slight inclination of her head and left the room. As Miss Pierce was following her, gazing down ruefully at her left leg, Poirot said: "A little moment, please, Mademoiselle?"

  "Yes?" Miss Pierce looked up, a slightly apprehensive look upon her face.

  Poirot leaned forward confidentially. "You see this bunch of wild flowers on the table here?"

  "Yes," said Miss Pierce staring.

  "And you noticed that, when you first came into the room, I sneezed once or twice?"

  "Yes."

  "Did you notice if I had just been sniffing those flowers?"

  "Well-really-no-I couldn't say."

  "But you remember my sneezing?"

  "Oh, yes, I remember that!"

  "Ah, well-no matter. I wondered, you see, if these flowers might induce the hay fever. No matter!"

  "Hay fever!" cried Miss Pierce. "I remember a cousin of mine was a martyr to it! She always said that if you sprayed your nose daily with a solution of boracic-"

  With some difficulty Poirot shelved the cousin's nasal treatment and got rid of Miss Pierce. He shut the door and came back into the room with his eyebrows raised.

  "But I did not sneeze," he murmured. "So much for that. No, I did not sneeze."

  6

  Lennox Boynton came into the room with a quick resolute step. Had he been there, Dr. Gerard would have been surprised at the change in the man. The apathy was gone. His bearing was alert-although he was plainly nervous. His eyes had a tendency to shift rapidly from point to point about the room.

  "Good morning, M. Boynton." Poirot rose and bowed ceremoniously. Lennox responded somewhat awkwardly. "I much appreciate your giving me this interview."

  Lennox Boynton said rather uncertainly: "Er-Colonel Carbury said it would be a good thing. Advised it. Some formalities he said."

  "Please sit down, M. Boynton."

  Lennox sat down on the chair lately vacated by Lady Westholme.

  Poirot went on conversationally: "This has been a great shock to you, I am afraid."

  "Yes, of course. Well, no, perhaps not… We always knew that my mother's heart was not strong."

  "Was it wise, under those circumstances, to allow her to undertake such an arduous expedition?"

  Lennox Boynton raised his head. He spoke not without a certain sad dignity. "My mother, M.-er, Poirot, made her own decisions. If she had made up her mind to anything it was no good our opposing her." He drew in his breath sharply as he said the last words. His face suddenly grew rather white.

  "I know well," admitted Poirot, "that elderly ladies are sometimes headstrong."

  Lennox said irritably: "What is the purpose of all this? That is what I want to know. Why have all these formalities arisen?"

  "Perhaps you do not realize, M. Boynton, that in cases of sudden and unexplained deaths, formalities must necessarily arise."

  Lennox said sharply: "What do you mean by 'unexplained'?"

  Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "There is always the question to be considered: Is a death natural or might it perhaps be suicide?"

  "Suicide?" Lennox Boynton stared.

  Poirot said lightly: "You, of course, would know best about such possibilities. Colonel Carbury, naturally, is in the dark. It is necessary for him to decide whether to order an inquiry-an autopsy-all the rest of it. As I was on the spot and as I have much experience of these matters, he suggested that I should make a few inquiries and advise him upon the matter. Naturally, he does not wish to cause you inconvenience if it can be helped."

  Lennox Boynton said angrily: "I shall wire to our Consul in Jerusalem."

  Poirot said noncommittally: "You are quite within your rights in doing so, of course." There was a pause. Then Poirot said, spreading out his hands: "If you object to answering my questions-"

  Lennox Boynton said quickly: "Not at all. Only-it seems-all so unnecessary."

  "I comprehend. I comprehend perfectly. But it is all very simple, really. A matter, as they say, of routine. Now, on the afternoon of your mother's death, M. Boynton, I believe you left the camp at Petra and went for a walk?"

  "Yes. We all went, with the exception of my mother and my younger sister."

  "Your mother was then sitting in the mouth of her cave?"

  "Yes, just outside it. She sat there every afternoon."

  "Quite so. You started-when?"

  "Soon after three, I should say."

  "You returned from your walk-when?"

  "I really couldn't say what time it was-four o'clock-five o'clock perhaps."

  "About an hour to two hours after you set out?"

  "Yes-about that, I should think."

  "Did you pass anyone on your way back?"

  "Did I what?"

  "Pass anyone. Two ladies sitting on a rock, for instance?"

  "I don't know. Yes, I think I did."

  "You were, perhaps, too absorbed in your thoughts to notice?"

  "Yes, I was."

  "Did you speak to your mother when you got back to the camp?"

  "Yes-yes, I did."

  "She did not then complain of feeling ill?"

  "No-no, she seemed perfectly all right."

  "May I ask what passed between you?"

  Lennox paused a minute. "She said I had come back soon. I said, yes, I had." He paused again in an effort of concentration. "I said it was hot. She-she asked me the time-said her wristwatch had stopped. I took it from her, wound it up, set it and put it back on her wrist."

  Poirot interrupted gently: "And what time was it?"

  "Eh?" said Lennox.

  "What time was it when you set the hands of the wristwatch?"
>
  "Oh, I see. It-it was twenty-five minutes to five."

  "So you do know exactly the time you returned to the camp!" said Poirot gently.

  Lennox flushed. "Yes, what a fool I am! I'm sorry, M. Poirot, my wits are all astray, I'm afraid. All this worry-"

  Poirot chimed in quickly: "Oh! I understand-I understand perfectly! It is all of the most disquieting! And what happened next?"

  "I asked my mother if she wanted anything. A drink-tea, coffee, etc… She said no. Then I went to the marquee. None of the servants seemed to be about, but I found some soda water and drank it. I was thirsty. I sat there reading some old numbers of the Saturday Evening Post. I think I must have dozed off."

  "Your wife joined you in the marquee?"

  "Yes, she came in not long after."

  "And you did not see your mother again alive?"

  "No."

  "She did not seem in any way agitated or upset when you were talking to her?"

  "No, she was exactly as usual."

  "She did not refer to any trouble or annoyance with one of the servants?"

  Lennox stared. "No, nothing at all."

  "And that is all you can tell me?"

  "I am afraid so-yes."

  "Thank you, M. Boynton." Poirot inclined his head as a sign that the interview was over.

  Lennox did not seem very willing to depart. He stood hesitating by the door. "Er-there's nothing else?"

  "Nothing. Perhaps you would be so good as to ask your wife to come here?"

  Lennox went slowly out. On the pad beside him Poirot wrote "L. B. 4:35 P.M."

  7

  Poirot looked with interest at the tall dignified young woman who entered the room. He rose and bowed to her politely.

  "Mrs. Lennox Boynton? Hercule Poirot, at your service."

  Nadine Boynton sat down. Her thoughtful eyes were on Poirot's face.

  "I hope you do not mind, Madame, my intruding on your sorrow in this way?"

  Her gaze did not waver. She did not reply at once. Her eyes remained steady and grave. At last, she gave a sigh and said: "I think it is best for me to be quite frank with you, M. Poirot."

  "I agree with you, Madame."

  "You apologized for intruding upon my sorrow. That sorrow, M. Poirot, does not exist and it is idle to pretend that it does. I had no love for my mother-in-law and I cannot honestly say that I regret her death."

  "Thank you, Madame, for your plain speaking."

  Nadine went on: "Still, although I cannot pretend sorrow, I can admit to another feeling-remorse."

  "Remorse?" Poirot's eyebrows went up.

  "Yes. Because, you see, it was I who brought about her death. For that I blame myself bitterly."

  "What is this that you are saying, Madame?"

  "I am saying that I was the cause of my mother-in-law's death. I was acting, as I thought, honestly-but the result was unfortunate. To all intents and purposes, I killed her."

  Poirot leaned back in his chair. "Will you be so kind as to elucidate this statement, Madame?"

  Nadine bent her head. "Yes, that is what I wish to do. My first reaction, naturally, was to keep my private affairs to myself, but I see that the time has come when it would be better to speak out. I have no doubt, M. Poirot, that you have often received confidences of a somewhat intimate nature?"

  "That, yes."

  "Then I will tell you quite simply what occurred. My married life, M. Poirot, has not been particularly happy. My husband is not entirely to blame for that-his mother's influence over him has been unfortunate-but I have been feeling for some time that my life was becoming intolerable,"

  She paused and then went on: "On the afternoon of my mother-in-law's death I came to a decision. I have a friend-a very good friend. He has suggested more than once that I should throw in my lot with his. On that afternoon I accepted his proposal."

  "You decided to leave your husband?"

  "Yes."

  "Continue, Madame."

  Nadine said in a lower voice: "Having once made my decision I wanted to-to establish it as soon as possible. I walked home to the camp by myself. My mother-in-law was sitting alone, there was one about, and I decided to break the news to her right there. I got a chair, sat down by her and told her abruptly what I had decided."

  "She was surprised?"

  "Yes I am afraid it was a great shock to her. She was both surprised and angry-very angry. She-she worked herself into quite a state about it! Presently I refused to discuss the matter any longer. I got up and walked away." Her voice dropped. "I-I never saw her again alive."

  Poirot nodded his head slowly. He said: "I see." Then he said: "You think her death was the result of the shock?"

  "It seems to me almost certain. You see, she had already overexerted herself considerably getting to this place. My news, and her anger at it, would do the rest… I feel additionally guilty because I have had a certain amount of training in illness and so I, more than anyone else, ought to have realized the possibility of such a thing happening."

  Poirot sat in silence for some minutes, then he said: "What exactly did you do when you left her?"

  "I took the chair I had brought out back into my cave, then I went down to the marquee. My husband was there."

  Poirot watched her closely as he said: "Did you tell him of your decision? Or had you already told him?"

  There was a pause, an infinitesimal pause, before Nadine said: "I told him then."

  "How did he take it?"

  She answered quietly: "He was very upset."

  "Did he urge you to reconsider your decision?"

  She shook her head. "He-he didn't say very much. You see, we had both known for some time that something like this might happen."

  Poirot said: "You will pardon me, but the other man was, of course, M. Jefferson Cope?"

  She bent her head. "Yes."

  There was a long pause, then, without any change of voice, Poirot asked: "Do you own a hypodermic syringe, Madame?"

  "Yes-no."

  His eyebrows rose.

  She explained. "I have an old hypodermic amongst other things in a traveling medicine chest, but it is in our big luggage which we left in Jerusalem."

  "I see."

  There was a pause, then she said with a shiver of uneasiness: "Why did you ask me that, M. Poirot?"

  He did not answer the question. Instead he put one of his own. "Mrs. Boynton was, I believe, taking a mixture containing digitalis?"

  "Yes."

  He thought that she was definitely watchful now. "That was for her heart trouble?"

  "Yes."

  "Digitalis is, to some extent, a cumulative drug?"

  "I believe it is. I do not know very much about it."

  "Mrs. Boynton had taken a big overdose of digitalis-"

  She interrupted him quickly but with decision. "She did not. She was always most careful. So was I, if I measured the dose for her."

  "There might have been an overdose in this particular bottle. A mistake of the chemist who made it up?"

  "I think that is very unlikely," she replied quietly.

  "Ah well, the analysis will soon tell us."

  Nadine said: "Unfortunately the bottle was broken."

  Poirot eyed her with sudden interest. "Indeed! Who broke it?"

  "I'm not quite sure. One of the servants, I think. In carrying my mother-in-law's body into her cave, there was a good deal of confusion and the light was very poor. A table got knocked over."

  Poirot eyed her steadily for a minute or two. "That," he said, "is very interesting."

  Nadine Boynton shifted wearily in her chair. "You are suggesting, I think, that my mother-in-law did not die of shock, but of an overdose of digitalis?" she said and went on: "That seems to me most improbable."

  Poirot leaned forward. "Even when I tell you that Dr. Gerard, the French physician who was staying in the camp, had missed an appreciable quantity of a preparation of digitoxin from his medicine chest?"

  Her face grew very
pale. He saw the clutch of her other hand on the table. Her eyes dropped. She sat very still. She was like a Madonna carved in stone.

  "Well, Madame," said Poirot at last. "What have you say to that?"

  The seconds ticked on but she did not speak. It was quite two minutes before she raised her head, and he started a little when he saw the look in her eyes.

  "M. Poirot, I did not kill my mother-in-law. That you know! She was alive and well when I left her. There are many people who can testify to that! Therefore, being innocent of the crime, I can venture to appeal to you. Why must you mix yourself up in this business? If I swear to you on my honor that justice and only justice has been done. Will you not abandon this inquiry? There has been so much suffering-you do not know. Now that at last there is peace and the possibility of happiness, must you destroy it all?"

  Poirot sat up very straight. His eyes shone with a green light. "Let me be clear, Madame. What are you asking me to do?"

  "I am telling you that my mother-in-law died a natural death and I am asking you to accept that statement."

  "Let us be definite. You believe that your mother-in-law was deliberately killed, and you are asking me to condone-murder!"

  "I am asking you to have pity!"

  "Yes-on someone who had no pity!"

  "You don't understand-it was not like that."

  "Did you commit the crime yourself, Madame, that you know so well?"

  Nadine shook her head. She showed no signs of guilt. "No," she said quietly. "She was alive when I left her."

  "Then what happened? You know-or you suspect-"

  Nadine said passionately: "I have heard, M. Poirot, that once, in that affair of the Orient Express, you accepted an official verdict of what had happened?"

  Poirot looked at her curiously. "I wonder who told you that."

  "Is it true?"

  He said slowly: "That case was-different."

  "No. No, it was not different! The man who was killed was evil," her voice dropped, "as she was…"

  Poirot said: "The moral character of the victim has nothing to do with it! A human being who has exercised the right of private judgment and taken the life of another human being is not safe to exist amongst the community. I tell you that! I, Hercule Poirot!"