x49

really what alarmed me--being in a rather nervous state at the time, and remembering those stories during the war of nuns who were really men and in the Fifth Column and lande by parachute. Of course it was very foolish of me.

I knew that afterwards."

"A nun would be a good disguise," said Susan thoughtfully.

"It hides your feet."

"The truth is," said George, "that one very seldom looks properly at anyone. That's why one gets such wildly differing accounts of a person from different witnesses in court. You'd be surprised. A man is often described as tall--short; thin --stout; fair--dark; dressed in a dark--light--suit; and so on. There's usually one reliable observer, but one has to make up one's mind who that is."

"Another queer thing," said Susan," is that you sometimes catch sight of yourself in a mirror unexpectedly and don't know who it is. It,just looks vaguely familiar. And you say to yourself, 'That s somebody I know quite well.., and then suddenly realise it's yourself I"

George said: "It would be more difficult still if you could really see yourself---and not a mirror image."

"Why ?" asked Rosamund, looking puzzled.

"Because, don't you see, n.o.body ever sees themselves--as they appear to other people. They always see themselves in a gla.s.s--that is--as a reversed image."

"But does that look any different ?"

"Oh, ye, s," said Susan quickly. "It must. Because people's faces aren t the same both sides. Their eyebrows are different, and their mouths go up one side, and their noses aren't really straight. You can see with a pencil--who's got a pencil ?"

Somebody produced a pencil, and they experimented, holding a pencil each side of the nose and laughing to see the ridiculous variation in angle.

The atmosphere now had lightened a good deal. Everybody was in a good humour. They were no longer the heirs of Richard Abernethie gathered together for a division of prop-erty.

They were a cheerful and normal set of people gathered together for a week-end in the country.

Only Helen Abernethie remained silent and abstracted.

With a sigh, Hercule Poirot rose to his feet and bade his hostess a polite good night.

"And perhaps, Madame, I had better say good-bye. My train departs itself at nine o'clock to-morrow morning. That is very early. So I will thank you now for all your kindness and hospitality. The date of possession--that will be arranged

15o

with the good Mr. Entwhistle. To suit your convenience, of course.' '

"It can be any time you pleae, M. Pontarlier. I--I have finished all that I came here to do."

7, You,will return now to your villa at Cyprus ?"

Yes. A little smile curved Helen Abernethie's lips.

Poirot said:

"You are glad, yes. You have no regrets ?"

"At leaving England ? Or leaving here, do you mean ?"

"I meant--leaving here ?"

"No--no. It's no good, is it, to cling on to the past ?

One must leave that behind one."

"If one can." Blinking his eyes innocently PoJrot smiled apologetically round on the group of polite faces that sur rounded him.

"Sometimes, is it not, the Past will not be left, will not

suffer itself to pa.s.s into oblivion ? It stands at one's elbow--

it says ' I am not done with yet.'"

Susan gave a rather doubtful laugh. Poirot said:

"But I am serious--yes."

"You mean," said Michael," that your refugees when they come here will not be able to put their past sufferings comple,,tely behind them ?"

,, I did not mean my Refugees.

"He meant us, darling," said Rosamund. "He means Uncle Richard and Aunt Cora and the hatchet, and all that."

She turned to Poirot.

"Didn't you ?"

Poirot looked at her with a blank face. Then he said: "Why do you think that, Madame ?"

"Because you re a detectve, aren t you That's why you're here. N.A.R.C.O., or whatever you call it, is just nonsense, isn't it ?"

CHAPTER XX

t.i.tERE WAS a moment of extraordinary tenseness. Poirot felt it, though he himself did not remove his eyes from Rosamund's lovely placid face.

He said with a little bow, "You have great perspicacity, Madame."

"Not really," said Rosamund. "You were pointed out to me once in a restaurant. I remembered."

"But you have not mentioned it--until now ?"

"I thought it would be more fun not to," said Rosamund Michael said in an imperfectly controlled voice: "My--dear girl."

Poirot shifted his gaze then to look at him.

Michael was angry. Angry and something else--apprehensive ?

Poirot's eyes went slowly round all the faces. Susan's, angry and watchful; Gregory's dead and shut in; Miss Gilchrist's, foolish, her mouth wide open; George, wary; Helen, dismayed and nervous ....

All those expressions were normal ones under the circ.u.mstances.

He wished he could have seen their faces a split second earlier, when the words "a detective" fell from Rosamund's lips. For now, inevitably, it could not be quite the same ....

He squared his shoulders and bowed to them. His language and his accent became less foreign.

"Yes," he said. "I am a detective."

George Crossfield said, the white dints showing once more each side of his nose, "Who sent you here ?"

"I was commissioned to inquire into the circ.u.mstances of Richard Abernethie's death."

"By whom ?"

"For the moment, that does not concern you. But it would be an advantage, would it not, if you could be a.s.sured beyond any possible doubt that Richard Abernethie died a natural death ?"

"Of course he died a natural death. Who says anything else ?"

"Cora Lansquenet said so. And Cora Lansquenet is dead herself."

A little wave of uneasiness seemed to sigh through the room like an evil breeze.

"She said it here--in this room," said Susan. "But I didn't really think "

"Didn't you, Susan ?" George Crossfield turned his sardonic glance upon her. "Why pretend any more ? You won't take M. Pontarlier in ?"

"We all thought so really," said Rosamund. "And his name isn't Pontarlier it's Hercules something."

"Hercule Poirot--at your service."

Poirot bowed.