Chapter 4
Sarah King looked long and searchingly at Hercule Poirot. She noted the egg-shaped head, the gigantic moustaches, the dandified appearance and the suspicious blackness of his hair. A look of doubt crept into her eyes. ‘Well, mademoiselle, are you satisfied?’
Sarah flushed as she met the amused ironical glance of his eyes.
‘I beg your pardon,’ she said awkwardly.
‘Du tout! To use an expression I have recently learnt, you give me the once-over, is it not so?’
Sarah smiled a little. ‘Well, at any rate, you can do the same to me,’ she said.
‘Assuredly. I have not neglected to do so.’
She glanced at him sharply. Something in his tone. But Poirot was twirling his moustaches complacently, and Sarah thought (for the second time), ‘The man’s a mountebank!’
Her self-confidence restored, she sat up a little straighter and said inquiringly: ‘I don’t think I quite understand the object of this interview?’
‘The good Dr Gerard did not explain?’
Sarah said frowning: ‘I don’t understand Dr Gerard. He seems to think—’
‘Something is rotten in the state of Denmark,’ quoted Poirot. ‘You see, I know your Shakespeare.’
Sarah waved aside Shakespeare.
‘What exactly is all this fuss about?’ she demanded.
‘Eh bien, one wants, does one not, to get at the truth of this affair?’
‘Are you talking about Mrs Boynton’s death?’
‘Yes.’
‘Isn’t it rather a fuss about nothing? You, of course, are a specialist, M. Poirot. It is natural for you—’
Poirot finished the sentence for her.
‘It is natural for me to suspect crime whenever I can possibly find an excuse for doing so?’
‘Well—yes—perhaps.’
‘You have no doubt yourself as to Mrs Boynton’s death?’
Sarah shrugged her shoulders.
‘Really, M. Poirot, if you had been to Petra you would realize that the journey there was a somewhat strenuous business for an old woman whose cardiac condition was unsatisfactory.’
‘It seems a perfectly straight forward business to you?’
‘Certainly. I can’t understand Dr Gerard’s attitude. He didn’t even know anything about it. He was down with fever. I’d bow to his superior medical knowledge naturally—in this case he had nothing whatever to go on. I suppose they can have a P.M. in Jerusalem if they like—if they’re not satisfied with my verdict.’
Poirot was silent for a moment, then he said:
‘There is a fact, Miss King, that you do not yet know. Dr Gerard has not told you of it.’
‘What fact?’ demanded Sarah.
‘A supply of a drug—digitoxin—is missing from Dr Gerard’s travelling medicine case.’
‘Oh!’ Quickly Sarah took in this new aspect of the case. Equally quickly she pounced on the one doubtful point.
‘Is Dr Gerard quite sure of that?’
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
‘A doctor, as you should know, mademoiselle, is usually fairly careful in making his statements.’
‘Oh, of course. That goes without saying. But Dr Gerard had malaria at the time.’
‘That is so, of course.’
‘Has he any idea when it could have been taken?’
‘He had occasion to go to his case on the night of his arrival in Petra. He wanted some phenacetin—as his head was aching badly. When he replaced the phenacetin the following morning and shut up the case he is almost certain that all the drugs were intact.’
‘Almost—’ said Sarah.
Poirot shrugged.
‘Yes, there is a doubt! There is the doubt that any man, who is honest, would be likely to feel.’
Sarah nodded. ‘Yes, I know. One always distrusts those people who are over sure. But all the same, M. Poirot, the evidence is very slight. It seems to me—’ She paused. Poirot finished the sentence for her.
‘It seems to you that an inquiry on my part is ill-advised!’
Sarah looked him squarely in the face.
‘Frankly, it does. Are you sure, M. Poirot, that this is not a case of Roman Holiday?’
Poirot smiled. ‘The private lives of a family upset and disturbed—so that Hercule Poirot can play a little game of detection to amuse himself?’
‘I didn’t mean to be offensive—but isn’t it a little like that?’
‘You, then, are on the side of the famille Boynton, mademoiselle?’
‘I think I am. They’ve suffered a good deal. They—they oughtn’t to have to stand any more.’
‘And la Maman, she was unpleasant, tyrannical, disagreeable and decidedly better dead than alive? That also—hein?’
‘When you put it like that—’ Sarah paused, flushed, went on: ‘One shouldn’t, I agree, take that into consideration.’
‘But all the same—one does! That is, you do, mademoiselle! I—do not! To me it is all the same. The victim may be one of the good God’s saints—or, on the contrary—a monster of infamy. It moves me not. The fact is the same. A life—taken! I say it always—I do not approve of murder.’
‘Murder?’ Sarah drew in her breath sharply. ‘But what evidence of that is there? The flimsiest imaginable! Dr Gerard himself cannot be sure!’
Poirot said quietly: ‘But there is other evidence, mademoiselle.’
‘What evidence?’ Her voice was sharp.
‘The mark of a hypodermic puncture upon the dead woman’s wrist. And something more still—some words that I overheard spoken in Jerusalem on a clear, still night when I went to close my bedroom window. Shall I tell you what those words were, Miss King? They were these. I heard Mr Raymond Boynton say: “You do see, don’t you, that she’s got to be killed?”’
He saw the colour drain slowly from Sarah’s face.
She said: ‘You heard that?’
‘Yes.’
The girl stared straight ahead of her.
She said at last: ‘It would be you who heard it!’
He acquiesced.
‘Yes, it would be me. These things happen. You see now why I think there should be an investigation?’
Sarah said quietly: ‘I think you are quite right.’
‘Ah! And you will help me?’
‘Certainly.’
Her tone was matter-of-fact—unemotional. Her eyes met his coolly.
Poirot bowed. ‘Thank you, mademoiselle. Now I will ask you to tell me in your own words exactly what you can remember of that particular day.’
Sarah considered for a moment.
‘Let me see. I went on an expedition in the morning. None of the Boyntons were with us. I saw them at lunch. They were finishing as we came in. Mrs Boynton seemed in an unusually good temper.’
‘She was not usually amiable, I understand.’
‘Very far from it,’ said Sarah with a slight grimace.
She then described how Mrs Boynton had released her family from attendance on her.
‘That too, was unusual?’
‘Yes. She usually kept them around her.’
‘Do you think, perhaps, that she suddenly felt remorseful—that she had what is called—un bon moment?’
‘No, I don’t,’ said Sarah bluntly.
‘What did you think, then?’
‘I was puzzled. I suspected it was something of the cat-and-mouse order.’
‘If you would elaborate, mademoiselle?’
‘A cat enjoys letting a mouse away—and then catching it again. Mrs Boynton had that kind of mentality. I thought she was up to some new devilry or other.’
‘What happened next, mademoiselle?’
‘The Boyntons started off—’
‘All of them?’
‘No, the youngest, Ginevra, was left behind. She was told to go and rest.’
‘Did she wish to do so?’
‘No. But that didn’t matter. She did what she was told. The others started off.
Dr Gerard and I joined them—’
‘When was this?’
‘About half-past three.’
‘Where was Mrs Boynton then?’
‘Nadine—young Mrs Boynton—had settled her in her chair outside her cave.’
‘Proceed.’
‘When we got round the bend, Dr Gerard and I caught up the others. We all walked together. Then, after a while, Dr Gerard turned back. He had been looking rather queer for some time. I could see he had fever. I wanted to go back with him, but he wouldn’t hear of it.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Oh! about four, I suppose.’
‘And the rest?’
‘We went on.’
‘Were you all together?’
‘At first. Then we split up.’ Sarah hurried on as though foreseeing the next question. ‘Nadine Boynton and Mr Cope went one way and Carol, Lennox, Raymond and I went another.’
‘And you continued like that?’
‘Well—no. Raymond Boynton and I separated from the others. We sat down on a slab of rock and admired the wildness of the scenery. Then he went off and I stayed where I was for some time longer. It was about half-past five when I looked at my watch and realized I had better get back. I reached the camp at six o’clock. It was just about sunset.’
‘You passed Mrs Boynton on the way?’
‘I noticed she was still in her chair up on the ridge.’
‘That did not strike you as odd—that she had not moved?’
‘No, because I had seen her sitting there the night before when we arrived.’
‘I see. Continuez.’
‘I went into the marquee. The others were all there—except Dr Gerard. I washed and then came back. They brought in dinner and one of the servants went to tell Mrs Boynton. He came running back to say she was ill. I hurried out. She was sitting in her chair just as she had been, but as soon as I touched her I realized she was dead.’
‘You had no doubt at all as to her death being natural?’
‘None whatever. I had heard that she suffered from heart trouble, though no specified disease had been mentioned.’
‘You simply thought she had died sitting there in her chair?’
‘Yes.’
‘Without calling out for assistance?’
‘Yes. It happens that way sometimes. She might even have died in her sleep. She was quite likely to have dozed off. In any case, all the camp was asleep most of the afternoon. No one would have heard her unless she had called very loud.’
‘Did you form an opinion as to how long she had been dead?’
‘Well, I didn’t really think very much about it. She had clearly been dead some time.’
‘What do you call some time?’ asked Poirot.
‘Well—over an hour. It might have been much longer. The refraction of the rock would keep her body from cooling quickly.’
‘Over an hour? Are you aware, Mademoiselle King, that Raymond Boynton spoke to her only a little over half an hour earlier, and that she was then alive and well?’
Now her eyes no longer met his. But she shook her head. ‘He must have made a mistake. It must have been earlier than that.’
‘No, mademoiselle, it was not.’
She looked at him point-blank. He noticed again the firm set of her mouth.
‘Well,’ said Sarah, ‘I’m young and I haven’t got much experience of dead bodies—but I know enough to be quite sure of one thing. Mrs Boynton had been dead at least an hour when I examined her body!’
‘That,’ said Hercule Poirot unexpectedly, ‘is your story and you are going to stick to it! Then can you explain why Mr Boynton should say his mother was alive when she was, in point of fact, dead?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Sarah. ‘They’re probably rather vague about times, all of them! They’re a very nervy family.’
‘On how many occasions, mademoiselle, have you spoken with them?’
Sarah was silent a moment, frowning a little.
‘I can tell you exactly,’ she said. ‘I talked to Raymond Boynton in the wagons-lits corridor coming to Jerusalem. I had two conversations with Carol Boynton—one at the Mosque of Omar and one late that evening in my bedroom. I had a conversation with Mrs Lennox Boynton the following morning. That’s all—up to the afternoon of Mrs Boynton’s death, when we all went walking together.’
‘You did not have any conversation with Mrs Boynton herself?’
Sarah flushed uncomfortably.
‘Yes. I exchanged a few words with her on the day she left Jerusalem.’ She paused and then blurted out: ‘As a matter of fact, I made a fool of myself.’
‘Ah?’
The interrogation was so patent that, stiffly and unwillingly, Sarah gave an account of the conversation.
Poirot seemed interested and cross-examined her closely.
‘The mentality of Mrs Boynton—it is very important in this case,’ he said. ‘And you are an outsider—an unbiased observer. That is why your account of her is very significant.’
Sarah did not reply. She still felt hot and uncomfortable when she thought of that interview.
‘Thank you, mademoiselle,’ said Poirot. ‘I will now converse with the other witnesses.’
Sarah rose. ‘Excuse me, M. Poirot, but if I might make a suggestion—’
‘Certainly. Certainly.’
‘Why not postpone all this until an autopsy can be made and you discover whether or not your suspicions are justified? I think all this is rather like putting the cart before the horse.’
Poirot waved a grandiloquent hand. ‘This is the method of Hercule Poirot,’ he announced.
Pressing her lips together, Sarah left the room.
Chapter 5
Lady Westholme entered the room with the assurance of a transatlantic liner coming into dock.
Miss Amabel Pierce, an indeterminate craft, followed in the liner’s wake and sat down in an inferior make of chair slightly in the background.
‘Certainly, M. Poirot,’ boomed Lady Westholme. ‘I shall be delighted to assist you by any means in my power. I have always considered that in matters of this kind one has a public duty to perform—’
When Lady Westholme’s public duty had held the stage for some minutes, Poirot was adroit enough to get in a question.
‘I have a perfect recollection of the afternoon in question,’ replied Lady Westholme. ‘Miss Pierce and I will do all we can to assist you.’
‘Oh, yes,’ sighed Miss Pierce, almost ecstatically. ‘So tragic, was it not? Dead—just like that—in the twinkle of an eye!’
‘If you will tell me exactly what occurred on the afternoon in question?’
‘Certainly,’ said Lady Westholme. ‘After we had finished lunch I decided to take a brief siesta. The morning excursion had been somewhat fatiguing. Not that I was really tired—I seldom am. I do not really know what fatigue is. One has so often, on public occasions, no matter what one really feels—’
Again an adroit murmur from Poirot.
‘As I say, I was in favour of a siesta. Miss Pierce agreed with me.’
‘Oh, yes,’ sighed Miss Pierce. ‘And I was terribly tired after the morning. Such a dangerous climb—and although interesting, most exhausting. I’m afraid I’m not quite as strong as Lady Westholme.’
‘Fatigue,’ said Lady Westholme, ‘can be conquered like everything else. I make a point of never giving in to my bodily needs.’
Poirot said:
‘After lunch, then, you two ladies went to your tents?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mrs Boynton was then sitting at the mouth of her cave?’
‘Her daughter-in-law assisted her there before she herself went off.’
‘You could both see her?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Miss Pierce. ‘She was opposite, you know—only, of course, a little way along and up above.’
Lady Westholme elucidated the statement.
‘The caves opened on to a ledge. Below that ledge were so
me tents. Then there was a small stream and across that stream was the big marquee and some other tents. Miss Pierce and I had tents near the marquee. She was on the right side of the marquee and I was on the left. The opening of our tents faced the ledge, but of course it was some distance away.’
‘Nearly two hundred yards, I understand.’
‘Possibly.’
‘I have here a plan,’ said Poirot, ‘concocted with the help of the dragoman, Mahmoud.’
Lady Westholme remarked that in that case it was probably wrong!
‘That man is grossly inaccurate. I have checked his statements from my Baedeker. Several times his information was definitely misleading.’
‘According to my plan,’ said Poirot, ‘the cave next to Mrs Boynton’s was occupied by her son, Lennox, and his wife. Raymond, Carol and Ginevra Boynton had tents just below but more to the right—in fact, almost opposite the marquee. On the right of Ginevra Boynton’s was Dr Gerard’s tent and next to that again that of Miss King. On the other side of the stream—next to the marquee on the left—you and Mr Cope had tents. Miss Pierce’s, as you mentioned, was on the right of the marquee. Is that correct?’
Lady Westholme admitted grudgingly that as far as she knew it was.
‘I thank you. That is perfectly clear. Pray continue, Lady Westholme.’
Lady Westholme smiled graciously on him and went on:
‘At about quarter to four I strolled along to Miss Pierce’s tent to see if she were awake yet and felt like a stroll. She was sitting in the doorway of the tent reading. We agreed to start in about half an hour when the sun was less hot. I went back to my tent and read for about twenty-five minutes. Then I went along and joined Miss Pierce. She was ready and we started out. Everyone in the camp seemed asleep—there was no one about, and seeing Mrs Boynton sitting up there alone, I suggested to Miss Pierce that we should ask her if she wanted anything before we left.’
‘Yes, you did. Most thoughtful of you, I considered,’ murmured Miss Pierce.
‘I felt it to be my duty,’ said Lady Westholme with a rich complacency.
‘And then for her to be so rude about it!’ exclaimed Miss Pierce.
Poirot looked inquiring.
‘Our path passed just under the ledge,’ explained Lady Westholme, ‘and I called up to her, saying that we were going for a stroll and could we do anything for her before we went. Do you know, M. Poirot, absolutely the only answer she gave us was a grunt! A grunt! She just looked at us as though we were—as though we were dirt!’