Appointment With Death

Dr Gerard said gravely: ‘He is not a fool at all.’

  ‘I was afraid of that,’ said Sarah King.

  With sombre eyes she watched the uphill progress of Hercule Poirot.

  He reached them at last, uttered a loud ‘ouf’ and wiped his forehead. Then he looked sadly down at his patent leather shoes.

  ‘Alas!’ he said. ‘This stony country! My poor shoes.’

  ‘You can borrow Lady Westholme’s shoe-cleaning apparatus,’ said Sarah unkindly. ‘And her duster. She travels with a kind of patent housemaid’s equipment.’

  ‘That will not remove the scratches, mademoiselle,’ Poirot shook his head sadly.

  ‘Perhaps not. Why on earth do you wear shoes like that in this sort of country?’

  Poirot put his head a little on one side.

  ‘I like to have the appearance soigné,’ he said.

  ‘I should give up trying for that in the desert,’ said Sarah.

  ‘Women do not look their best in the desert,’ said Dr Gerard dreamily. ‘But Miss King here, yes—she always looks neat and well-turned out. But that Lady Westholme in her great thick coats and skirts and those terrible unbecoming riding breeches and boots—quelle horreur de femme! And the poor Miss Pierce—her clothes so limp, like faded cabbage leaves, and the chains and the beads that clink! Even young Mrs Boynton, who is a good-looking woman, is not what you call chic! Her clothes are uninteresting.’

  Sarah said restively: ‘Well, I don’t suppose M. Poirot climbed up here to talk about clothes!’

  ‘True,’ said Poirot. ‘I came to consult Dr Gerard—his opinion should be of value to me—and yours, too, mademoiselle—you are young and up to date in your psychology. I want to know, you see, all that you can tell me of Mrs Boynton.’

  ‘Don’t you know all that by heart now?’ asked Sarah.

  ‘No. I have a feeling—more than a feeling—a certainty that the mental equipment of Mrs Boynton is very important in this case. Such types as hers are no doubt familiar to Dr Gerard.’

  ‘From my point of view she was certainly an interesting study,’ said the doctor.

  ‘Tell me.’

  Dr Gerard was nothing loath. He described his own interest in the family group, his conversation with Jefferson Cope, and the latter’s complete misreading of the situation.

  ‘He is a sentimentalist, then,’ said Poirot.

  ‘Oh, essentially! He has ideals—based, really, on a deep instinct of laziness. To take human nature at its best, and the world as a pleasant place is undoubtedly the easiest course in life! Jefferson Cope has, consequently, not the least idea what people are really like.’

  ‘That might be dangerous sometimes,’ said Poirot.

  Dr Gerard went on: ‘He persisted in regarding what I may describe as “the Boynton situation” as a case of mistaken devotion. Of the underlying hate, rebellion, slavery and misery he had only the faintest notion.’

  ‘It is stupid, that,’ Poirot commented.

  ‘All the same,’ went on Dr Gerard, ‘even the most willfully obtuse of sentimental optimists cannot be quite blind. I think, on the journey to Petra, Mr Jefferson Cope’s eyes were being opened.’

  And he described the conversation he had had with the American on the morning of Mrs Boynton’s death.

  ‘That is an interesting story, that story of a servant girl,’ said Poirot thoughtfully. ‘It throws light on the old woman’s methods.’

  Gerard said: ‘It was altogether an odd strange morning, that! You have not been to Petra, M. Poirot. If you go you must certainly climb to the Place of Sacrifice. It has an—how shall I say?—an atmosphere!’ He described the scene in detail, adding: ‘Mademoiselle here sat like a young judge, speaking of the sacrifice of one to save many. You remember, Miss King?’

  Sarah shivered. ‘Don’t! Don’t let’s talk of that day.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Poirot. ‘Let us talk of events further back in the past. I am interested, Dr Gerard, in your sketch of Mrs Boynton’s mentality. What I do not quite understand is this, having brought her family into absolute subjection, why did she then arrange this trip abroad where surely there was danger of outside contacts and of her authority being weakened?’

  Dr Gerard leaned forward excitedly.

  ‘But, mon vieux, that is just it! Old ladies are the same all the world over. They get bored! If their specialty is playing patience, they sicken of the patience they know too well. They want to learn a new patience. And it is just the same with an old lady whose recreation (incredible as it may sound) is the dominating and tormenting of human creatures! Mrs Boynton—to speak of her as une dompteuse—had tamed her tigers. There was perhaps some excitement as they passed through the stage of adolescence. Lennox’s marriage to Nadine was an adventure. But then, suddenly, all was stale. Lennox is so sunk in melancholy that it is practically impossible to wound or distress him. Raymond and Carol show no signs of rebellion. Ginevra—ah! la pauvre Ginevra—she, from her mother’s point of view, gives the poorest sport of all. For Ginevra has found a way of escape! She escapes from reality into fantasy. The more her mother goads her, the more easily she gets a secret thrill out of being a persecuted heroine! From Mrs Boynton’s point of view it is all deadly dull. She seeks, like Alexander, new worlds to conquer. And so she plans the voyage abroad. There will be the danger of her tamed beasts rebelling, there will be opportunities for inflicting fresh pain! It sounds absurd, does it not, but it was so! She wanted a new thrill.’

  Poirot took a deep breath. ‘It is perfect, that. Yes, I see exactly what you mean. It was so. It all fits in. She chose to live dangerously, la maman Boynton—and she paid the penalty!’

  Sarah leaned forward, her pale, intelligent face very serious. ‘You mean,’ she said, ‘that she drove her victims too far and—and they turned on her—or—or one of them did?’

  Poirot bowed his head.

  Sarah said, and her voice was a little breathless:

  ‘Which of them?’

  Poirot looked at her, at her hands clenched fiercely on the wild flowers, at the pale rigidity of her face.

  He did not answer—was indeed saved from answering, for at that moment Gerard touched his shoulder and said: ‘Look.’

  A girl was wandering along the side of the hill. She moved with a strange rhythmic grace that somehow gave the impression that she was not quite real. The gold red of her hair shone in the sunlight, a strange secretive smile lifted the beautiful corners of her mouth. Poirot drew in his breath.

  He said: ‘How beautiful…How strangely movingly beautiful…That is how Ophelia should be played—like a young goddess straying from another world, happy because she has escaped out of the bondage of human joys and griefs.’

  ‘Yes, yes, you are right,’ said Gerard. ‘It is a face to dream of, is it not? I dreamt of it. In my fever I opened my eyes and saw that face—with its sweet, unearthly smile…It was a good dream. I was sorry to wake…’

  Then, with a return to his commonplace manner:

  ‘That is Ginevra Boynton,’ he said.

  Chapter 12

  In another minute the girl had reached them.

  Dr Gerard performed the introduction.

  ‘Miss Boynton, this is M. Hercule Poirot.’

  ‘Oh.’ She looked at him uncertainly. Her fingers joined together, twined themselves uneasily in and out. The enchanted nymph had come back from the country of enchantment. She was now just an ordinary awkward girl, slightly nervous and ill at ease.

  Poirot said: ‘It is a piece of good fortune meeting you here, mademoiselle. I tried to see you in the hotel.’

  ‘Did you?’

  Her smile was vacant. Her fingers began plucking at the belt of her dress. He said gently:

  ‘Will you walk with me a little way?’

  She moved docilely enough, obedient to his whim.

  Presently she said, rather unexpectedly, in a queer, hurried voice:

  ‘You are—you are a detective, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, madem
oiselle.’

  ‘A very well-known detective?’

  ‘The best detective in the world,’ said Poirot, stating it as a simple truth, no more, no less.

  Ginevra Boynton breathed very softly:

  ‘You have come here to protect me?’

  Poirot stroked his moustaches thoughtfully. He said:

  ‘Are you, then, in danger, mademoiselle?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ She looked round with a quick, suspicious glance. ‘I told Dr Gerard about it in Jerusalem. He was very clever. He gave no sign at the time. But he followed me—to that terrible place with the red rocks.’ She shivered. ‘They meant to kill me there. I have to be continually on my guard.’

  Poirot nodded gently and indulgently.

  Ginevra Boynton said: ‘He is kind—and good. He is in love with me!’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He says my name in his sleep…’ Her voice softened—again a kind of trembling, unearthly beauty hovered there. ‘I saw him—lying there turning and tossing—and saying my name…I stole away quietly.’ She paused. ‘I thought, perhaps, he had sent for you? I have a terrible lot of enemies, you know. They are all round me. Sometimes they are disguised.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Poirot gently. ‘But you are safe here—with all your family round you.’

  She drew herself up proudly.

  ‘They are not my family! I have nothing to do with them. I cannot tell you who I really am—that is a great secret. It would surprise you if you knew.’

  He said gently: ‘Was your mother’s death a great shock to you, mademoiselle?’

  Ginevra stamped her feet.

  ‘I tell you—she wasn’t my mother! My enemies paid her to pretend she was and to see I did not escape!’

  ‘Where were you on the afternoon of her death?’

  ‘I was in the tent…It was hot in there, but I didn’t dare come out…They might have got me…’ She gave a little quiver. ‘One of them—looked into my tent. He was disguised but I knew him. I pretended to be asleep. The Sheikh had sent him. The Sheikh wanted to kidnap me, of course.’

  For a few moments Poirot walked in silence, then he said: ‘They are very pretty, these histories you recount to yourself?’

  She stopped. She glared at him. ‘They’re true. They’re all true.’ Again she stamped an angry foot.

  ‘Yes,’ said Poirot, ‘they are certainly ingenious.’

  She cried out: ‘They are true—true—’

  Then, angrily, she turned from him and ran down the hillside. Poirot stood looking after her. In a minute or two he heard a voice close behind him.

  ‘What did you say to her?’

  Poirot turned to where Dr Gerard, a little out of breath, stood beside him. Sarah was coming towards them both, but she came at a more leisurely pace.

  Poirot answered Gerard’s question.

  ‘I told her,’ he said, ‘that she had imagined to herself some pretty stories.’

  The doctor nodded his head thoughtfully.

  ‘And she was angry? That is a good sign. It shows, you see, that she has not yet completely passed through the door. She still knows that it is not the truth! I shall cure her.’

  ‘Ah, you are undertaking a cure?’

  ‘Yes. I have discussed the matter with young Mrs Boynton and her husband. Ginevra will come to Paris and enter one of my clinics. Afterwards she will have her training for the stage.’

  ‘The stage?’

  ‘Yes—there is a possibility there for her of great success. And that is what she needs—what she must have! In many essentials she has the same nature as her mother.’

  ‘No!’ cried Sarah, revolted.

  ‘It seems impossible to you, but certain fundamental traits are the same. They were both born with a great yearning for importance; they both demand that their personality shall impress! This poor child has been thwarted and suppressed at every turn; she has been given no outlet for her fierce ambition, for her love of life, for the expression of her vivid romantic personality.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘Nous allons changer tout ça!’

  Then, with a little bow, he murmured: ‘You will excuse me?’ And he hurried down the hill after the girl.

  Sarah said: ‘Dr Gerard is tremendously keen on his job.’

  ‘I perceive his keenness,’ said Poirot.

  Sarah said, with a frown: ‘All the same, I can’t bear his comparing her to that horrible old woman—although, once—I felt sorry for Mrs Boynton myself.’

  ‘When was that, mademoiselle?’

  ‘That time I told you about in Jerusalem. I suddenly felt as though I’d got the whole business wrong. You know that feeling one has sometimes when just for a short time you see everything the other way round? I got all het-up about it and went and made a fool of myself!’

  ‘Oh, no—not that!’

  Sarah, as always when she remembered her conversation with Mrs Boynton, was blushing acutely.

  ‘I felt all exalted as though I had a mission! And then later, when Lady W. fixed a fishy eye on me and said she had seen me talking to Mrs Boynton, I thought she had probably overheard, and I felt the most complete ass.’

  Poirot said: ‘What exactly was it that old Mrs Boynton said to you? Can you remember the exact words?’

  ‘I think so. They made rather an impression on me. “I never forget,” that’s what she said. “Remember that. I’ve never forgotten anything—not an action, not a name, not a face.”’ Sarah shivered. ‘She said it so malevolently—not even looking at me. I feel—I feel as if, even now, I can hear her…’

  Poirot said gently: ‘It impressed you very much?’

  ‘Yes. I’m not easily frightened—but sometimes I dream of her saying just those words and her evil, leering triumphant face. Ugh!’ She gave a quick shiver. Then she turned suddenly to him.

  ‘M. Poirot, perhaps I ought not to ask, but have you come to a conclusion about this business? Have you found out anything definite?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He saw her lips tremble as she asked, ‘What?’

  ‘I have found out to whom Raymond Boynton spoke that night in Jerusalem. It was to his sister Carol.’

  ‘Carol—of course!’

  Then she went on: ‘Did you tell him—did you ask him—’

  It was no use. She could not go on. Poirot looked at her gravely and compassionately. He said quietly:

  ‘It means—so much to you, mademoiselle?’

  ‘It means just everything!’ said Sarah. Then she squared her shoulders. ‘But I’ve got to know.’

  Poirot said quietly: ‘He told me that it was a hysterical outburst—no more! That he and his sister were worked up. He told me that in daylight such an idea appeared fantastic to them both.’

  ‘I see…’

  Poirot said gently: ‘Miss Sarah, will you not tell me what it is you fear?’

  Sarah turned a white despairing face upon him.

  ‘That afternoon—we were together. And he left me saying—saying he wanted to do something now—while he had the courage. I thought he meant just to—to tell her. But supposing he meant…’

  Her voice died away. She stood rigid, fighting for control.

  Chapter 13

  Nadine Boynton came out of the hotel. As she hesitated uncertainly, a waiting figure sprang forward.

  Mr Jefferson Cope was immediately at his lady’s side.

  ‘Shall we walk up this way? I think it’s the pleasantest.’

  She acquiesced.

  They walked along and Mr Cope talked. His words came freely if a trifle monotonously. It is not certain whether he perceived that Nadine was not listening. As they turned aside on to the stony flower-covered hill-side, she interrupted him.

  ‘Jefferson, I’m sorry. I’ve got to talk to you.’

  Her face had grown pale.

  ‘Why, certainly, my dear. Anything you like, but don’t distress yourself.’

  She said: ‘You’re cleverer than I thought. You know, don’t you, what I’m
going to say?’

  ‘It is undoubtedly true,’ said Mr Cope, ‘that circumstances alter cases. I do feel, very profoundly, that in the present circumstances decisions may have to be reconsidered.’ He sighed. ‘You’ve got to go right ahead, Nadine, and do just what you feel.’

  She said with real emotion: ‘You’re so good, Jefferson. So patient! I feel I’ve treated you very badly. I really have been downright mean to you.’

  ‘Now, look here, Nadine, let’s get this right. I’ve always known what my limitations were where you were concerned. I’ve had the deepest affection and respect for you ever since I’ve known you. All I want is your happiness. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. Seeing you unhappy has very nearly driven me crazy. And I may say that I’ve blamed Lennox. I’ve felt that he didn’t deserve to keep you if he didn’t value your happiness a little more than he seemed to do.’

  Mr Cope took a breath and went on:

  ‘Now I’ll admit that after travelling with you to Petra, I felt that perhaps Lennox wasn’t quite so much to blame as I thought. He wasn’t so much selfish where you were concerned, as too unselfish where his mother was concerned. I don’t want to say anything against the dead, but I do think that your mother-in-law was perhaps an unusually difficult woman.’

  ‘Yes, I think you may say that,’ murmured Nadine.

  ‘Anyway,’ went on Mr Cope, ‘you came to me yesterday and told me that you’d definitely decided to leave Lennox. I applaud your decision. It wasn’t right—the life you were leading. You were quite honest with me. You didn’t pretend to be more than just mildly fond of me. Well, that was all right with me. All I asked was the chance to look after you and treat you as you should be treated. I may say that afternoon was one of the happiest afternoons in my life.’

  Nadine cried out: ‘I’m sorry—I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, my dear, because all along I had a kind of feeling that it wasn’t real. I felt it was quite on the cards that you would have changed your mind by the next morning. Well, things are different now. You and Lennox can lead a life of your own.’

  Nadine said quietly: ‘Yes. I can’t leave Lennox. Please forgive me.’