The Murder on the Links, Agatha Christie [book recommendations website TXT] 📗

He paused and swallowed.

“Yes?”

“I heard a terrible cry. It wasn’t loud⁠—a sort of choke and gasp⁠—but it frightened me. For a moment I stood rooted to the spot. Then I came round the corner of a bush. There was moonlight. I saw the grave, and a figure lying face downwards, with a dagger sticking in the back. And then⁠—and then⁠—I looked up and saw her. She was looking at me as though she saw a ghost⁠—it’s what she must have thought me at first⁠—all expression seemed frozen out of her face by horror. And then she gave a cry, and turned and ran.”

He stopped, trying to master his emotion.

“And afterwards?” asked Poirot gently.

“I really don’t know. I stayed there for a time, dazed. And then I realized I’d better get away as fast as I could. It didn’t occur to me that they would suspect me, but I was afraid of being called upon to give evidence against her. I walked to St. Beauvais as I told you, and got a car from there back to Cherbourg.”

A knock came at the door, and a page entered with a telegram which he delivered to Stonor. He tore it open. Then he got up from his seat.

“Mrs. Renauld has regained consciousness,” he said.

“Ah!” Poirot sprang to his feet. “Let us all go to Merlinville at once!”

A hurried departure was made forthwith. Stonor, at Jack’s instance, agreed to stay behind and do all that could be done for Bella Duveen. Poirot, Jack Renauld and I set off in the Renauld car.

The run took just over forty minutes. As we approached the doorway of the Villa Marguerite, Jack Renauld shot a questioning glance at Poirot.

“How would it be if you went on first⁠—to break the news to my mother that I am free⁠—”

“While you break it in person to Mademoiselle Marthe, eh?” finished Poirot, with a twinkle. “But yes, by all means, I was about to propose such an arrangement myself.”

Jack Renauld did not wait for more. Stopping the car, he swung himself out, and ran up the path to the front door. We went on in the car to the Villa Geneviève.

“Poirot,” I said, “do you remember how we arrived here that first day? And were met by the news of M. Renauld’s murder?”

“Ah! yes, truly. Not so long ago, either. But what a lot of things have happened since then⁠—especially for you, mon ami!”

“Poirot, what have you done about finding Bel⁠—I mean Dulcie?”

“Calm yourself, Hastings. I arrange everything.”

“You’re being a precious long time about it,” I grumbled.

Poirot changed the subject.

“Then the beginning, now the end,” he moralized, as we rang the bell. “And, considered as a case, the end is profoundly unsatisfactory.”

“Yes, indeed,” I sighed.

“You are regarding it from the sentimental standpoint, Hastings. That was not my meaning. We will hope that Mademoiselle Bella will be dealt with leniently, and after all Jack Renauld cannot marry both the girls. I spoke from a professional standpoint. This is not a crime well ordered and regular, such as a detective delights in. The mise-en-scène designed by Georges Conneau, that indeed is perfect, but the dénouement⁠—ah, no! A man killed by accident in a girl’s fit of anger⁠—ah, indeed, what order or method is there in that?”

And in the midst of a fit of laughter on my part at Poirot’s peculiarities, the door was opened by Françoise.

Poirot explained that he must see Mrs. Renauld at once, and the old woman conducted him upstairs. I remained in the salon. It was some time before Poirot reappeared. He was looking unusually grave.

“Vous voilà, Hastings! Sacré tonnerre, but there are squalls ahead!”

“What do you mean?” I cried.

“I would hardly have credited it,” said Poirot thoughtfully, “but women are very unexpected.”

“Here are Jack and Marthe Daubreuil,” I exclaimed, looking out of the window.

Poirot bounded out of the room, and met the young couple on the steps outside.

“Do not enter. It is better not. Your mother is very upset.”

“I know, I know,” said Jack Renauld. “I must go up to her at once.”

“But no, I tell you. It is better not.”

“But Marthe and I⁠—”

“In any case, do not take Mademoiselle with you. Mount, if you must, but you would be wise to be guided by me.”

A voice on the stairs behind made us all start.

“I thank you for your good offices, M. Poirot, but I will make my own wishes clear.”

We stared in astonishment. Descending the stairs, leaning upon Léonie’s arm, was Mrs. Renauld, her head still bandaged. The French girl was weeping, and imploring her mistress to return to bed.

“Madame will kill herself. It is contrary to all the doctor’s orders!”

But Mrs. Renauld came on.

“Mother,” cried Jack, starting forward. But with a gesture she drove him back.

“I am no mother of yours! You are no son of mine! From this day and hour I renounce you.”

“Mother,” cried the lad, stupefied.

For a moment she seemed to waver, to falter before the anguish in his voice. Poirot made a mediating gesture, but instantly she regained command of herself.

“Your father’s blood is on your head. You are morally guilty of his death. You thwarted and defied him over this girl, and by your heartless treatment of another girl, you brought about his death. Go out from my house. Tomorrow I intend to take such steps as shall make it certain that you shall never touch a penny of his money. Make your way in the world as best you can with the help of the girl who is the daughter of your father’s bitterest enemy!”

And slowly, painfully, she retraced her way upstairs.

We were all dumbfounded⁠—totally unprepared for such a demonstration. Jack Renauld, worn out with all he had already gone through, swayed and nearly fell. Poirot and I went quickly to his assistance.

“He is overdone,” murmured Poirot to Marthe. “Where can we take him?”

“But home! To the Villa Marguerite. We will nurse him, my mother and I. My poor Jack!”

We got the lad to the