Death in the Clouds (Hercule Poirot 12)

‘What is that?’

‘Photographs. Photographs of Madame Giselle’s relations—of her family.’

Elise shook her head.

‘She had no family, Madame. She was alone in the world.’

‘She had a daughter,’ said Poirot sharply.

‘Yes, that is so. Yes, she had a daughter.’

Elise sighed.

‘But there is no picture of that daughter?’ Poirot persisted.

‘Oh, Monsieur does not understand. It is true that Madame had a daughter, but that was long ago, you comprehend. It is my belief that Madame had never seen that daughter since she was a tiny baby.’

‘How was that?’ demanded Fournier sharply.

Elise’s hands flew out in an expressive gesture.

‘I do not know. It was in the days when Madame was young. I have heard that she was pretty then—pretty and poor. She may have been married; she may not. Myself, I think not. Doubtless some arrangement was made about the child. As for Madame, she had the smallpox—she was very ill—she nearly died. When she got well her beauty was gone. There were no more follies, no more romance. Madame became a woman of business.’

‘But she left her money to this daughter?’

‘That is only right,’ said Elise. ‘Who should one leave one’s money to except one’s own flesh and blood? Blood is thicker than water; and Madame had no friends. She was always alone. Money was her passion—to make more and more money. She spent very little. She had no love for luxury.’

‘She left you a legacy. You know that?’

‘But yes, I have been informed. Madame was always generous. She gave me a good sum every year as well as my wages. I am very grateful to Madame.’

‘Well,’ said Fournier, ‘we will take our leave. On the way out I will have another word with old Georges.’

‘Permit me to follow you in a little minute, my friend,’ said Poirot.

‘As you wish.’

Fournier departed.

Poirot roamed once more round the room, then sat down and fixed his eyes on Elise.

Under his scrutiny the Frenchwoman got slightly restive.

‘Is there anything more Monsieur requires to know?’

‘Mademoiselle Grandier,’ said Poirot, ‘do you know who murdered your mistress?’

‘No, Monsieur. Before the good God I swear it.’

She spoke very earnestly. Poirot looked at her searchingly, then bent his head.

‘Bien,’ he said. ‘I accept that. But knowledge is one thing, suspicion is another. Have you any idea—an idea only—who might have done such a thing?’

‘I have no idea, Monsieur. I have already said so to the agent of police.’

‘You might say one thing to him and another thing to me.’

‘Why do you say that, Monsieur? Why should I do such a thing?’