She covered her face with her hands. She rocked herself to and fro. She was in terrible distress. But somewhere, in some remote fibre of her being, she was enjoying her own emotions. Poirot was quite sure of that.
“And therefore,” said Poirot in a matter-of-fact tone, “you might just as well tell me the whole story.”
She uncovered her face and said:
“It wasn’t in the least way you think.”
Again Poirot leaned forward—again he tapped her knee.
“You misunderstand me—you misunderstand me utterly,” he said. “I know very well that it was not you who shot him. It was Major Despard. But you were the cause.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. I suppose I was. It was all too terrible. There is a sort of fatality that pursues me.”
“Ah, how true that is,” cried Poirot. “How often have I not seen it? There are some women like that. Wherever they go, tragedies follow in their wake. It is not their fault. These things happen in spite of themselves.”
Mrs. Luxmore drew a deep breath.
“You understand. I see you understand. It all happened so naturally.”
“You travelled together into the interior, did you not?”
“Yes. My husband was writing a book on various rare plants. Major Despard was introduced to us as a man who knew the conditions and would arrange the necessary expedition. My husband liked him very much. We started.”
There was a pause. Poirot allowed it to continue for about a minute and a half and then murmured as though to himself.
“Yes, one can picture it. The winding river—the tropical night—the hum of the insects—the strong soldierly man—the beautiful woman….”
Mrs. Luxmore sighed.
“My husband was, of course, years older than I was. I married as a mere child before I knew what I was doing….”
Poirot shook his head sadly.
“I know. I know. How often does that not occur?”
“Neither of us would admit what was happening,” went on Mrs. Luxmore. “John Despard never said anything. He was th
e soul of honour.”
“But a woman always knows,” prompted Poirot.
“How right you are … Yes, a woman knows … But I never showed him that I knew. We were Major Despard and Mrs. Luxmore to each other right up to the end … We were both determined to play the game.”
She was silent, lost in admiration of that noble attitude.
“True,” murmured Poirot. “One must play the cricket. As one of your poets so finely says, ‘I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not cricket more.’”
“Honour,” corrected Mrs. Luxmore with a slight frown.
“Of course—of course—honour. ‘Loved I not honour more.’”
“Those words might have been written for us,” murmured Mrs. Luxmore. “No matter what it cost us, we were both determined never to say the fatal word. And then—”
“And then—” prompted Poirot.
“That ghastly night.” Mrs. Luxmore shuddered.
“Yes?”