“You might be right there,” admitted Simon. “I think I can explain that. It was a name in the passenger list that upset her.”
“A name in the passenger list? What name?”
“Well, you see, she didn’t actually tell me. As a matter of fact I wasn’t even listening very carefully. I was going over the Jacqueline business in my mind. As far as I remember, Linnet said something about doing people down in business, and that it made her uncomfortable to meet anyone who had a grudge against her family. You see, although I don’t really know the family history very well, I gather that Linnet’s mother was a millionaire’s daughter. Her father was only just ordinary plain wealthy, but after his marriage he naturally began playing the markets or whatever you call it. And as a result of that, of course, several people got it in the neck. You know, affluence one day, the gutter the next. Well, I gather there was someone on board whose father had got up against Linnet’s father and taken a pretty hard knock. I remember Linnet saying: ‘It’s pretty awful when people hate you without even knowing you.’”
“Yes,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “That would explain what she said to me. For the first time she was feeling the burden of her inheritance and not its advantages. You are quite sure, Monsieur Doyle, that she did not mention this man’s name?”
Simon shook his head ruefully.
“I didn’t really pay much attention. Just said: ‘Oh, nobody minds what happened to their fathers nowadays. Life goes too fast for that.’ Something of that kind.”
Bessner said dryly: “Ach, but I can have a guess. There is certainly a young man with a grievance on board.”
“You mean Ferguson?” said Poirot.
“Yes. He spoke against Mrs. Doyle once or twice. I myself have heard him.”
“What can we do to find out?” asked Simon.
Poirot replied: “Colonel Race and I must interview all the passengers. Until we have got their stories it would be unwise to form theories. Then there is the maid. We ought to interview her first of all. It would, perhaps, be as well if we did that here. Monsieur Doyle’s presence might be helpful.”
“Yes, that’s a good idea,” said Simon.
“Had she been with Mrs. Doyle long?”
“Just a couple of months, that’s all.”
“Only a couple of months!” exclaimed Poirot.
“Why, you don’t think—”
“Had Madame any valuable jewellery?”
“There were her pearls,” said Simon. “She once told me they were worth forty or fifty thousand.” He shivered. “My God, do you think those damned pearls—?”
“Robbery is a possible motive,” said Poirot. “All the same it seems hardly credible…Well, we shall see. Let us have the maid here.”
Louise Bourget was that same vivacious Latin brunette who Poirot had seen one day and noticed.
She was anything but vivacious now. She had been crying and looked frightened. Yet there was a kind of sharp cunning apparent in her face which did not prepossess the two men favourably towards her.
“You are Louise Bourget?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“When did you last see Madame Doyle alive?”
“Last night, Monsieur. I was in her cabin to undress her.”
“What time was that?”
“It was some time after eleven, Monsieur. I cannot say exactly when. I undress Madame and put her to bed, and then I leave.”
“How long did all that take?”
“Ten minutes, Monsieur. Madame was tired. She told me to put the lights out when I went.”
“And when you had left her, what did you do?”