“Yes, it was. I just stood like a dummy for quite five seconds. Then I fairly sprinted round the deck.”
Race came out of Bessner’s cabin and said authoritatively: “Would you mind all clearing off? We want to bring out the body.”
Everyone moved away obediently. Poirot went with them. Cornelia said to him with sad earnestness: “I’ll never forget this trip as long as I live. Three deaths…It’s just like living in a nightmare.”
Ferguson overheard her. He said aggressively: “That’s because you’re over-civilized. You should look on death as the Oriental does. It’s a mere incident—hardly noticeable.”
“That’s all very well,” Cornelia said.
“They’re not educated, poor creatures.”
“No, and a good thing too. Education has devitalized the white races. Look at America—goes in for an orgy of culture. Simply disgusting.”
“I think you’re talking nonsense,” said Cornelia, flushing. “I attend lectures every winter on Greek Art and the Renaissance, and I went to some on famous Women of History.”
Mr. Ferguson groaned in agony: “Greek Art; Renaissance! Famous Women of History! It makes me quite sick to hear you. It’s the future that matters, woman, not the past. Three women are dead on this boat. Well, what of it? They’re no loss! Linnet Doyle and her money! The French maid—a domestic parasite. Mrs. Otterbourne—a useless fool of a woman. Do you think anyone really cares whether they’re dead or not? I don’t. I think it’s a damned good thing!”
“Then you’re wrong!” Cornelia blazed out at him. “And it makes me sick to hear you talk and talk, as though nobody mattered but you. I didn’t like Mrs. Otterbourne much, but her daughter was ever so fond of her, and she’s all broken up over her mother’s death. I don’t know much about the French maid, but I expect somebody was fond of her somewhere; and as for Linnet Doyle—well, apart from everything else, she was just lovely! She was so beautiful when she came into a room that it made a lump come in your throat. I’m homely myself, and that makes me appreciate beauty a lot more. She was as beautiful—just as a woman—as anything in Greek Art. And when anything beautiful’s dead, it’s a loss to the world. So there!”
Mr. Ferguson stepped back a pace. He caught hold of his hair with both hands and tugged at it vehemently.
“I give it up,” he said. “You’re unbelievable. Just haven’t got a bit of natural female spite in you anywhere.” He turned to Poirot. “Do you know, sir, that Cornelia’s father was practically ruined by Linnet Ridgeway’s old man? But does the girl gnash her teeth when she sees the heiress sailing about in pearls and Paris models? No, she just bleats out: ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’ like a blessed Baa Lamb. I don’t believe she even felt sore at her.”
Cornelia flushed. “I did—just for a minute. Poppa kind of died of discouragement, you know, because he hadn’t made good.”
“Felt sore for a minute! I ask you.”
Cornelia flashed round on him.
“Well, didn’t you say just now it was the future that mattered, not the past? All that was in the past, wasn’t it? It’s over.”
“Got me there,” said Ferguson. “Cornelia Robson, you’re the only nice woman I’ve ever come across. Will you marry me?”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“It’s a genuine proposal—even if it is made in the presence of Old Man Sleuth. Anyway, you’re a witness, Monsieur Poirot. I’ve deliberately offered marriage to this female—against all my principles, because I don’t believe in legal contracts between the sexes; but I don’t think she’d stand for anything else, so marriage it shall be. Come on, Cornelia, say yes.”
“I think you’re utterly ridiculous,” said Cornelia, flushing.
“Why won’t you marry me?”
“You’re not serious,” said Cornelia.
“Do you mean not serious in proposing or do you mean not serious in character?”
“Both, but I really meant character. You laugh at all sorts of serious things. Education and Culture—and—and Death. You wouldn’t be reliable.”
She broke off, flushed again, and hurried along into her cabin.
Ferguson stared after her. “Damn the girl! I believe she really means it. She wants a man to be reliable. Reliable—ye gods!” He paused and then said curiously: “What’s the matter with you, Monsieur Poirot? You seem very deep in thought.”
Poirot roused himself with a start.
“I reflect, that is all. I reflect.”
“Meditation on Death. Death, the Recurring Decimal, by Hercule Poirot. One of his well-known monographs.”
“Monsieur Ferguson,” said Poirot, “you are a very impertinent young man.”