Appointment With Death (Hercule Poirot 19)

‘I just said it was very hot and that I was going to lie down. My mother said she would remain where she was. That was all.’

‘Did anything in her appearance strike you as out of the ordinary?’

‘No. At least that is—’

She paused doubtfully, staring at Poirot.

‘It is not from me that you can get the an

swer, mademoiselle,’ said Poirot quietly.

‘I was just considering. I hardly noticed at the time, but now, looking back—’

‘Yes?’

Carol said slowly: ‘It is true—she was a funny colour—her face was very red—more so than usual.’

‘She might, perhaps, have had a shock of some kind?’ Poirot suggested.

‘A shock?’ she stared at him.

‘Yes, she might have had, let us say, some trouble with one of the Arab servants.’

‘Oh!’ Her face cleared. ‘Yes—she might.’

‘She did not mention such a thing having happened?’

‘N-o—no, nothing at all.’

Poirot went on: ‘And what did you do next, mademoiselle?’

‘I went to my tent and lay down for about half an hour. Then I went down to the marquee. My brother and his wife were there reading.’

‘And what did you do?’

‘Oh! I had some sewing to do. And then I picked up a magazine.’

‘Did you speak to your mother again on your way to the marquee?’

‘No. I went straight down. I don’t think I even glanced in her direction.’

‘And then?’

‘I remained in the marquee until—until Miss King told us she was dead.’

‘And that is all you know, mademoiselle?’

‘Yes.’

Poirot leaned forward. His tone was the same, light and conversational.

‘And what did you feel, mademoiselle?’

‘What did I feel?’

‘Yes—when you found that your mother—pardon—your stepmother, was she not?—what did you feel when you found her dead?’

She stared at him.