Appointment With Death (Hercule Poirot 19)

‘So,’ he said, ‘that is that.’

There was silence. Poirot thoughtfully caressed his superb moustaches. Then he said: ‘What exactly was your plan?’

‘Plan?’

‘Yes, you and you brother must have had a plan.’

In his mind he ticked off the seconds before her answer came. One, two, three.

‘We had no plan,’ said Carol at last. ‘We never got as far as that.’

Hercule Poirot got up.

‘That is all, mademoiselle. Will you be so good as to send your brother to me?’

Carol rose. She stood undecidedly for a minute.

‘M. Poirot, you do—you do believe me?’

‘Have I said,’ asked Poirot, ‘that I do not?’

‘No, but—’ She stopped.

He said: ‘You will ask your brother to come here?’

‘Yes.’

She went slowly towards the door. She stopped as she got to it, turning round passionately.

‘I have told you the truth—I have!’

Hercule Poirot did not answer.

Carol Boynton went slowly out of the room.

Chapter 9

Poirot noted the likeness between brother and sister as Raymond Boynton came into the room.

His face was stern and set. He did not seem nervous or afraid. He dropped into a chair, stared hard at Poirot, and said: ‘Well?’

Poirot said gently: ‘Your sister has spoken with you?’

Raymond nodded. ‘Yes, when she told me to come here. Of course I realize that your suspicions are quite justified. If our conversation was overheard that night, the fact that my stepmother died rather suddenly certainly would seem suspicious! I can only assure you that the conversation was—the madness of an evening! We were, at the time, under an intolerable strain. This fantastic plan of killing my stepmother did—oh, how shall I put it?—it let off steam somehow!’

Hercule Poirot bent his head slowly.

‘That,’ he said, ‘is possible.’

‘In the morning, of course, it all seemed—rather absurd! I swear to you, M. Poirot, that I never thought of the matter again!’

Poirot did not answer.

Raymond said quickly:

‘Oh, yes, I know that that is easy enough to say. I cannot expect you to believe me on my bare word. But consider the facts. I spoke to my mother just a little before six o’clock. She was certainly alive and well then. I went to my tent, had a wash and joined the others in the marquee. From that time onwards neither Carol nor I moved from the place. We were in full sight of everyone. You must see, M. Poirot, that my mother’s death was natural—a case of heart failure—it couldn’t be anything else! There were servants about, a lot of coming and going. Any other idea is absurd.’

Poirot said quietly: ‘Do you know, Mr Boynton, that Miss King is of the opinion that when she examined the body—at six-thirty—death had occurred at least an hour and a half and probably two hours earlier?’