Sad Cypress (Hercule Poirot 22)
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Elinor answered:
“She didn’t say so.”
“What did she—?”
He stopped in the middle of the question.
Mary Gerrard was running down the stairs. She crossed the hall and disappeared through the door to the kitchen quarters.
Elinor said in a harsh voice:
“Yes? What is it you wanted to ask?”
Roddy said vaguely:
“I—what? I’ve forgotten what it was.”
He was staring at the door through which Mary Gerrard had gone.
Elinor’s hands closed. She could feel her long, pointed nails biting into the flesh of her palms.
She thought:
“I can’t bear it—I can’t bear it…it’s not imagination…it’s true… Roddy—Roddy I can’t lose you….”
And she thought:
“What did that man—the doctor—what did he see in my face upstairs? He saw something… Oh, God, how awful life is—to feel as I feel now. Say something, fool. Pull yourself together!”
Aloud she said, in her calm voice:
“About meals, Roddy. I’m not very hungry. I’ll sit with Aunt Laura and the nurses can both come down.”
Roddy said in alarm:
“And have dinner with me?”
Elinor said coldly:
“They won’t bite you!”
“But what about you? You must have
something. Why don’t we dine first, and let them come down afterwards?”
Elinor said:
“No, the other way’s better.” She added wildly, “They’re so touchy, you know.”
She thought:
“I can’t sit through a meal with him—alone—talking—behaving as usual….”
She said impatiently:
“Oh, do let me arrange things my own way!”
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