“Not matter?”
“No. For lies, Mademoiselle, tell a listener just as much as truth can. Sometimes they tell more. Come, now, commence. You met your housekeeper, the good Mrs. Bishop. She wanted to come and help you. You would not let her. Why?”
“I wanted to be alone.”
“Why?”
“Why? Why? Because I wanted to—to think.”
“You wanted to imagine—yes. And then what did you do next?”
Elinor, her chin raised defiantly, said:
“I
bought some paste for sandwiches.”
“Two pots?”
“Two.”
“And you went to Hunterbury. What did you do there?”
“I went up to my aunt’s room and began to go through her things.”
“What did you find?”
“Find?” She frowned. “Clothes—old letters—photographs—jewellery.”
Poirot said:
“No secrets?”
“Secrets? I don’t understand you.”
“Then let us proceed. What next?”
Elinor said:
“I came down to the pantry and I cut sandwiches….”
Poirot said softly:
“And you thought—what?”
Her blue eyes flushed suddenly. She said:
“I thought of my namesake, Eleanor of Aquitaine….”
Poirot said:
“I understand perfectly.”
“Do you?”
“Oh, yes. I know the story. She offered Fair Rosamund, did she not, the choice of a dagger or a cup of poison. Rosamund chose the poison….”
Elinor said nothing. She was white now.