Death in the Clouds (Hercule Poirot 12)

‘Didn’t I give evidence in that damned court and say I had never heard of the woman?’

‘I don’t think that proves very much,’ said her husband dryly. ‘If you did have dealings with this Giselle, you can be sure the police will find it out.’

Cicely sat up angrily in bed.

‘Perhaps you think I killed her—stood up there in that plane and puffed darts at her from a blowpipe. Of all the crazy businesses!’

‘The whole thing sounds mad,’ Stephen agreed thoughtfully. ‘But I do want you to realize your position.’

‘What position? There isn’t any position. You don’t believe a word I say. It’s damnable. And why be so anxious about me all of a sudden? A lot you care about what happens to me. You dislike me. You hate me. You’d be glad if I died tomorrow. Why pretend?’

‘Aren’t you exaggerating a little? In any case, old-fashioned though you think me, I do happen to care about my family name—an out-of-date sentiment which you will probably despise. But there it is.’

Turning abruptly on his heel, he left the room.

A pulse was beating in his temple. Thoughts followed each other rapidly through his head.

‘Dislike? Hate? Yes, that’s true enough. Should I be glad if she died tomorrow? My God, yes! I’d feel like a man who’s been let out of prison. What a queer beastly business life is! When I first saw her in Do It Now, what a child, what an adorable child she looked! So fair and so lovely…Damned young fool! I was mad about her—crazy…She seemed everything that was adorable and sweet, and all the time she was what she is now— vulgar, vicious, spiteful, empty-headed…I can’t even see her loveliness now.’

He whistled and a spaniel came running to him, looking up at him with adoring sentimental eyes.

He said, ‘Good old Betsy,’ and fondled the long, fringed ears.

He thought, ‘Funny term of disparagement, to call a woman a bitch. A bitch like you, Betsy, is worth nearly all the women I’ve met put together.’

Cramming an old fishing hat on his head, he left the house accompanied by the dog.

This aimless saunter of his round the estate began gradually to soothe his jangled nerves. He stroked the neck of his favourite hunter, had a word with the groom, then he went to the Home Farm and had a chat with the farmer’s wife. He was walking along a narrow lane, Betsy at his heels, when he met Venetia Kerr on her bay mare.

Venetia looked her best upon a horse. Lord Horbury looked up at her with admiration, fondness and a queer sense of homecoming.

He said, ‘Hullo, Venetia.’

‘Hullo, Stephen.’

‘Where’ve you been? Out in the five-acre?’

‘Yes, she’s coming along nicely, isn’t she?’

‘First-rate. Have you seen that two-year-old of mine I bought at Chattisley’s sale?’

They talked horses for some minutes, then he said:

‘By the way, Cicely’s here.’

‘Here, at Horbury?’

Against Venetia’s code to show surprise, but she could not quite keep the undertone of it out of her voice.

‘Yes. Turned up last night.’

There was a silence between them. Then Stephen said, ‘You were at that inquest, Venetia. How—how—er—did it go?’

She considered a moment.

‘Well, nobody was saying very much, if you know what I mean.’

‘Police weren’t giving anything away?’