The A.B.C. Murders (Hercule Poirot 13)
“So it is like that,” he said at last. “We do not speak the truth any longer.”
She shrugged her shoulders and turned towards the door.
“Well,” she said. “I’ve done what I could to help you.”
Poirot’s voice arrested her.
“Wait, mademoiselle. I have something to tell you. Come back.”
Rather unwillingly, I thought, she obeyed.
Somewhat to my surprise, Poirot plunged into the whole story of the A B C letters, the murder of Andover, and the railway guide found by the bodies.
He had no reason to complain of any lack of interest on her part. Her lips parted, her eyes gleaming, she hung on his words.
“Is this all true, M. Poirot?”
“Yes, it is true.”
“You really mean that my sister was killed by some horrible homicidal maniac?”
“Precisely.”
She drew a deep breath.
“Oh! Betty—Betty—how—how ghastly!”
“You see, mademoiselle, that the information for which I ask you can give freely without wondering whether or not it will hurt anyone.”
“Yes, I see that now.”
“Then let us continue our conversation. I have formed the idea that this Donald Fraser has, perhaps, a violent and jealous temper, is that right?”
Megan Barnard said quietly:
“I’m trusting you now, M. Poirot. I’m going to give you the absolute truth. Don is, as I say, a very quiet person—a bottled-up person, if you know what I mean. He can’t always express what he feels in words. But underneath it all he minds things terribly. And he’s got a jealous nature. He was always jealous of Betty. He was devoted to her—and of course she was very fond of him, but it wasn’t in Betty to be fond of one person and not notice anybody else. She wasn’t made that way. She’d got a—well, an eye for any nice-looking man who’d pass the time of day with her. And of course, working in the Ginger Cat, she was always running up against men—especially in the summer holidays. She was always very pat with her tongue and if they chaffed her she’d chaff back again. And then perhaps she’d meet them and go to the pictures or something like that. Nothing serious—never anything of that kind—but she just liked her fun. She used to say that as she’d got to settle down with Don one day she might as well have her fun now while she could.”
Megan paused and Poirot said:
“I understand. Continue.”
“It was just that attitude of mind of hers that Don couldn’t understand. If she was really keen on him he couldn’t see why she wanted to go out with other people. And once or twice they had flaming big rows about it.”
“M. Don, he was no longer quiet?”
“It’s like all those quiet people, when they do lose their tempers they lose them with a vengeance. Don was so violent that Betty was frightened.”
“When was this?”
“There was one row nearly a year ago and another—a worse one—just over a month ago. I was home for the weekend—and I got them to patch it up again, and it was then I tried to knock a little sense into Betty—told her she was a little fool. All she would say was that there hadn’t been any harm in it. Well, that was true enough, but all the same she was riding for a fall. You see, after the row a year ago, she’d got into the habit of telling a few useful lies on the principle that what the mind doesn’t know the heart doesn’t grieve over. This last flare-up came because she’d told Don she was going to Hastings to see a girl pal—and he found out that she’d really been over to Eastbourne with some man. He was a married man, as it happened, and he’d been a bit secretive about the business anyway—and so that made it worse. They had an awful scene—Betty saying that she wasn’t married to him yet and she had a right to go about with whom she pleased and Don all white and shaking and saying that one day—one day—”
“Yes?”
“He’d commit murder—” said Megan in a lowered voice.
She stopped and stared at Poirot.
He nodded his head gravely several times.