Cards on the Table (Hercule Poirot 15)

“Is Miss Meredith up, too?”

“Yes, she’s gone with Major Despard to a solicitor.”

“Solicitor, eh?”

Mrs. Oliver’s eyebrows rose inquiringly.

“Yes. You see, Major Despard told her she ought to have one. He’s been awfully kind—he really has.”

“I was kind, too,” said Mrs. Oliver, “but it didn’t seem to go down very well, did it? In fact, I think your friend rather resented my coming.”

“Oh, she didn’t—really she didn’t.” Rhoda wriggled on her chair in a paroxysm of embarrassment. “That’s really one reason why I wanted to come today—to explain. You see, I saw you had got it all wrong. She did seem very ungracious, but it wasn’t that, really. I mean, it wasn’t your coming. It was something you said.”

“Something I said?”

“Yes. You couldn’t tell, of course. It was just unfortunate.”

“What did I say?”

“I don’t expect you remember, even. It was just the way you put it. You said something about an accident and poison.”

“Did I?”

“I knew you’d probably not remember. Yes. You see, Anne had a ghastly experience once. She was in a house where a woman took some poison—hat paint, I think it was—by mistake for something else. And she died. And, of course, it was an awful shock to Anne. She can’t bear thinking of it or speaking of it. And your saying that reminded her, of course, and she dried up and got all stiff and queer like she does. And I saw you noticed it. And I couldn’t say anything in front of her. But I did want you to know that it wasn’t what you thought. She wasn’t ungrateful.”

Mrs. Oliver looked at Rhoda’s flushed eager face. She said slowly:

“I see.”

“Anne’s awfully sensitive,” said Rhoda. “And she’s bad about—well, facing things. If anything’s upset her, she’d just rather not talk about it, although that isn’t any good, really—at least, I don’t think so. Things are there just the same—whether you talk about them or not. It’s only running away from them to pretend they don’t exist. I’d rather have it all out, however painful it would be.”

“Ah,” said Mrs. Oliver quietly. “But you, my dear, are a soldier. Your Anne isn’t.”

Rhoda flushed.

“Anne’s a darling.”

Mrs. Oliver smiled.

She said, “I didn’t say she wasn’t. I only said she hadn’t got your particular brand of courage.”

She sighed, then said rather unexpectedly to the girl:

“Do you believe in the value of truth, my dear, or don’t you?”

“Of course I believe in the truth,” said Rhoda staring.

“Yes, you say that—but perhaps you haven’t thought about it. The truth hurts sometimes—and destroys one’s illusions.”

“I’d rather have it, all the same,” said Rhoda.

“So would I. But I don’t know that we’re wise.”

Rhoda said earnestly:

“Don’t tell Anne, will you, what I’ve told you? She wouldn’t like it.”

“I certainly shouldn’t dream of doing any such thing. Was this long ago?