Appointment With Death (Hercule Poirot 19)

‘N-No,’ said Lady Westholme, considering. ‘No, I should say then that her manner had been fairly normal—for an American of that type, that is to say,’ she added condescendingly.

‘She was very abusive to that servant,’ said Miss Pierce.

‘Which one?’

‘Not very long before we started out.’

‘Oh! yes, I remember, she did seem extraordinarily annoyed with him! Of course,’ went on Lady Westholme, ‘to have servants about who cannot understand a word of English is very trying, but what I say is that when one is travelling one must make allowances.’

‘What servant was this?’ asked Poirot.

‘One of the Bedouin servants attached to the camp. He went up to her—I think she must have sent him to fetch her something, and I suppose he brought the wrong thing—I don’t really know what it was—but she was very angry about it. The poor man slunk away as fast as he could, and she shook her stick at him and called out.’

‘What did she call out?’

‘We were too far away to hear. At least I didn’t hear anything distinctly, did you, Miss Pierce?’

‘No, I didn’t. I think she’d sent him to fetch something from her youngest daughter’s tent—or perhaps she was angry with him for going into her daughter’s tent—I couldn’t say exactly.’

‘What did he look like?’

Miss Pierce, to whom the question was addressed, shook her head vaguely.

‘Really, I couldn’t say. He was too far away. All these Arabs look alike to me.’

‘He was a man of more than average height,’ said Lady Westholme, ‘and wore the usual native head-dress. He had on a pair of very torn and patched breeches—really disgraceful they were—and his puttees were wound most untidily—all anyhow! These men need discipline!’

‘You could point the man out among the camp servants?’

‘I doubt it. We didn’t see his face—it was too far away. And, as Miss Pierce says, really these Arabs look all alike.’

‘I wonder,’ said Poirot thoughtfully, ‘what it was he did to make Mrs Boynton so angry?’

‘They are very trying to the patience sometimes,’ said Lady Westholme. ‘One of them took my shoes away, though I had expressly told him—by pantomime too—that I preferred to clean my shoes myself.’

‘Always I do that, too,’ said Poirot, diverted for a moment from his interrogation. ‘I take everywhere my little shoe-cleaning outfit. Also, I take a duster.’

‘So do I.’ Lady Westholme sounded quite human.

‘Because these Arabs they do not remove the dust from one’s belongings—’

‘Never! Of course one has to dust one’s things three or four times a day—’

‘But it is well worth it.’

‘Yes, indeed. I cannot STAND dirt!’

Lady Westholme looked positively militant.

She added with feeling:

‘The flies—in the bazaars—terrible!’

‘Well, well,’ said Poirot, looking slightly guilty. ‘We can soon inquire from this man what it was that irritated Mrs Boynton. To continue with your story?’

‘We strolled along slowly,’ said Lady Westholme. ‘And then we met Dr Gerard. He was staggering along and looked very ill. I could see at once he had fever.’

‘He was shaking,’ put in Miss Pierce. ‘Shaking all over.’