‘Bella was in our digs in London. She looked like nothing on God’s earth. I told her what I’d done, and that she was pretty safe for the time being. She stared at me, and then began laughing . . . laughing . . . laughing . . . it was horrible to hear her! I felt that the best thing to do was to keep busy. She’d go mad if she had time to brood on what she’d done. Luckily we got an engagement at once.’
‘And then, I saw you and your friend watching us that night . . . I was frantic. You must suspect, or you wouldn’t have tracked us down. I had to know the worst, so I followed you. I was desperate. And then, before I’d had time to say anything, I tumbled to it that it was me you suspected, not Bella! Or at least that you thought I was Bella, since I’d stolen the dagger.’
‘I wish, honey, that you could see back to my mind at that moment . . . you’d forgive me, perhaps. I was so frightened, and muddled, and desperate. . . . All I could get clearly was that you would try and save me. I didn’t know whether you’d be willing to save her thought very likely not. It wasn’t the same thing! And I couldn’t risk it!’
Bella’s my twin—I’d got to do the best for her. So I went on lying. I felt mean, I feel mean still . . . That’s all—enough too, you’ll say, I expect. I ought to have trusted you. If I had . . .’
‘As soon as the news was in the paper that Jack Renauld had been arrested, it was all up. Bella wouldn’t even wait to see how things went . . . .’
‘I’m very tired. I can’t write any more.’
She had begun to sign herself Cinderella, but had crossed that out and written instead ‘Dulcie Duvee’
It was an ill-written, blurred epistle but I have kept it to this day.
Poirot was with me when I read it. The sheets fell from my hand, and I looked across at him.
‘Did you know all the time that it was—the other?’
‘Yes, my friend.’
‘Why did you not tell me?’
‘To begin with, I could hardly believe it conceivable that you could make such a mistake. You had seen the photograph. The sisters are very alike, but by no means incapable of distinguishment.’
‘But the fair hair?’
‘A wig, worn for the sake of a piquant contrast on the stage. Is it conceivable that with twins one should be fair and one dark?’
‘Why didn’t you tell me that night at the hotel in Coventry?’
‘You were rather high-handed in your methods, mon ami,’ said Poirot dryly. ‘You did not give me a chance.’
‘But afterwards?’
‘Ah, afterwards! Well, to begin with, I was hurt at your want of faith in me. And then, I wanted to see whether your—feelings would stand the test of time. In fact, whether it was love, or a flash in the pan, with you. I should not have left you long in your error.’
I nodded. His tone was too affectionate for me to bear resentment. I looked down on the sheets of the letter. Suddenly I picked them up from the floor, and pushed them across to him.
‘Read that,’ I said. ‘I’d like you to.’
He read it through in silence, then he looked up at me.
‘What is it that worries you, Hastings?’
This was quite a new mood in Poirot. His mocking manner seemed laid quite aside. I was able to say what I wanted without too much difficulty.
‘She doesn’t say—she doesn’t say—well, not whether she cares for me or not?’
Poirot turned back the pages.
‘I think you are mistaken, Hastings.’
‘Where?’ I cried, leaning forward eagerly.
Poirot smiled. ‘She tells you that in every line of the letter, mon ami.’
‘But where am I to find her? There’s no address on the letter. There’s a French stamp, that’s all.’
‘Excite yourself not! Leave it to Papa Poirot. I can find her for you as soon as I have five little minutes?’