He saw the tears rise in her eys. She said: ‘You’ve known. You’ve known all along… That I cared… But he didn’t do it for me… It was those girls – youth – it made him feel his slavery. He wanted to be free before it was too late… Yes, I’m sure that’s how it was ·.. When did you guess – that it was he?’ ‘His self-control was too perfect,’ said Poirot simply. ‘No matter how galling his wife’s conduct, it never seemed to touch him.
That meant either that he was so used to it that it no longer stung him, or else – eh b/eh – I decided on the latter alternative… And I was right…
‘And then there was his insistence on his conjuring ability – the evening before the crime he pretended to give himself away. But a man like Clapperton doesn’t give himself away. There must be a reason. So long as people thought he had been a conjuror they weren’t likely to think of his having been a ventriloquist.’
‘And the voice we heard – Mrs Clapperton’s voice?’
‘One of the stewardesses had a voice not unlike hers. I induced her to hide behind the stage and taught her the words to say.’ ‘It was a trick – a cruel trick,’ cried out Ellie.
‘I do not approve of murder,’ said-Hercule Poirot.
CHAPTER XVIII HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW?
Hercule Poirot arranged his letters in a neat pile in front of him.
He picked up the topmost letter, studied the address for a moment, then neatly slit the back of the envelope with a little paperknife that he kept on the breakfast table for that express purpose and extracted the contents. Inside was yet another envelope, carefully sealed with purple wax and marked ‘Private and Confidential’.
Hercule Poirot’s eyebrows rose a little on his egg-shaped head.
He murmured, ‘Patience! Nous allons arriver!’ and once more brought the little paper-knife into play. This time the envelope yielded a letter – written in a rather shaky and spiky handwriting.
Several words were heavily underlined.
Hercule Poirot unfolded it and read. The letter was headed once again ‘Private and Confidential’. On the right-hand side was the address – Rosebank, Charman’s Green, Bucks – and the date-March twenty-first.
Dear M. Poirot, I have been recommended to you by an old and valued friend of mine who knows the worry and distress I have been in lately. Not that this friend knows the actual circumstances those I have kept entirely to myself- the matter being strictly private. My friend assures me that you are discretion itself and that there will be no fear of my being involved in a police matter which, if my suspicions should prove correct, I should very much dislike. But it is of course possible that I am entirely mistaken. I do not feel myself clear-headed enough nowadays suffering as I do from insomnia and the result of a severe illness last winter – to investigate things for myself. I have neither the means nor the ability. On the other hand, I must reiterate once more that this is a very delicate family matter and that for many reasons I may want the whole thing hushed up. If I am once assured of the facts, I can deal with the matter myself and should prefer to do so. I hope that I have made myself clear on this point. If you will undertake this investigation, perhaps you will let me know to the above address?
Yours very truly,
AMELIA BARROWBY
Poirot read the letter through twice. Again his eyebrows rose slightly. Then he placed it on one side and proceeded to the next envelope in the pile.
At ten o’clock precisely he entered the room where Miss Lemon, his confidential secretary, sat awaiting her instructions for the day.
Miss Lemon was forty-eight and of unprepossessing appearance.
Her general effect was that of a lot of bones flung together at random. She had a passion for order almost equalling that of Poirot himself; and though capable of thinking, she never thought unless told to do so.
Poirot handed her the morning correspondence. ‘Have the goodness, mademoiselle, to write refusals couched in correct terms to all of these.’