“Oh, it’s you, M. Poirot. It seems so awful somehow that it should be such a lovely day.”
Poirot looked up at the sky.
“When the sun shines you cannot see the moon,” he said. “But when the sun is gone–ah, when the sun is gone.” Cornelia’s mouth fell open. “I beg your pardon?”
“I was saying, Mademoiselle, that when the sun has gone down, we shall see the moon. That is so, is it not?”
“Why–why, yes-certainly.’ She looked at him doubtfully.
Poirot laughed gently.
“I utter the imbecilities,” he said. “Take no notice.”
He strolled gently towards the stern of the boat. As he passed the next cabin he paused for a minute.
He caught fragments of speech from within.
“Utterly ungrateful–after all I’ve done for you–no consideration for your wretched mother.., no idea of what I suffer…”
Poirot’s lips stiffened as he pressed them together. He raised a hand and knocked.
There was a startled silence and Mrs. Otterbourne’s voice called out:
“Who’s that?”
“Is Mademoiselle Rosalie there?”
Rosalie appeared in the doorway. Poirot was shocked at her appearance. There were dark circles under her eyes and drawn lines round her mouth.
“What’s the matter?” she said ungraciously. “What do you want?”
“The pleasure of a few minutes’ conversation with you, Mademoiselle. Will you come?”
Her mouth went sulky at once. She shot him a suspicious look.
“Why should I?”
“I entreat you, Mademoiselle.”
“Oh, I suppose—”
She stepped out on the deck, closing the door behind her.
“Well?”
Poirot took her gently by the arm and drew her along the deck, still in the direction of the stern. They passed the bathrooms and round the corner. They had the stern part of the deck to themselves. The Nile flowed away behind them.
Poirot rested his elbows on the rail. Rosalie stood up straight and stiff.
“Well?” she said again, and her voice held the same ungracious tone.
Poirot spoke slowly, choosing his words.
“I could ask you certain questions, Mademoiselle, but I do not think for one moment that you would consent to answer them.”
“Seems rather a waste to bring me along here then.”
Poirot drew a finger slowly along the wooden rail.
“You are accustomed, Mademoiselle, to carrying your own burdens …. But you can do that too long. The strain becomes too great. For you, Mademoiselle, the strain is becoming too great.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” said Rosalie.
“I am talking about facts, Mademoiselle plain ugly facts. Let us call the spade the spade and say it in one little short sentence. Your mother drinks, Mademoiselle.”
Rosalie did not answer. Her mouth opened, then she closed it again. For once she seemed at a loss.
“There is no need for you to talk, Mademoiselle. I will do all the talking. I was interested at Assuan in the relations existing between you. I saw at once that, in spite of your carefully studied unfilial remarks, you were in reality passionately protecting her from something. I very soon knew what that something was. I knew it long before I encountered your mother one morning in an unmistakable state of intoxication. Moreover, her case, I could see, was one of secret bouts of drinking–by far the most difficult kind of case with which to deal. You were coping with it manfully. Nevertheless, she had all the secret drunkard’s cunning. She managed to get hold of a secret supply of spirits and to keep it successfully hidden from you. I should not be surprised if you discovered its hiding-place only yesterday.
Accordingly, last night, as soon as your mother was really soundly asleep, you stole out with the contents of the cache, went round to the other side of the boat (since your own side was up against the bank) and cast it overboard into the Nile.”
He paused.
“I am right, am I not?”
“Yes–you’re quite right.” Rosalie spoke with sudden passion. “I was a fool not to say so, I suppose! But I didn’t want every one to know. It would go all over the boat. And it seemed so–so silly–I mean–that I–”
Poirot finished the sentence for her.
“So silly that you should be suspected of committing a murder?”