Lord, have mercy upon us.
Christ, have mercy upon us.
Lord, have mercy upon us.
Poirot stood there a moment or two. He nodded his head once or twice. Then he left the churchyard and walked by a footpath that led out on to the cliff and along it. Presently he stood still again, looking out to the sea. He spoke to himself.
“I am sure now that I know what happened and why. I understand the pity of it and the tragedy. One has to go back such a long way. In my end is my beginning, or should one put it differently? ‘In my beginning was my tragic end’? The Swiss girl must have known—but will she tell me? The boy believes she will. For their sakes—the girl and the boy. They cannot accept life unless they know.”
CHAPTER XIX Maddy And Zelie
“Mademoiselle Rouselle?” said Hercule Poirot. He bowed.
Mademoiselle Rouselle extended her hand. About fifty, Poirot thought. A fairly imperious woman. Would have her way.
Intelligent, intellectual, satisfied, he thought, with life as she had lived it, enjoying the pleasures and suffering the sorrows life brings.
“I have heard your name,” she said. “You have friends, you know, both in this country and in France. I do not know exactly what I can do for you. Oh, I know that you explained, in the letter that you sent me. It is an affair of the past, is it not?
Things that happened. Not exactly things that happened, but the clue to things that happened many, many years ago. But sit down. Yes. Yes, that chair is quite comfortable, I hope.
There are some petits fours and the decanter is on the table.” She was quietly hospitable without any urgency. She was unworried but amiable.
“You were at one time a governess in a certain family,” said Poirot. “The Ravenscrofts. Perhaps now you hardly remember them.” “Oh, yes, one does not forget, you know, things that happen when you were young. There was a girl, and a boy about four or five years younger in the family I went to. They were nice children. Their father was a general in the Army.” “There was also another sister.” “Ah, yes, I remember. She was not there when I first came.
I think she was delicate. Her health was not good. She was having treatment somewhere.” “You remember their mother’s Christian name?” “Margaret, I think was one. The other one I am not sure of by now.” “Dorothea.” “Ah, yes. A name I have not often come across. But they called each other by shorter names. Molly and Dolly. They were identical twins, you know, remarkably alike. They were both very handsome young women.” “And they were fond of each other?” “Yes, they were devoted. But we are, are we not, becoming slightly confused? Preston-Grey is not the name of the children I went to teach. Dorothea Preston-Grey married a major–ah, I cannot remember the name now. Arrow? No, J arrow.” “Ravenscroft,” said Poirot.
“Ah, that. Yes. Curious how one cannot remember names.
The Preston-Greys are a generation older. Margaret PrestonGrey had been in a pensionnat in this part of the world, and when she wrote after her marriage asking Madame Benoit, who ran that pensionnat, if she knew of someone who would come to her as nursery-governess to her two children, I was recommended. That is how I came to go there. I spoke only of the other sister because she happened to be staying there during part of my time of service with the children. The children were a girl, I think then of six or seven. She had a name out of Shakespeare, I remember. Rosalind or Celia.” “Celia,” said Poirot.
“And the boy was only about three or four. His name was Edward. A mischievous but lovable child. I was happy with them.” “And they were happy, I hear, with you. They enjoyed playing with you and you were very kind in your playing with them.” “Moi,j’aime les enfants,” said Mademoiselle Rouselle.
“They called you Maddy, I believe.” She laughed.
“Ah, I like hearing that word. It brings back past memories.” “Did you know a boy called Desmond? Desmond BurtonCox?” “Ah, yes. He lived, I think, in a house next door or nearly next door. We had several neighbors and the children very often came to play together. His name was Desmond. Yes, I remember.” “You were there long, mademoiselle?” “No. I was only there for three or four years at most. Then I was recalled to this country. My mother was very ill. It was a question of coming back and nursing her, although I knew it would not be perhaps for very long. That was true. She died a year and a half or two years at the most after I returned here.