Francois opened the door to me.
‘Madame la Baronne is awaiting you.’
He conducted me to her apartments. She sat in state in a large armchair. There was no sign of Mademoiselle Virginie.
‘M. Poirot,’ said the old lady. ‘I have just learned that you are not what you pretend to be. You are a police officer.’
‘That is so, madame.’
‘You came here to inquire into the circumstances of my son’s death?’
Again I replied: ‘That is so, madame.’
‘I should be glad if you would tell me what progress you have made.’
I hesitated.
‘First I would like to know how you have learned all this, madame.’
‘From one who is no longer of this world.’
Her words, and the brooding way she uttered them, sent a chill to my heart. I was incapable of speech.
‘Wherefore, monsieur, I would beg of you most urgently to tell
me exactly what progress you have made in your investigation.’ ‘Madame, my investigation is finished.’ ‘My son?’
‘Was killed deliberately.’ ‘You know by whom?’ ‘Yes, madame.’ ‘Who, then?’
‘M. de Saint Alard.’
The old lady shook her head.
‘You are wrong. M. de Saint Alard is incapable of such a crime.’ ‘The proofs are in my hands.’
‘I beg of you once more to tell me all.’
This time I obeyed, going over each step that had led me to the discovery of the truth. She listened attentively. At the end she nodded her head.
‘Yes, yes, it is all as you say, all but one thing. It was not M. de Saint Alard who killed my son. It was I, his mother.’
I stared at her. She continued to nod her head gently.
‘It is well that I sent for you. It is the providence of the good God that Virginie told me before she departed for the convent, what she had done. Listen, M. Poirofl My son was an evil man.
He persecuted the church. He led a life of mortal sin. He dragged down other souls beside his own. But there was worse than that.
As I came out of my room in this house one morning, I saw my daughter-in-law standing at the head of the stairs. She was reading a letter. I saw my son steal up behind her. One swift push, and she fell, striking her head on the marble steps. When they picked her up she was dead. My son was a murderer, and only I, his mother, knew it.’
She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘You cannot conceive, monsieur, of my agony, my despair. What was I to do? Denounce him to the police? I could not bring myself to do it. It was my duty, but my flesh was weak. Besides, would they believe me?
My eyesight had been failing for some time – they would say I was mistaken. I kept silence. But my conscience gave me no peace.
By keeping silence I too was a murderer. My son inherited his wife’s money. He flourished as the green bay tree. And now he
was to have a Minister’s portfolio. His persecution of the church would be redoubled. And there was Virginie. She, poor child, beautiful, naturally pious, was fascinated by him. He had a strange and terrible power over women. I saw it coming. I was powerless to prevent it. He had no intention of marrying her. The time came when she was ready to yield everything to him.
‘Then I saw my path clear. He was my son. I had given him life. I was responsible for him. He had killed one woman’s body, now he would kill another’s soull I went to Mr Wilson’s room, and took the bottle of tablets. He had once said laughingly that there were enough in it to kill a manl I went into the study and opened the big box of chocolates that always stood on the table. I opened a new box by mistake. The other was on the table also. There was just one chocolate left in it. That simplified things, bio one ate chocolates except my son and Virginie. I would keep her with me that night. All went as I had planned – ‘