The girl had a white woollen shift dress on, and her pale brown hair hung limp on either side of her face. In her hand she was holding a kitchen knife.
Miss Jacobs stared at her and she stared back at Miss Jacobs.
Then she said in a quiet reflective voice, as though she was answering what someone had said to her: “Yes, I’ve killed him… The blood got on my hands from the knife… I went into the bathroom to wash it off—but you can’t really wash things like that off, can you? And then I came back in here to see if it was really true… But it is… Poor David… But I suppose I had to do it.” Shock forced unlikely words from Miss Jacobs. As she said them, she thought how ridiculous they sounded!
“Indeed? Why did you have to do anything of the kind?” “I don’t know… At least — I suppose I do—really. He was in great trouble.
He sent for me — and I came… But I wanted to be free of him. I wanted to get away from him. I didn’t really love him.” She laid the knife carefully on the table and sat down on a chair.
“It isn’t safe, is it?” she said. “To hate anyone… It isn’t safe because you never know what you might do.
Like Louise…” Then she said quietly: “Hadn’t you better ring up the police?” Obediently, Miss Jacobs dialled 999.
II There were six people now in the room with the Harlequin on the wall. A long time had passed. The police had come and gone.
Andrew Restarick sat like a man stunned. Once or twice he said the same words. “I can’t believe it…” Telephoned for, he had come from his office, and Claudia Reece-Holland had come with him. In her quiet way, she had been ceaselessly efficient. She had put through telephone calls to lawyers, had rung Crosshedges and two firms of estate agents to try and get in touch with Mary Restarick.
She had given Frances Cary a sedative and sent her to lie down.
Hercule Poirot and Mrs. Oliver sat side by side on a sofa. They had arrived together at the same time as the police.
Last of all to arrive, when nearly everyone else had gone, had been a quiet man with grey hair and a gentle manner, Chief Inspector Neele of Scotland Yard who had greeted Poirot with a slight nod, and been introduced to Andrew Restarick. A tall red-haired young man was standing by the window staring down into the courtyard.
What were they all waiting for? Mrs.
Oliver wondered. The body had been removed, the photographers and other police officers had done their work, they themselves, after being herded into Claudia’s bedroom, had been readmitted into the sitting-room, where they had been waiting, she supposed, for the Scotland Yard man to arrive.
“If you want me to go,” Mrs. Oliver said to him uncertainly — “Mrs. Ariadne Oliver, aren’t you? No, if you have no objection, I’d rather you remained. I know it hasn’t been pleasant — ” “It didn’t seem real.” Mrs. Oliver shut her eyes — seeing the whole thing again. The Peacock Boy, so picturesquely dead that he had seemed like a stage figure. And the girl–the girl had been different — not the uncertain Norma from Crosshedges — the unattractive Ophelia, as Poirot had called her–but some quiet figure of tragic dignity — accepting her doom.
Poirot had asked if he might make two telephone calls. One had been to Scotland Yard, and that had been agreed to, after the sergeant had made a preliminary suspicious enquiry on the phone. The sergeant had directed Poirot to the extension in Claudia’s bedroom, and he had made his call from there, closing the door behind him.
The sergeant had continued to look doubtful, murmuring to his subordinate. “They say it’s all right. Wonder who he is? Odd-looking little bloke.” “Foreign, isn’t he? Might be Special Branch?” “Don’t think so. It was Chief Inspector Neele he wanted.” His assistant raised his eyebrows and suppressed a whistle.
After making his calls, Poirot had reopened the door and beckoned Mrs.