"Thank you, Madame, for your plain speaking."
Nadine went on: "Still, although I cannot pretend sorrow, I can admit to another feeling - remorse."
"Remorse?" Poirot's eyebrows went up.
"Yes. Because, you see, it was I who brought about her death. For that I blame myself bitterly."
"What is this that you are saying, Madame?"
"I am saying that I was the cause of my mother-in-law's death. I was acting, as I thought, honestly - but the result was unfortunate. To all intents and purposes, I killed her."
Poirot leaned back in his chair. "Will you be so kind as to elucidate this statement, Madame?"
Nadine bent her head. "Yes, that is what I wish to do. My first reaction, naturally, was to keep my private affairs to myself, but I see that the time has come when it would be better to speak out. I have no doubt, M. Poirot, that you have often received confidences of a somewhat intimate nature?"
"That, yes."
"Then I will tell you quite simply what occurred. My married life, M. Poirot, has not been particularly happy. My husband is not entirely to blame for that - his mother's influence over him has been unfortunate - but I have been feeling for some time that my life was becoming intolerable,"
She paused and then went on: "On the afternoon of my mother-in-law's death I came to a decision. I have a friend - a very good friend. He has suggested more than once that I should throw in my lot with his. On that afternoon I accepted his proposal."
"You decided to leave your husband?"
"Yes."
"Continue, Madame."
Nadine said in a lower voice: "Having once made my decision I wanted to - to establish it as soon as possible. I walked home to the camp by myself. My mother-in-law was sitting alone, there was one about, and I decided to break the news to her right there. I got a chair, sat down by her and told her abruptly what I had decided."
"She was surprised?"
"Yes I am afraid it was a great shock to her. She was both surprised and angry - very angry. She - she worked herself into quite a state about it! Presently I refused to discuss the matter any longer. I got up and walked away." Her voice dropped. "I - I never saw her again alive."
Poirot nodded his head slowly. He said: "I see." Then he said: "You think her death was the result of the shock?"
"It seems to me almost certain. You see, she had already overexerted herself considerably getting to this place. My news, and her anger at it, would do the rest... I feel additionally guilty because I have had a certain amount of training in illness and so I, more than anyone else, ought to have realized the possibility of such a thing happening."
Poirot sat in silence for some minutes, then he said: "What exactly did you do when you left her?"
"I took the chair I had brought out back into my cave, then I went down to the marquee. My husband was there."
Poirot watched her closely as he said: "Did you tell him of your decision? Or had you already told him?"
There was a pause, an infinitesimal pause, before Nadine said: "I told him then."
"How did he take it?"
She answered quietly: "He was very upset."
"Did he urge you to reconsider your decision?"
She shook her head. "He - he didn't say very much. You see, we had both known for some time that something like this might happen."
Poirot said: "You will pardon me, but the other man was, of course, M. Jefferson Cope?"
She bent her head. "Yes."
There was a long pause, then, without any change of voice, Poirot asked: "Do you own a hypodermic syringe, Madame?"
"Yes - no."
His eyebrows rose.
She explained. "I have an old hypodermic amongst other things in a traveling medicine chest, but it is in our big luggage which we left in Jerusalem."
"I see."
There was a pause, then she said with a shiver of uneasiness: "Why did you ask me that, M. Poirot?"
He did not answer the question. Instead he put one of his own. "Mrs. Boynton was, I believe, taking a mixture containing digitalis?"
"Yes."
He thought that she was definitely watchful now. "That was for her heart trouble?"
"Yes."
"Digitalis is, to some extent, a cumulative drug?"
"I believe it is. I do not know very much about it."
"Mrs. Boynton had taken a big overdose of digitalis - "
She interrupted him quickly but with decision. "She did not. She was always most careful. So was I, if I measured the dose for her."
"There might have been an overdose in this particular bottle. A mistake of the chemist who made it up?"
"I think that is very unlikely," she replied quietly.
"Ah well, the analysis will soon tell us."
Nadine said: "Unfortunately the bottle was broken."
Poirot eyed her with sudden interest. "Indeed! Who broke it?"
"I'm not quite sure. One of the servants, I think. In carrying my mother-in-law's body into her cave, there was a good deal of confusion and the light was very poor. A table got knocked over."
Poirot eyed her steadily for a minute or two. "That," he said, "is very interesting."
Nadine Boynton shifted wearily in her chair. "You are suggesting, I think, that my mother-in-law did not die of shock, but of an overdose of digitalis?" she said and went on: "That seems to me most improbable."
Poirot leaned forward. "Even when I tell you that Dr. Gerard, the French physician who was staying in the camp, had missed an appreciable quantity of a preparation of digitoxin from his medicine chest?"
Her face grew very pale. He saw the clutch of her other hand on the table. Her eyes dropped. She sat very still. She was like a Madonna carved in stone.
"Well, Madame," said Poirot at last. "What have you say to that?"
The seconds ticked on but she did not speak. It was quite two minutes before she raised her head, and he started a little when he saw the look in her eyes.
"M. Poirot, I did not kill my mother-in-law. That you know! She was alive and well when I left her. There are many people who can testify to that! Therefore, being innocent of the crime, I can venture to appeal to you. Why must you mix yourself up in this business? If I swear to you on my honor that justice and only justice has been done. Will you not abandon this inquiry? There has been so much suffering - you do not know. Now that at last there is peace and the possibility of happiness, must you destroy it all?"
Poirot sat up very straight. His eyes shone with a green light. "Let me be clear, Madame. What are you asking me to do?"
"I am telling you that my mother-in-law died a natural death and I am asking you to accept that statement."
"Let us be definite. You believe that your mother-in-law was deliberately killed, and you are asking me to condone - murder!"
"I am asking you to have pity!"
"Yes - on someone who had no pity!"
"You don't understand - it was not like that."
"Did you commit the crime yourself, Madame, that you know so well?"
Nadine shook her head. She showed no signs of guilt. "No," she said quietly. "She was alive when I left her."
"Then what happened? You know - or you suspect - "
Nadine said passionately: "I have heard, M. Poirot, that once, in that affair of the Orient Express, you accepted an official verdict of what had happened?"
Poirot looked at her curiously. "I wonder who told you that."
"Is it true?"
He said slowly: "That case was - different."
"No. No, it was not different! The man who was killed was evil," her voice dropped, "as she was..."
Poirot said: "The moral character of the victim has nothing to do with it! A human being who has exercised the right of private judgment and taken the life of another human being is not safe to exist amongst the community. I tell you that! I, Hercule Poirot!"
"How hard you are!"
"Madame, in some ways I am adamant. I will not condone murder! That is the final word of Hercule Poirot."
She got up. Her dark eyes flashed with sudden fire. "Then go on! Bring ruin and misery into the lives of innocent people! I have nothing more to say."
"But I - I think, Madame, that you have a lot to say."
"No, nothing more."
"What happened, Madame, after you left your mother-in-law? Whilst you and your husband were in the marquee together?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "How should I know?"
"You do know - or you suspect."
She looked him straight in the eyes. "I know nothing, M. Poirot." Turning, she left the room.
8
After noting on his pad "N. B. 4:40," Poirot opened the door and called to the orderly whom Colonel Carbury had left at his disposal, an intelligent man with a good knowledge of English. He asked him to fetch Miss Carol Boynton.
Poirot looked with some interest at the girl as she entered: at the chestnut hair, the poise of the head on the long neck, the nervous energy of the beautifully shaped hands.
He said: "Sit down Mademoiselle."
She sat down obediently. Her face was colorless and expressionless.
Poirot began with a mechanical expression of sympathy to which the girl acquiesced without any change of expression.
"And now, Mademoiselle, will you recount to me how you spent the afternoon of the day in question?"
Her answer came promptly, raising the suspicion that it had already been well rehearsed.
"After luncheon we all went for a stroll. I returned to the camp - "
Poirot interrupted. "A little minute. Were you all together until then?"
"No, I was with my brother Raymond and Miss King or most of the time. Then I strolled off on my own."
"Thank you. And you were saying you returned to the camp. Do you know the approximate time?"
"I believe it was just about ten minutes past five."
Poirot put down "C. B. 5:10."
"And what then?"
"My mother was still sitting where she had been when we set out. I went up and spoke to her and then went on to my tent."
"Can you remember exactly what passed between you?"
"I just said it was very hot and that I was going to lie down. My mother said she would remain where she was. That was all."
"Did anything in her appearance strike you as out of the ordinary?"
"No. At least - that is - " She paused doubtfully, staring at Poirot.
"It is not from me that you can get the answer, Mademoiselle," said Poirot quietly.
She flushed and looked away. "I was just considering. I hardly noticed at the time, but now, looking back - "
"Yes?"
Carol said slowly: "It is true - she was a funny color - her face was very red - more so than usual."
"She might, perhaps, have had a shock of some kind." Poirot suggested.
"A shock?" She stared at him.
"Yes, she might have had, let us say, some trouble with one of the Arab servants."
"Oh!" Her face cleared. "Yes - she might."
"She did not mention such a thing having happened?"
"No, no, nothing at all."
Poirot went on: "And what did you do next Mademoiselle?"
"I went to my tent and lay down for about half an hour. Then I went down to the marquee. My brother and his wife were there reading."
"And what did you do?"
"Oh! I had some sewing to do. And then I picked up a magazine."
"Did you speak to your mother again on your way to the marquee?"
"No, I went straight down. I don't think I even glanced in her direction."
"And then?"
"I remained in the marquee until - until Miss King told us she was dead."
"And that is all you know, Mademoiselle?"
"Yes."
Poirot leaned forward. His tone was the same, light and conversational. "And what did you feel, Mademoiselle?"
"What did I feel?"
"Yes, when you found that your mother - pardon - your stepmother was she not? - what did you feel when you learned she was dead?"
She stared at him. "I don't understand what you mean!"
"I think you understand very well."
Her eyes dropped. She said, uncertainly: "It was - a great shock."
"Was it?"
The blood rushed to her face. She stared at him helplessly.
Now he saw fear in her eyes. "Was it such a great shock, Mademoiselle? Remembering a certain conversation you had with your brother Raymond one night in Jerusalem?"
His shot proved right. He saw it in the way the color drained out of her cheeks again. "You know about that?" she whispered.
"Yes, I know."
"But how - how?"
"Part of your conversation was overheard."
"Oh!" Carol Boynton buried her face in her hands. Her sobs shook the table. Hercule Poirot waited a minute, then he said quietly: "You were planning together to bring about your stepmother's death."
Carol sobbed out brokenly: "We were mad - mad - that evening!"
"Perhaps."
"It's impossible for you to understand the state we were in!" She sat up, pushing back the hair from her face. "It would sound fantastic. It wasn't so bad in America - but traveling brought it home to us so."
"Brought what home to you?" His voice was kind now, sympathetic.
"Our being different from - other people! We - we got desperate about it. And there was Jinny."
"Jinny?"
"My sister. You haven't seen her. She was going - well - queer. And Mother was making her worse. She didn't seem to realize. We were afraid, Ray and I, that Jinny was going quite mad! And we saw [unreadable]
Poirot nodded his head slowly. "Yes, it has seemed so, I know, to many. That is, by history."
"That's how Ray and I felt that night..." She put her hand on the table. "But we didn't really do it. Of course we didn't do it! When daylight came the thing seemed absurd, melodramatic. Oh, yes, and wicked too! Indeed, indeed, M. Poirot, Mother died naturally of heart failure. Ray and I had nothing to do with it."
