Part 21 (1/2)

”No,” she said. ”No one can help me. I can't go to confession, even. I've got to bear the weight of my wickedness all alone. I'm cut off from I've got to bear the weight of my wickedness all alone. I'm cut off from the mercy of G.o.d.” the mercy of G.o.d.”

”n.o.body,” said Hercule Poirot, ”is cut off from the mercy of G.o.d. You know that well, my child.” know that well, my child.”

Again she looked at him - a wild unhappy look.

”I'd have to confess my sins - to confess. If I could confess -”

”Can't you confess? You came to the church for that, did you not?”

”I came to get comfort - comfort. But what comfort is there for me? I'm a sinner.” a sinner.”

”We are all sinners.”

”But you'd have to repent - I'd have to say - to tell -” Her hands went up to her face. ”Oh, the lies I've told - the lies I've told.” to her face. ”Oh, the lies I've told - the lies I've told.”

”You told a lie about your husband? About Robert Underhay? It was Robert Underhay who was killed here, wasn't it?” Robert Underhay who was killed here, wasn't it?”

She turned sharply on him. Her eyes were suspicious, wary. She cried out sharply: out sharply: ”I tell you it was not my husband. It wasn't the least like him!”

”The dead man was not in the least like your husband?”

”No,” she said defiantly.

”Tell me,” said Poirot, ”what was your husband like?”

Her eyes stared at him. Then her face hardened into alarm. Her eyes grew dark with fear. grew dark with fear.

She cried out: ”I'll not talk to you any more!”

Going swiftly past him, she ran down the path and pa.s.sed through the gate out into the market square. gate out into the market square.

Poirot did not try and follow her. Instead he nodded his head with a good deal of satisfaction. good deal of satisfaction.

”Ah,” he said. ”So that is that!”

He walked slowly out into the square.

After a momentary hesitation he followed the High Street until he came to the Stag, which was the last building before the open country. to the Stag, which was the last building before the open country.

In the doorway of the Stag he met Rowley Cloade and Lynn Marchmont. Marchmont.

Poirot looked at the girl with interest. A handsome girl, he thought, and intelligent also. Not the type he himself admired. He preferred intelligent also. Not the type he himself admired. He preferred something softer, more feminine. Lynn Marchmont, he thought, was something softer, more feminine. Lynn Marchmont, he thought, was essentially a modern type - though one might, with equal accuracy, essentially a modern type - though one might, with equal accuracy, call it an Elizabethan type. Women who thought for themselves, who call it an Elizabethan type. Women who thought for themselves, who were free in language, and who admired enterprise and audacity in were free in language, and who admired enterprise and audacity in men. men.

”We're very grateful to you, M. Poirot,” said Rowley. ”By Jove, it really was quite like a conjuring trick.” was quite like a conjuring trick.”

Which was exactly what it had been, Poirot reflected! Asked a question to which you knew the answer, there was no difficulty whatsoever in to which you knew the answer, there was no difficulty whatsoever in performing a trick with the requisite frills. He quite appreciated that to performing a trick with the requisite frills. He quite appreciated that to the simple Rowley, the production of Major Porter out of the blue, so to the simple Rowley, the production of Major Porter out of the blue, so to speak, had been as breath-taking as any amount of rabbits produced speak, had been as breath-taking as any amount of rabbits produced from the conjurer's hat. from the conjurer's hat.

”How you go about these things beats me,” said Rowley.

Poirot did not enlighten him. He was, after all, only human. The conjurer does not tell his audience how the trick was done. conjurer does not tell his audience how the trick was done.

”Anyway, Lynn and I are no end grateful,” Rowley went on.

Lynn Marchmont, Poirot thought, was not looking particularly grateful. There were lines of strain round her eyes, her fingers had a nervous There were lines of strain round her eyes, her fingers had a nervous trick of twining and intertwining themselves. trick of twining and intertwining themselves.

”It's going to make a lot of difference to our future married life,” said Rowley. Rowley.

Lynn said sharply: ”How do you know? There are all sorts of formalities and things, I'm sure.” sure.”

”You are getting married, when?” asked Poirot politely.

”June.”

”And you have been engaged since when?”

”Nearly six years,” said Rowley. ”Lynn's just come out of the Wrens.”

”And is it forbidden to marry in the Wrens, yes?”

Lynn said briefly: ”I've been overseas.”

Poirot noticed Rowley's swift frown. He said shortly: ”Come on, Lynn. We must get going. I expect M. Poirot wants to get back to town.” back to town.”

Poirot said smilingly: ”But I'm not going back to town.”

”What?”

Rowley stopped dead, giving a queer wooden effect.

”I am staying here, at the Stag, for a short while.”

”But - but why?”

”C'est un beau paysage,” Poirot said placidly.

Rowley said uncertainly: ”Yes, of course... But aren't you - well, I mean, busy?”

”I have made my economies,” said Poirot, smiling. ”I do not need to occupy myself unduly. No, I can enjoy my leisure and spend my time occupy myself unduly. No, I can enjoy my leisure and spend my time where the fancy takes me. And my fancy inclines to Warmsley Vale.” where the fancy takes me. And my fancy inclines to Warmsley Vale.”

He saw Lynn Marchmont raise her head and gaze at him intently. Rowley, he thought, was slightly annoyed. Rowley, he thought, was slightly annoyed.

”I suppose you play golf?” he said. ”There's a much better hotel at Warmsley Heath. This is a very one-horse sort of place.” Warmsley Heath. This is a very one-horse sort of place.”

”My interests,” said Poirot, ”lie entirely in Warmsley Vale.”

Lynn said: ”Come along, Rowley.”

Half reluctantly, Rowley followed her.

At the door, Lynn paused and then came swiftly back. She spoke to Poirot in a quiet low voice. Poirot in a quiet low voice.