Peril at End House. Агата Кристи
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his obstinacy. The solving of such a case as was indicated might add still further lustre to his already world-wide reputation. Nevertheless I could not but admire his unyielding attitude.
Suddenly a thought struck me and I smiled.
‘I wonder,’ I said, ‘that you are not afraid. Such an emphatic pronouncement will surely tempt the gods.’
‘Impossible,’ he replied, ‘that anyone should shake the decision of Hercule Poirot.’
‘Impossible, Poirot?’
‘You are right, mon ami, one should not use such a word. Eh, ma foi, I do not say that if a bullet should strike the wall by my head, I would not investigate the matter! One is human after all!’
I smiled. A little pebble had just struck the terrace beside us, and Poirot’s fanciful analogy from it tickled my fancy. He stooped now and picked up the pebble as he went on.
‘Yes—one is human. One is the sleeping dog—well and good, but the sleeping dog can be roused. There is a proverb in your language that says so.’
‘In fact,’ I said, ‘if you find a dagger planted by your pillow tomorrow morning—let the criminal who put it there beware!’
He nodded, but rather absently.
Suddenly, to my surprise, he rose and descended the couple of steps that led from the terrace to the garden. As he did so, a girl came into sight hurrying up towards us.
I had just registered the impression that she was a decidedly pretty girl when my attention was drawn to Poirot who, not looking where he was going, had stumbled over a root and fallen heavily. He was just abreast of the girl at the time and she and I between us helped him to his feet. My attention was naturally on my friend, but I was conscious of an impression of dark hair, an impish face and big dark-blue eyes.
‘A thousand pardons,’ stammered Poirot. ‘Mademoiselle, you are most kind. I regret exceedingly—ouch!—my foot he pains me considerably. No, no, it is nothing really—the turned ankle, that is all. In a few minutes all will be well. But if you could help me, Hastings—you and Mademoiselle between you, if she will be so very kind. I am ashamed to ask it of her.’
With me on the one side and the girl on the other we soon got Poirot on to a chair on the terrace. I then suggested fetching a doctor, but this my friend negatived sharply.
‘It is nothing, I tell you. The ankle turned, that is all. Painful for the moment, but soon over.’ He made a grimace. ‘See, in a little minute I shall have forgotten. Mademoiselle, I thank you a thousand times. You were most kind. Sit down, I beg of you.’
The girl took a chair.
‘It’s nothing,’ she said. ‘But I wish you would let it be seen to.’
‘Mademoiselle, I assure you, it is a bagatelle! In the pleasure of your society the pain passes already.’
The girl laughed.
‘That’s good.’
‘What about a cocktail?’ I suggested. ‘It’s just about the time.’
‘Well—’ She hesitated. ‘Thanks very much.’
‘Martini?’
‘Yes, please—dry Martini.’
I went off. On my return, after having ordered the drinks, I found Poirot and the girl engaged in animated conversation.
‘Imagine, Hastings,’ he said, ‘that house there—the one on the point—that we have admired so much, it belongs to Mademoiselle here.’
‘Indeed?’ I said, though I was unable to recall having expressed any admiration. In fact I had hardly noticed the house. ‘It looks rather eerie and imposing standing there by itself far from anything.’
‘It’s called End House,’ said the girl. ‘I love it—but it’s a tumble-down old place. Going to rack and ruin.’
‘You are the last of an old family, Mademoiselle?’
‘Oh! we’re nothing important. But there have been Buckleys here for two or three hundred years. My brother died three years ago, so I’m the last of the family.’
‘That is sad. You live there alone, Mademoiselle?’
‘Oh! I’m away a good deal and when I’m at home there’s usually a cheery crowd coming and going.’
‘That is so modern. Me, I was picturing you in a dark mysterious mansion, haunted by a family curse.’
‘How marvellous! What a picturesque imagination you must have. No, it’s not haunted. Or if so, the ghost is a beneficent one. I’ve had three escapes from sudden death in as many days, so I must bear a charmed life.’
Poirot sat up alertly.
‘Escapes from death? That sounds interesting, Mademoiselle.’
‘Oh! they weren’t very thrilling. Just accidents, you know.’ She jerked her head sharply as a wasp flew past. ‘Curse these wasps. There must be a nest of them round here.’
‘The bees and the wasps—you do not like them, Mademoiselle? You have been stung—yes?’
‘No—but I hate the way they come right past your face.’
‘The bee in the bonnet,’ said Poirot. ‘Your English phrase.’
At that moment the cocktails arrived. We all held up our glasses and made the usual inane observations.
‘I’m due in the hotel for cocktails, really,’ said Miss Buckley. ‘I expect they’re wondering what has become of me.’
Poirot cleared his throat and set down his glass.
‘Ah! for a cup of good rich chocolate,’ he murmured. ‘But in England they make it not. Still, in England you have some very pleasing customs. The young girls, their hats come on and off—so prettily—so easily—’
The girl stared at him.
‘What do you mean? Why shouldn’t they?’
‘You ask that because you are young—so young, Mademoiselle. But to me the natural thing seems to have a coiffure high and rigid—so—and the hat attached with many hat pins—là—là—là—et là.’
He executed four vicious jabs in the air.
‘But how frightfully uncomfortable!’
‘Ah! I should think so,’ said Poirot. No martyred lady could have spoken with more feeling. ‘When the wind blew it was the agony—it gave you the migraine.’
Miss Buckley dragged off the simple wide-brimmed felt she was wearing and cast it down beside her.
‘And now we do this,’ she laughed.
‘Which is sensible and charming,’ said Poirot, with a little bow.
I looked at her with interest. Her dark hair was ruffled and gave her an elfin look. There was something elfin about her altogether. The small, vivid face, pansy shaped, the enormous dark-blue eyes, and something else—something haunting and arresting. Was it a hint of recklessness? There were dark shadows under the eyes.
The terrace on which we were sitting was a little-used one. The main terrace where most people sat was just round the corner at a point where the cliff shelved directly down to the sea.
From round this corner now there appeared a man, a red-faced man with a rolling carriage who carried his hands half clenched by his side. There was something breezy and carefree about him—a typical sailor.
‘I can’t think where the girl’s got to,’ he was saying in tones that easily carried to where we sat. ‘Nick—Nick.’
Miss Buckley rose.
‘I