The Murder on the Links by Agatha Christie (classic book list .txt) 📕

to come to me at the moment, but it shot into my mind that I was glad her motive was what it had been⁠—rather than the idle and morbid curiosity I had accused her of at the time. How gallantly she had played her part that day, inwardly racked with fear and trepidation as she must have been. Poor little soul, bearing the burden of a moment’s impetuous action.

“Why did you take the dagger?” I asked presently.

She replied as simply as a child:

“I was afraid there might be fingermarks on it.”

“But didn’t you remember that you had worn gloves?”

She shook her head as though bewildered, and then said slowly:

“Are you going to give me up to⁠—to the Police?”

“Good God! no.”

Her eyes sought mine long and earnestly, and then she asked in a little quiet voice that sounded afraid of itself:

“Why not?”

It seemed a strange place and a strange time for a declaration of love⁠—and God knows, in all my imagining, I had never pictured love coming to me in such a guise. But I answered simply and naturally enough:

“Because I love you, Cinderella.”

She bent her head down, as though ashamed, and muttered in a broken voice:

“You can’t⁠—you can’t⁠—not if you knew⁠—” And then, as though rallying herself, she faced me squarely, and asked:

“What do you know, then?”

“I know that you came to see Mr. Renauld that night. He offered you a cheque and you tore it up indignantly. Then you left the house⁠—” I paused.

“Go on⁠—what next?”

“I don’t know whether you knew that Jack Renauld would be coming that night, or whether you just waited about on the chance of seeing him, but you did wait about. Perhaps you were just miserable, and walked aimlessly⁠—but at any rate just before twelve you were still near there, and you saw a man on the golf links⁠—”

Again I paused. I had leapt to the truth in a flash as she entered the room, but now the picture rose before me even more convincingly. I saw vividly the peculiar pattern of the overcoat on the dead body of Mr. Renauld, and I remembered the amazing likeness that had startled me into believing for one instant that the dead man had risen from the dead when his son burst into our conclave in the salon.

“Go on,” repeated the girl steadily.

“I fancy his back was to you⁠—but you recognized him, or thought you recognized him. The gait and the carriage were familiar to you, and the pattern of his overcoat.” I paused. “You told me in the train on the way from Paris that you had Italian blood in your veins, and that you had nearly got into trouble once with it. You used a threat in one of your letters to Jack Renauld. When you saw him there, your anger and jealousy drove you mad⁠—and you struck! I don’t believe for a minute that you meant to kill him. But you did kill him, Cinderella.”

She had flung up her hands to cover her face, and in a choked voice she said:

“You’re right⁠ ⁠… you’re right⁠ ⁠… I can see it all as you tell it.” Then she turned on me almost savagely. “And you love me? Knowing what you do, how can you love me?”

“I don’t know,” I said a little wearily. “I think love is like that⁠—a thing one cannot help. I have tried, I know⁠—ever since the first day I met you. And love has been too strong for me.”

And then suddenly, when I least expected it, she broke down again, casting herself down on the floor and sobbing wildly.

“Oh, I can’t!” she cried. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know which way to turn. Oh, pity me, pity me, someone, and tell me what to do!”

Again I knelt by her, soothing her as best I could.

“Don’t be afraid of me, Bella. For God’s sake don’t be afraid of me. I love you, that’s true⁠—but I don’t want anything in return. Only let me help you. Love him still if you have to, but let me help you as he can’t.”

It was as though she had been turned to stone by my words. She raised her head from her hands and stared at me.

“You think that?” she whispered. “You think that I love Jack Renauld?”

Then, half laughing, half crying, she flung her arms passionately round my neck, and pressed her sweet wet face to mine.

“Not as I love you,” she whispered. “Never as I love you!”

Her lips brushed my cheek, and then, seeking my mouth, kissed me again and again with a sweetness and fire beyond belief. The wildness of it⁠—and the wonder, I shall not forget⁠—no, not as long as I live!

It was a sound in the doorway that made us look up. Poirot was standing there looking at us.

I did not hesitate. With a bound I reached him and pinioned his arms to his sides.

“Quick,” I said to the girl. “Get out of here. As fast as you can. I’ll hold him.”

With one look at me, she fled out of the room past us. I held Poirot in a grip of iron.

“Mon ami,” observed the latter mildly, “you do this sort of thing very well. The strong man holds me in his grasp and I am helpless as a child. But all this is uncomfortable and slightly ridiculous. Let us sit down and be calm.”

“You won’t pursue her?”

“Mon Dieu! no. Am I Giraud? Release me, my friend.”

Keeping a suspicious eye upon him, for I paid Poirot the compliment of knowing that I was no match for him in astuteness, I relaxed my grip, and he sank into an armchair, feeling his arms tenderly.

“It is that you have the strength of a bull when you are roused, Hastings! Eh bien, and do you think you have behaved well to your old friend? I show you the girl’s photograph and you recognize it, but you never say a word.”

“There was no need if you knew that I recognized