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

written instead “Dulcie Duveen.”

It was an ill-written, blurred epistle but I have kept it to this day.

Poirot was with me when I read it. The sheets fell from my hand, and I looked across at him.

“Did you know all the time that it was⁠—the other?”

“Yes, my friend.”

“Why did you not tell me?”

“To begin with, I could hardly believe it conceivable that you could make such a mistake. You had seen the photograph. The sisters are very alike, but by no means incapable of distinguishment.”

“But the fair hair?”

“A wig, worn for the sake of a piquant contrast on the stage. Is it conceivable that with twins one should be fair and one dark?”

“Why didn’t you tell me that night at the hotel in Coventry?”

“You were rather high-handed in your methods, mon ami,” said Poirot dryly. “You did not give me a chance.”

“But afterwards?”

“Ah, afterwards! Well, to begin with, I was hurt at your want of faith in me. And then, I wanted to see whether your⁠—feelings would stand the test of time. In fact, whether it was love, or a flash in the pan, with you. I should not have left you long in your error.”

I nodded. His tone was too affectionate for me to bear resentment. I looked down on the sheets of the letter. Suddenly I picked them up from the floor, and pushed them across to him.

“Read that,” I said. “I’d like you to.”

He read it through in silence, then he looked up at me.

“What is it that worries you, Hastings.”

This was quite a new mood in Poirot. His mocking manner seemed laid quite aside. I was able to say what I wanted without too much difficulty.

“She doesn’t say⁠—she doesn’t say⁠—well, not whether she cares for me or not!”

Poirot turned back the pages.

“I think you are mistaken, Hastings.”

“Where?” I cried, leaning forward eagerly.

Poirot smiled.

“She tells you that in every line of the letter, mon ami.”

“But where am I to find her? There’s no address on the letter. There’s a French stamp, that’s all.”

“Excite yourself not! Leave it to Papa Poirot. I can find her for you as soon as I have five little minutes!”

XXVII Jack Renauld’s Story

“Congratulations, M. Jack,” said Poirot, wringing the lad warmly by the hand.

Young Renauld had come to us as soon as he was liberated⁠—before starting for Merlinville to rejoin Marthe and his mother. Stonor accompanied him. His heartiness was in strong contrast to the lad’s wan looks. It was plain that the boy was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Although delivered from the immediate peril that was hanging over him, the circumstances of his release were too painful to let him feel full relief. He smiled mournfully at Poirot, and said in a low voice:

“I went through it to protect her, and now it’s all no use!”

“You could hardly expect the girl to accept the price of your life,” remarked Stonor dryly. “She was bound to come forward when she saw you heading straight for the guillotine.”

“Eh ma foi! and you were heading for it too!” added Poirot, with a slight twinkle. “You would have had Maître Grosíer’s death from rage on your conscience if you had gone on.”

“He was a well meaning ass, I suppose,” said Jack. “But he worried me horribly. You see, I couldn’t very well take him into my confidence. But, my God! what’s going to happen about Bella?”

“If I were you,” said Poirot frankly, “I should not distress myself unduly. The French Courts are very lenient to youth and beauty, and the crime passionnel. A clever lawyer will make out a great case of extenuating circumstances. It will not be pleasant for you⁠—”

“I don’t care about that. You see, M. Poirot, in a way I do feel guilty of my father’s murder. But for me, and my entanglement with this girl, he would be alive and well today. And then my cursed carelessness in taking away the wrong overcoat. I can’t help feeling responsible for his death. It will haunt me forever!”

“No, no,” I said soothingly.

“Of course it’s horrible to me to think that Bella killed my father,” resumed Jack, “but I’d treated her shamefully. After I met Marthe, and realized I’d made a mistake, I ought to have written and told her so honestly. But I was so terrified of a row, and of its coming to Marthe’s ears, and her thinking there was more in it than there ever had been, that⁠—well, I was a coward, and went on hoping the thing would die down of itself. I just drifted, in fact⁠—not realizing that I was driving the poor kid desperate. If she’d really knifed me, as she meant to, I should have got no more than my deserts. And the way she’s come forward now is downright plucky. I’d have stood the racket, you know⁠—up to the end.”

He was silent for a moment or two, and then burst out on another tack:

“What gets me is why the Governor should be wandering about in underclothes and my overcoat at that time of night. I suppose he’d just given the foreign johnnies the slip, and my mother must have made a mistake about its being 2 o’clock when they came. Or⁠—or, it wasn’t all a frame up, was it? I mean, my mother didn’t think⁠—couldn’t think⁠—that⁠—that it was me?”

Poirot reassured him quickly.

“No, no, M. Jack. Have no fears on that score. As for the rest, I will explain it to you one of these days. It is rather curious. But will you recount to us exactly what did occur on that terrible evening?”

“There’s very little to tell. I came from Cherbourg, as I told you, in order to see Marthe before going to the other end of the world. The train was late, and I decided to take the shortcut across the golf links. I could easily get into the grounds of the Villa Marguerite from there. I had nearly reached