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.
He 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 colourless 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 for 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.
‘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 colour—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?’
‘N-o—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 found her 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 colour 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 travelling 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, quite mad! And we saw Nadine thought so, too, and that made us more afraid because Nadine knows about nursing and things like that.’
‘Yes, yes?’
‘That evening in Jerusalem things kind of boiled up! Ray was beside himself. He and I got all strung up and it seemed—oh, indeed, it did seem right to plan as we did! Mother—Mother wasn’t sane. I don’t know what you think, but it can seem quite right—almost noble—to kill someone!’
Poirot nodded his head slowly. ‘Yes, it has seemed so, I know, to many. That is proved by history.’
‘That’s how Ray and I felt—that night…’ She beat her hand on the table. ‘But we didn’t really do it. Of course we didn’t do it! When daylight came the whole thing seemed absurd, melodramatic—oh, yes, and wicked too! Indeed, indeed, M. Poirot, Mother died perfectly naturally of heart failure. Ray and I had nothing to do with it.’
Poirot said quietly: ‘Will you swear to me, mademoiselle, as you hope for salvation after death, that Mrs Boynton did not die as the result of any action of yours?’
She lifted her head. Her voice came steady and deep:
‘I swear,’ said Carol, ‘as I hope for salvation, that I never harmed her…’
Poirot leaned back in his chair.
‘So,’ he said, ‘that is that.’
There was silence. Poirot thoughtfully caressed his superb moustaches. Then he said: ‘What exactly was your plan?’
‘Plan?’
‘Yes, you and you brother must have had a plan.’
In his mind he ticked off the seconds before her answer came. One, two, three.
‘We had no plan,’ said Carol at last. ‘We never got as far as that.’
Hercule Poirot got up.
‘That is all, mademoiselle. Will you be so good as to send your brother to me?’
Carol rose. She stood undecidedly for a minute.
‘M. Poirot, you do—you do believe me?’
‘Have I said,’ asked Poirot, ‘that I do not?’
‘No, but—’ She stopped.
He said: ‘You will ask your brother to come here?’
‘Yes.’
She went slowly towards the door. She stopped as she got to it, turning round passionately.
‘I have told you the truth—I have!’
Hercule Poirot did not answer.
Carol Boynton went slowly out of the room.
[Appointment with Death -Agatha Christie] Part 2. Chapter 8