APPOINTMENT WITH DEATH - 2

APPOINTMENT WITH DEATH

AGATHA CHRISTIE

( INSTALMENT 2 )

TEN

It was the morning of the start to Petra.

Sarah came down to find a big masterful woman with a rocking-horse nose whom she had already noticed in the hotel, outside the main entrance objecting fiercely to the size of the car.

"A great deal too small! Four passengers? And a dragoman? Then of course we must have a much larger saloon. Please take that car away and return with one of an adequate size."

In vain did the representative of Messrs. Castle's raise his voice in explanation. That was the size of car always provided. It was really a most comfortable car. A larger car was not so suitable for desert travel. The large woman, metaphorically speaking, rolled over him like a large steamroller. Then she turned her attention to Sarah. "Miss King? I am Lady Westholme. I am sure you agree with me that that car is grossly inadequate as to size?"

"Well," said Sarah cautiously, "I agree that a larger one would be more comfortable!"

The young man from Castle's murmured that a larger car would add to the price.

"The price," said Lady Westholme firmly, "is inclusive and I shall certainly refuse to sanction any addition to it. Your prospectus distinctly states 'in comfortable saloon car.' You will keep to the terms of your agreement."

Recognizing defeat, the young man from Castle's murmured something about seeing what he could do and wilted away from the spot. Lady Westholme turned to Sarah, a smile of triumph on her weather-beaten countenance, her large red rocking-horse nostrils dilated exultantly.

Lady Westholme was a very well-known figure in the English political world. When Lord Westholme, a middle-aged, simple-minded peer, whose only interests in life were hunting, shooting and fishing, was returning from a trip to the United States, one of his fellow passengers was a Mrs. Vansittart. Shortly afterwards Mrs. Vansittart became Lady Westholme. The match was often cited as one of the examples of the danger of ocean voyages. The new Lady Westholme lived entirely in tweeds and stout brogues, bred dogs, bullied the villagers and forced her husband pitilessly into public life. It being borne in upon her, however, that politics was not Lord Westholme's métier in life and never would be, she graciously allowed him to resume his sporting activities and herself stood for Parliament. Being elected with a substantial majority, Lady Westholme threw herself with vigor into political life, being especially active at Question time. Cartoons of her soon began to appear (always a sure sign of success). As a public figure she stood for the old-fashioned values of Family Life, Welfare work amongst Women, and was an ardent supporter of the League of Nations. She had decided views on questions of Agriculture, Housing and Slum Clearance. She was much respected and almost universally disliked! It was highly possible that she would be given an Under Secretaryship when her Party returned to power. At the moment a Liberal Government (owing to a split in the National Government between Labor and Conservatives) was somewhat unexpectedly in power. Lady Westholme looked with grim satisfaction after the departing car. "Men always think they can impose upon women," she said.

Sarah thought that it would be a brave man who thought he could impose upon Lady Westholme! She introduced Dr. Gerard who had just come out of the hotel.

"Your name is, of course, familiar to me," said Lady Westholme, shaking hands. "I was talking to Professor Clemenceaux the other day in Paris. I have been taking up the question of the treatment of pauper lunatics very strongly lately. Very strongly, indeed. Shall we come inside while we wait for a better car to be obtained?"

A vague little middle-aged lady with wisps of gray hair who was hovering near by turned out to be Miss Annabel Pierce, the fourth member of the party. She too was swept into the lounge under Lady Westholme's protecting wing.

"You are a professional woman Miss King?"

"I've just taken my M.B.."

"Good," said Lady Westholme with condescending approval. "If anything is to be accomplished, mark my words, it is women who will do it."

Uneasily conscious for the first time of her sex, Sarah followed Lady Westholme meekly to a seat. There, as they sat waiting, Lady Westholme informed them that she had refused an invitation to stay with the High Commissioner during her stay in Jerusalem.

"I did not want to be hampered by officialdom. I wished to look into things for myself."

"What things?" Sarah wondered.

Lady Westholme went on to explain that she was staying at the Solomon Hotel so as to remain unhampered. She added that she had made several suggestions to the Manager for the more competent running of his hotel.

"Efficiency," said Lady Westholme, "is my Watchword."

It certainly seemed to be! In a quarter of an hour a large and extremely comfortable car arrived and in due course-after advice from Lady Westholme as to how the luggage should be bestowed-the party set off.

Their first halt was the Dead Sea. They had lunch at Jericho. Afterwards when Lady Westholme armed with a Baedeker had gone off with Miss Pierce, the doctor and the fat dragoman to do a tour of old Jericho, Sarah remained in the garden of the hotel.

Her head ached slightly and she wanted to be alone. A deep depression weighed her down – a depression for which she found it hard to account. She felt suddenly listless and uninterested, disinclined for sightseeing, bored by her companions. She wished at this moment that she had never committed herself to this Petra tour. It was going to be very expensive and she felt quite sure she wasn't going to enjoy it! Lady Westholme's booming voice, Miss Pierce's endless twitterings, and the anti-Zionist lamentation of the dragoman were already fraying her nerves to a frazzle. She disliked almost as much Dr. Gerard's amused air of knowing exactly how she was feeling.

She wondered where the Boyntons were now – perhaps they had gone on to Syria – they might be at Baalbek or Damascus. Raymond. She wondered what Raymond was doing. Strange how clearly she could see his face, its eagerness, its diffidence, its nervous tension ... Oh! Hell, why go on thinking of people she would probably never see again? That scene the other day with the old woman-what could have possessed her to march up to the old lady and spurt out a lot of nonsense. Other people must have heard some of it. She fancied that Lady Westholme had been quite close by. Sarah tried to remember exactly what it was she had said. Something that probably sounded quite absurdly hysterical. Goodness, what a fool she had made of herself! But it wasn't her fault really – it was old Mrs. Boynton's. There was something about her that made you lose your sense of proportion.

Dr. Gerard entered and plumped down in a chair, wiping his hot forehead. "Phew! That woman should be poisoned!" he declared.

Sarah started. "Mrs. Boynton?"

"Mrs. Boynton! No, I meant that Lady Westholme! It is incredible to me that she has had a husband for many years and that he has not already done so. What can he be made of, that husband?"

Sarah laughed. "Oh, he's the 'huntin', fishin', shootin'' kind," she explained.

"Psychologically that is very sound! He appeases his lust to kill on the (so-called) lower creations."

"I believe he is very proud of his wife's activities."

The Frenchman suggested: "Because they take her a good deal away from home? That is understandable." Then he went on. "What did you say just now? Mrs. Boynton? Undoubtedly it would be a very good idea to poison her, too. Undeniably the simplest solution of that family problem! In fact, a great many women would be better poisoned. All women who have grown old and ugly." He made an expressive face.

Sarah cried out, laughing: "Oh, you Frenchmen! You've got no use for any woman who isn't young and attractive."

Gerard shrugged his shoulders. "We are more honest about it, that is all. Englishmen, they do not get up in tubes and trains for ugly women – no, no."

"How depressing life is," said Sarah with a sigh.

"There is no need for you to sigh. Mademoiselle."

"Well, I feel thoroughly disgruntled today."

"Naturally."

"What do you mean – naturally?" snapped Sarah.

"You could find the reason very easily if you examine your state of mind honestly."

"I think it's our fellow travelers who depress me," said Sarah. "It's awful, isn't it, but I do hate women! When they're inefficient and idiotic like Miss Pierce, they infuriate me, and when they're efficient like Lady Westholme, they annoy me more still."

"It is, I should say, unavoidable that these two people should annoy you. Lady Westholme is exactly fitted to the life she leads and is completely happy and successful. Miss Pierce has worked for years as a nursery governess and has suddenly come into a small legacy which has enabled her to fulfill her lifelong wish and travel. So far, travel has lived up to her expectations. Consequently you, who have just been thwarted in obtaining what you want, naturally resent the existence of people who have been more successful in life than you are."

"I suppose you're right," said Sarah gloomily. "What a horribly accurate mind reader you are. I keep trying to humbug myself and you won't let me."

At this moment the others returned. The guide seemed the most exhausted of the three. He was quite subdued and hardly exuded any information on the way to Amman. He did not even mention the Jews. For which everyone was profoundly grateful. His voluble and frenzied account of their iniquities had done much to try everyone's temper on the journey from Jerusalem.

Now the road wound upward from the Jordan, twisting and turning with clumps of oleanders showing rose-colored flowers.

They reached Amman late in the afternoon and after a short visit to the Graeco-Roman theatre, went to bed early. They were to make an early start the next morning as it was a full day's motor run across the desert to Ma'an.

They left soon after eight o'clock. The party was inclined to be silent. It was a hot airless day and by noon when a halt was made for a picnic lunch to be eaten, it was really, stiflingly hot. The irritation on a hot day of being boxed up closely with four other human beings had got a little on everyone's nerves.

Lady Westholme and Dr. Gerard had a somewhat irritable argument over the League of Nations. Lady Westholme was a fervent supporter of the League. The Frenchman, on the other hand, chose to be witty at the League's expense. From the attitude of the League concerning Abyssinia and Spain they passed to the Lithuania boundary dispute of which Sarah had never heard and from there to the activities of the League in suppressing dope gangs.

"You must admit they have done wonderful work. Wonderful!" snapped Lady Westholme.

Dr. Gerard shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps. And at wonderful expense, too!"

"The matter is a very serious one. Under the Dangerous Drugs Act –" The argument waged on.

Miss Pierce twittered to Sarah: "It is really most interesting traveling with Lady Westholme."

Sarah said acidly: "Is it?" but Miss Pierce did not notice the acerbity and twittered happily on: "I've so often seen her name in the papers. So clever of women to go into public life and hold their own. I'm always so glad when a woman accomplishes something!"

"Why?" demanded Sarah ferociously.

Miss Pierce's mouth fell open and she stammered a little. "Oh, because – I mean – just because – well – it's so nice that women are able to do things!"

"I don't agree," said Sarah. "It's nice when any human being is able to accomplish something worthwhile! It doesn't matter a bit whether it's a man or a woman. Why should it?"

"Well, of course-" said Miss Pierce. "Yes – I confess – of course, looking at it in that light –" But she looked slightly wistful.

Sarah said more gently: "I'm sorry, but I do hate this differentiation between the sexes. 'The modern girl has a thoroughly businesslike attitude to life!' That sort of thing. It's not a bit true! Some girls are businesslike and some aren't. Some men are sentimental and muddle-headed, others are clear-headed and logical. There are just different types of brains. Sex only

matters where sex is directly concerned."

Miss Pierce flushed a little at the word sex and adroitly changed the subject. "One can't help wishing that there were a little shade," she murmured. "But I do think all this emptiness is so wonderful, don't you?"

Sarah nodded. Yes, she thought, the emptiness was marvelous ... healing ... peaceful ... no human beings to agitate one with their tiresome inter-relationships ... no burning personal problems! Now, at last, she felt, she was free of the Boyntons. Free of that strange compelling wish to interfere in the lives of people whose orbit did not remotely touch her own. She felt soothed and at peace. Here was loneliness, emptiness, spaciousness ... in fact, peace ... only, of course, one wasn't alone to enjoy it. Lady Westholme and Dr. Gerard had finished with drugs and were now arguing about guileless young women who were exported in a sinister manner to Argentinean cabarets. Dr. Gerard had displayed throughout the conversation a levity which Lady Westholme, who, being a true politician, had no sense of humor, found definitely deplorable.

"We go on now, yes?" announced the tar-bushed dragoman and began to talk about the iniquities of Jews again.

It was about an hour off sunset when they reached Ma'an at last. Strange wild-faced men crowded around the car. After a short halt they went on. Looking over the flat desert country Sarah was at a loss as to where the rocky stronghold of Petra could be. Surely they could see for miles and miles all around them? There were no mountains, no hills anywhere. Were they then still many miles from their journey's end?

They reached the village of Am Musa where the cars were to be left. Here horses were waiting for them-sorry looking thin beasts. The inadequacy of her striped wash frock disturbed Miss Pierce greatly. Lady Westholme was sensibly attired in riding breeches, not perhaps a particularly becoming style to her type of figure, but certainly practical.

The horses were led out of the village along a slippery path with loose stones. The ground fell away and the horses zigzagged down. The sun was close on setting.

Sarah was very tired with the long hot journey in the car. Her senses felt dazed. The ride was like a dream. It seemed to her afterwards that it was like the pit of Hell opening at one's feet. The way wound down-down into the ground. The shapes of rock rose up around them, down, down into the bowels of the earth, through a labyrinth of red cliffs. They towered now on either side. Sarah felt stifled, menaced by the ever-narrowing gorge. She thought confusedly to herself: "Down into the valley of death – down into the valley of death ..."

On and on. It grew dark, the vivid red of the walls faded, and still on, winding in and out, imprisoned, lost in the bowels of the earth.

She thought: "It's fantastic and unbelievable ... a dead city."

And again like a refrain came the words: "The valley of death ..."

Lanterns were lit now. The horses wound along through the narrow ways. Suddenly they came out into a wide space-the cliffs receded. Far ahead of them was a cluster of lights.

"That is camp!" said the guide.

The horses quickened their pace a little-not very much – they were too starved and dispirited for that, but they showed just a shade of enthusiasm. Now the way ran along a gravelly waterbed. The lights grew nearer. They could see a cluster of tents, a higher row up against the face of a cliff. Caves, too, hollowed out in the rock.

They were arriving. Bedouin servants came running out.

Sarah stared up at one of the caves. It held a sitting figure. What was it? An idol? A gigantic squatting image?

No, that was the flickering lights that made it loom so large. But it must be an idol of some kind, sitting there immovable, brooding over the place ... and then, suddenly, her heart gave a leap of recognition.

Gone was the feeling of peace – of escape – that the desert had given her. She had been led from freedom back into captivity. She had ridden down into this dark winding valley and here, like an arch priestess of some forgotten cult, like a monstrous swollen female Buddha, sat Mrs. Boynton. . . .

ELEVEN

Mrs. Boynton was here, at Petra!

Sarah answered mechanically questions that were addressed to her. Would she have dinner straight away-it was ready – or would she like to wash first? Would she prefer to sleep in a tent or a cave?

Her answer to that came quickly. A tent. She flinched at the thought of a cave; the vision of that monstrous squatting figure recurred to her. (Why was it that something about the woman seemed hardly human?) Finally she followed one of the native servants. He wore khaki breeches much patched and untidy puttees and a ragged coat very much the worse for wear. On his head the native headdress, the cheffiyah, its long folds protecting the neck and secured in place with a black silk twist fitting tightly to the crown of his head. Sarah admired the easy swing with which he walked, the careless proud carriage of his head. Only the European part of his costume seemed tawdry and wrong. She thought: "Civilization's all wrong-all wrong! But for civilization there wouldn't be a Mrs. Boynton! In savage tribes they'd probably have killed and eaten her years ago!"

She realized, half humorously, that she was overtired and on edge. A wash in hot water and a dusting of powder over her face and she felt herself again – cool, poised, and ashamed of her recent panic.

She passed a comb through her thick black hair, squinting sideways at her reflection in the wavering light of a small oil lamp in a very inadequate glass.

Then she pushed aside the tent flap and came out into the night prepared to descend to the big marquee below.

"You – here?"

It was a low cry – dazed, incredulous. She turned to look straight into Raymond Boynton's eyes. So amazed they were! And something in them held her silent and almost afraid. Such an unbelievable joy ... it was as though he had seen a vision of Paradise – wondering, dazed, thankful, humble! Never, in all her life, was Sarah to forget that look. So might the damned look up and see Paradise. . . .

He said again: "You ..."

It did something to her – that low vibrant tone. It made her heart turn over in her breast. It made her feel shy, afraid, humble and yet suddenly arrogantly glad.

She said quite simply: "Yes."

He came nearer – still dazed – still only half believing. Then suddenly he took her hand. "It is you," he said. "You're real. I thought at first you were a ghost – because I'd been thinking about you so much." He paused and then said: "I love you, you know ... I have from the moment I saw you in the train. I know that now. And I want you to know it so that – so that you'll know it isn't me – the real me – who – who behaves so caddishly. You see, I can't answer for myself even now. I might do – anything! I might pass you by or cut you – but I do want you to know that it isn't me – the real me – who is responsible for that. It's my nerves. I can't depend on them ... when she tells me to do things – I do them! My nerves make me! You will understand, won't you? Despise me if you have to –"

She interrupted him. Her voice was low and unexpectedly sweet. "I won't despise you."

"All the same, I'm pretty despicable! I ought to – to be able to behave like a man."

It was partly an echo of Gerard's advice, but more out of her own knowledge and hope that Sarah answered – and behind the sweetness of her voice there was a ring of certainty and conscious authority. "You will now."

"Shall I?" His voice was wistful. "Perhaps ..."

"You'll have courage now. I'm sure of it."

He drew himself up-flung back his head. "Courage? Yes – that's all that's needed. Courage!"

Suddenly he bent his head, touched her hand with his lips. A minute later he had left her.

TWELVE

Sarah went down to the big marquee. She found her three fellow travelers there. They were sitting at table eating. The guide was explaining that there was another party here.

"They come two days ago. Go day after tomorrow. Americans. The mother very fat, very difficult get here! Carried in chair by bearers – they say very hard work – they get very hot – yes."

Sarah gave a sudden spurt of laughter. Of course, take it properly, the whole thing was funny! The fat dragoman looked at her gratefully. He was not finding his task too easy. Lady Westholme had contradicted him out of Baedeker three times that day and had now found fault with the type of bed provided. He was grateful to the one member of his party who seemed to be unaccountably in a good temper.

"Ha!" said Lady Westholme. "I think these people were at the Solomon. I recognized the old mother as we arrived here. I think I saw you talking to her at the hotel, Miss King."

Sarah blushed guiltily, hoping Lady Westholme had not overheard much of that conversation.

"Really, what possessed me!" she thought to herself in an agony. In the meantime Lady Westholme had made a pronouncement.

"Not interesting people at all. Very provincial," she said.

Miss Pierce made eager sycophantish noises and Lady Westholme embarked on a history of various interesting and prominent Americans whom she had met recently. The weather being so unusually hot for the time of year, an early start was arranged for the morrow.

The four assembled for breakfast at six o'clock. There were no signs of any of the Boynton family. After Lady Westholme had commented unfavorably on the absence of fruit, they consumed tea, tinned milk and fried eggs in a generous allowance of fat, flanked by extremely salty bacon.

Then they started forth. Lady Westholme and Dr. Gerard discussing with animation on the part of the former the exact value of vitamins in diet and the proper nutrition of the working classes.

Then there was a sudden hail from the camp and they halted to allow another person to join the party. It was Mr. Jefferson Cope who hurried after them, his pleasant face flushed with the exertion of running.

"Why, if you don't mind, I'd like to join your party this morning. Good morning, Miss King. Quite a surprise meeting you and Dr. Gerard here. What do you think of it?" He made a gesture indicating the fantastic red rocks that stretched in every direction.

"I think it's rather wonderful and just a little horrible," said Sarah. "I always thought of it as romantic and dreamlike-the 'rose red city.' But it's much more real than that – it's as real as – as raw beef."

"And very much the color of it," agreed Mr. Cope.

"But it's marvelous, too," admitted Sarah.

The party began to climb. Two Bedouin guides accompanied them. Tall men, with an easy carriage, they swung upward unconcernedly in their hobnailed boots, completely foot-sure on the slippery slope. Difficulties soon began. Sarah had a good head for heights and so had Dr. Gerard. But both Mr. Cope and Lady Westholme were far from happy, and the unfortunate Miss Pierce had to be almost carried over the precipitous places, her eyes shut, her face green, while her voice rose ceaselessly in a perpetual wail: "I never could look down places. Never – from a child!"

Once she declared her intention of going back, but on turning to face the descent, her skin assumed an even greener tinge, and she reluctantly decided that to go on was the only thing to be done.

Dr. Gerard was kind and reassuring. He went up behind her, holding his stick between her and the sheer drop like a balustrade, and she confessed that the illusion of a rail did much to conquer the feeling of vertigo.

Sarah, panting a little, asked the dragoman, Mahmoud, who in spite of his ample proportions showed no signs of distress: "Don't you ever have trouble getting people up here? Elderly ones, I mean."

"Always – always we have trouble," agreed Mahmoud serenely.

"Do you always try and take them?"

Mahmoud shrugged his thick shoulders. "They like to come. They have paid money to see these things. They wish to see them. The Bedouin guides are very clever – very surefooted – always they manage."

They arrived at last at the summit. Sarah drew a deep breath. All around and below stretched the blood-red rocks – a strange and unbelievable country unparalleled anywhere. Here in the exquisite pure morning air, they stood like gods, surveying a baser world – a world of flaring violence.

Here was, as the guide told them, the "Place of Sacrifice" – the "High Place."

He showed them the trough cut in the flat rock at their feet. Sarah strayed away from the rest, from the glib phrases that flowed so readily from the dragoman's tongue. She sat on a rock, pushed her hands through her thick black hair, and gazed down on the world at her feet. Presently she was aware of someone standing by her side.

Dr. Gerard's voice said: "You appreciate the appositeness of the devil's temptation in the New Testament. Satan took Our Lord up to the summit of a mountain and showed him the world. 'All these things will I give thee, if thou wilt fall down and worship me.' How much greater the temptation up on high to be a God of Material Power."

Sarah assented, but her thoughts were so clearly elsewhere that Gerard observed her in some surprise. "You are pondering something very deeply," he said.

"Yes, I am." She turned a perplexed face to him. "It's a wonderful idea – to have a place of sacrifice up here. I think, sometimes, don't you, that a sacrifice is necessary ... I mean, one can have too much regard for life. Death isn't really so important as we make out."

"If you feel that, Miss King, you should not have adopted our profession. To us, death is – and must always be – the Enemy."

Sarah shivered. "Yes, I suppose you're right. And yet, so often, death might solve a problem. It might even mean fuller life ..."

"'It is expedient for us that one man should die for the people!'" quoted Gerard gravely.

Sarah turned a startled face on him. "I didn't mean –"

She broke off. Jefferson Cope was approaching them. "Now this is really a most remarkable spot," he declared. "Most remarkable, and I'm only too pleased not to have missed it. I don't mind confessing that though Mrs. Boynton is certainly a most remarkable woman. I greatly admire her pluck in being determined to come here. It does certainly complicate matters traveling with her. Her health is poor, and I suppose it naturally makes |her a little inconsiderate of other people's feelings, but it does not seem to occur to her that her family might like occasionally to go on excursions without her. She's just so used to them clustering round her that I suppose she doesn't think –" Mr. Cope broke off. His nice kindly face looked a little disturbed and uncomfortable, "You know," he said, "I heard a piece of information about Mrs. Boynton that disturbed me greatly."

Sarah was lost in her own thoughts again. Mr. Cope's voice just flowed pleasantly in her ears like the agreeable murmur of a remote stream, but Dr. Gerard said: "Indeed? What was it?"

"My informant was a lady I came across in the hotel at Tiberias. It concerned a servant girl who had been in Mrs. Boynton's employ. This girl, I gather, was – had –" Mr. Cope paused, glanced delicately at Sarah and lowered his voice. "She was going to have a child. The old lady, it seemed, discovered this but was apparently quite kind to the girl. Then a few weeks before the child was born she turned her out of the house."

Dr. Gerard's eyebrows went up. "Ah," he said reflectively.

"My informant seemed very positive of her facts. I don't know whether you agree with me, but that seems to me a very cruel and heartless thing to do. I cannot understand –"

Dr. Gerard interrupted him. "You should try to. That incident, I have no doubt, gave Mrs. Boynton a good deal of quiet enjoyment."

Mr. Cope turned a shocked face on him. "No, sir," he said with emphasis. "That I cannot believe. Such an idea is quite inconceivable."

Softly Dr. Gerard quoted: "'So I returned and did consider all the oppressions done beneath the sun. And there was weeping and whining from those that were oppressed and had no comfort; for with their oppressors there was power, so that no one came to comfort them. Then I did praise the dead which are already dead, yea, more than the living which linger still in life; yea, he that is not is better than dead or living; for he doth not know of the evil that is wrought forever on earth ...'" He broke off and said: "My dear sir, I have made a life's study of the strange things that go on in the human mind. It is no good turning one's face only to the fairer side of life.

Below the decencies and conventions of everyday life, there lies a vast reservoir of strange things. There is such a thing, for instance, as delight in cruelty for its own sake. But when you have found that, there is something deeper still. The desire, profound and pitiful, to be appreciated. If that is thwarted, if through an unpleasing personality a human being is unable to get the response it needs, it turns to other methods – it must be felt – it must count – and so to innumerable strange perversions. The habit of cruelty, like any other habit, can be cultivated, can take hold of one –"

Mr. Cope coughed. "I think, Dr. Gerard, that you are slightly exaggerating. Really, the air up here is too wonderful ..." He edged away. Gerard smiled a little. He looked again at Sarah. She was frowning – her face was set in a youthful sternness. She looked, he thought, like a young judge delivering sentence ...

He turned as Miss Pierce tripped unsteadily towards him.

"We are going down now," she fluttered. "Oh, dear! I am sure I shall never manage it, but the guide says the way down is quite a different route and much easier. I do hope so, because from a child I never have been able to look down from heights ..."

The descent was down the course of a waterfall. Although there were loose stones which were a possible source of danger to ankles, it presented no dizzy vistas.

The party arrived back at the camp weary but in good spirits and with an excellent appetite for a late lunch. It was past two o'clock. The Boynton family was sitting around the big table in the marquee. They were just finishing their meal.

Lady Westholme addressed a gracious sentence to them in her most condescending manner. "Really a most interesting morning," she said. "Petra is a wonderful spot."

Carol, to whom the words seemed addressed, shot a quick look at her mother, and murmured: "Oh, yes – yes, it is," and relapsed into silence.

Lady Westholme, feeling she had done her duty, addressed herself to her food. As they ate, the four discussed plans for the afternoon.

"I think I shall rest most of the afternoon," said Miss Pierce. "It is important, I think, not to do too much."

"I shall go for a walk and explore," said Sarah. "What about you Dr. Gerard?"

"I will go with you."

Mrs. Boynton dropped a spoon with a ringing clatter and everyone jumped.

"I think," said Lady Westholme, "that I shall follow your example Miss Pierce. Perhaps half an hour with a book, then I shall lie down and take an hour's rest at least. After that, perhaps, a short stroll."

Slowly, with the help of Lennox, old Mrs. Boynton struggled to her feet. She stood for a moment and then spoke. "You'd better all go for a walk this afternoon," she said with unexpected amiability.

It was, perhaps, slightly ludicrous to see the startled faces of her family.

"But, Mother, what about you?"

"I don't need any of you. I like sitting alone with my book. Jinny had better not go. She'll lie down and have a sleep."

"Mother, I'm not tired. I want to go with the others."

"You are tired. You've got a headache! You must be careful of yourself. Go and lie down and sleep. I know what's best for you."

Her head thrown back, the girl stared rebelliously. Then her eyes dropped – faltered ...

"Silly child," said Mrs. Boynton. "Go to your tent."

She stumped out of the marquee – the others followed.

"Dear me," said Miss Pierce. "What very peculiar people. Such a very odd color, the mother. Quite purple. Heart, I should imagine. This heat must be very trying for her."

Sarah thought: "She's letting them go free this afternoon. She knows Raymond wants to be with me. Why? Is it a trap?"

After lunch, when she had gone to her tent and had changed into a fresh linen dress, the thought still worried her. Since last night, her feeling towards Raymond had swelled into a passion of protective tenderness. This, then, was love, this agony on another's behalf, this desire to avert, at all costs, pain from the beloved ... yes, she loved Raymond Boynton. It was St. George and the Dragon reversed. It was she who was the rescuer and Raymond who was the chained victim.

And Mrs. Boynton was the Dragon. A dragon whose sudden amiability was, to Sarah's suspicious mind, definitely sinister.

It was about a quarter past three when Sarah strolled down to the marquee.

Lady Westholrne was sitting on a chair. Despite the heat of the day she was still wearing her serviceable Harris tweed skirt. On her lap was the report of a Royal Commission. Dr. Gerard was talking to Miss Pierce who was standing by her tent holding a book entitled The Love Quest and described on its wrapper as a thrilling tale of passion and misunderstanding.

"I don't think it's wise to lie down too soon after lunch," explained Miss Pierce. "One's digestion, you know. Quite cool and pleasant in the shadow of the marquee. Oh, dear, do you think that old lady is wise to sit in the sun up there?"

They all looked at the ridge in front of them. Mrs. Boynton was sitting as she had sat last night, a motionless Buddha in the door of her cave. There was no other human creature in sight. All the camp personnel were asleep. A short distance away, following the line of the valley, a little group of people walked together.

"For once," said Dr. Gerard, "the good Mamma permits them to enjoy themselves without her. A new devilment on her part, perhaps?"

"Do you know," said Sarah, "that's just what I thought."

"What suspicious minds we have. Come, let us join the truants."

Leaving Miss Pierce to her exciting reading, they set off. Once around the bend of the valley, they caught up the other party who were walking slowly. For once, the Boyntons looked happy and carefree.

Lennox and Nadine, Carol and Raymond, Mr. Cope with a broad smile on his face and the last arrivals, Gerard and Sarah, were soon all laughing and talking together.

A sudden wild hilarity was born. In everyone's mind was the feeling that this was a snatched pleasure – a stolen treat to enjoy to the full. Sarah and Raymond did not draw apart. Instead, Sarah walked with Carol and Lennox. Dr. Gerard chatted to Raymond close behind them. Nadine and Jefferson Cope walked a little apart.

It was the Frenchman who broke up the party. His words had been coming spasmodically for some time. Suddenly he stopped.

"A thousand excuses. I fear I must go back."

Sarah looked at him. "Anything the matter?"

He nodded. "Yes, fever. It's been coming on ever since lunch."

Sarah scrutinized him. "Malaria?"

"Yes. I'll go back and take quinine. Hope this won't be a bad attack. It is a legacy from a visit to the Congo."

"Shall I come with you?" asked Sarah.

"No, no. I have my case of drugs with me. A confounded nuisance. Go on, all of you."

He walked quickly back in the direction of the camp. Sarah looked undecidedly after him for a minute, then she met Raymond's eyes, smiled at him, and the Frenchman was forgotten.

For a time the six of them, Carol, herself, Lennox, Cope, Nadine and Raymond, kept together. Then, somehow or other, she and Raymond had drifted apart. They walked on, climbing up rocks, turning ledges and rested at last in a shady spot. There was a silence. Then Raymond said: "What's your name? It's King, I know. But your other name."

"Sarah."

"Sarah. May I call you that?"

"Of course."

"Sarah, will you tell me something about yourself?"

Leaning back against the rocks she talked, telling him of her life at home in Yorkshire, of her dogs and the aunt who had brought her up.

Then, in his turn, Raymond told her a little, disjointedly, of his own life. After that, there was a long silence. Their hands strayed together. They sat, like children, hand in hand, strangely content.

Then, as the sun grew lower, Raymond stirred. "I'm going back now," he said. "No, not with you. I want to go back by myself. There's something I have to say and do. Once that's done, once I've proved to myself that I'm not a coward – then – then – I shan't be ashamed to come to you and ask you to help me. I shall need help, you know. I shall probably have to borrow money from you."

Sarah smiled. "I'm glad you're a realist. You can count on me."

"But first I've got to do this alone."

"Do what?"

The young boyish face grew suddenly stern. Raymond Boynton said: "I've got to prove my courage. It's now or never." Then, abruptly, he turned and strode away.

Sarah leaned back against the rock and watched his receding figure. Something in his words had vaguely alarmed her. He had seemed so intense – so terribly in earnest and strung up. For a moment she wished she had gone with him ... but she rebuked herself sternly for that wish. Raymond had desired to stand alone, to test his newfound courage. That was his right.

But she prayed with all her heart that that courage would not fail ...

The sun was setting when Sarah came once more in sight of the camp. As she came nearer in the dim light, she could make out the grim figure of Mrs. Boynton still sitting in the mouth of the cave. Sarah shivered a little at the sight of that grim motionless figure ...

She hurried past on the path below and came into the lighted marquee.

Lady Westholme was sitting knitting a navy blue jumper, a skein of wool hung around her neck. Miss Pierce was embroidering a table mat with anemic blue forget-me-nots, and being instructed on the proper reform of the Divorce Laws.

The servants came in and out preparing for the evening meal. The Boyntons were at the far end of the marquee in deck chairs reading. Mahmoud appeared, fat and dignified, and was plaintively reproachful. Very nice after tea ramble had been arranged to take place but everyone absent from camp ... the programme was now entirely thrown out. Very instructive visit to Nabatean architecture.

Sarah said hastily that they had all enjoyed themselves very much. She went off to her tent to wash for supper. On the way back she paused by Dr. Gerard's tent, calling in a low voice: "Dr. Gerard!"

There was no answer. She lifted the flap and looked in. The doctor was lying motionless on his bed. Sarah withdrew noiselessly, hoping he was asleep. A servant came to her and pointed to the marquee. Evidently supper was ready. She strolled down again.

Everyone was assembled there around the table with the exception of Dr. Gerard and Mrs. Boynton. A servant was dispatched to tell the old lady dinner was ready. Then there was a sudden commotion outside. Two frightened servants came in and spoke excitedly to the dragoman in Arabic.

Mahmoud looked around him in a flustered manner and went outside. On an impulse Sarah joined him.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

Mahmoud replied: "The old lady. Abdul says she is ill – cannot move."

"I'll come and see."

Sarah quickened her step. Following Mahmoud, she climbed the rocks and walked along until she came to the squat lounging chair, touched the puffy hand, felt for the pulse, bent over her. . . .

When she straightened herself she was paler. She re-trod her steps back to the marquee. In the doorway she paused a minute, looking at the group at the far end of the table.

Her voice when she spoke sounded to herself brusque and unnatural. "I'm so sorry," she said. She forced herself to address the head of the family, Lennox. "Your mother is dead, Mr. Boynton."

And curiously, as though from a great distance, she watched the faces of five people to whom that announcement meant freedom ...

BOOK TWO

ONE

Colonel Carbury smiled across the table at his guest and lifted his glass. "Well, to crime!"

Hercule Poirot's eyes twinkled in acknowledgment of the toast.

He had come to Amman with a letter of introduction to Colonel Carbury from Colonel Race.

Carbury seemed interested to see this world-famous investigator person.

"There s Jerash," he said. "Care about that sort of thing?"

"I am interested in everything!"

"Yes" said Carbury. "That's the only way to react to life."

"Tell me, d'you ever find your own special job has a way of following you around?"

"Pardon?"

"Well – to put it plainly – do you come to places expecting a holiday from crime – and find instead bodies cropping up?"

"It has happened, yes – more than once."

"Hm," said Colonel Carbury, and looked particularly abstracted. Then he roused himself with a jerk. "Got a body now I'm not very happy about," he said.

"Indeed?"

"Yes. Here in Amman. Old American woman. Went to Petra with her family. Trying journey, unusual heat for time of year, old woman suffered from heart trouble, difficulties of the journey a bit harder for her than she imagined, extra strain on heart – she popped off!"

"Here – in Amman?"

"No, down at Petra. They brought the body here today."

"Ah!"

"All quite natural. Perfectly possible. Likeliest thing in the world to happen. Only –"

"Yes? Only –?"

Colonel Carbury scratched his bald head. "I've got the idea," he said, "that her family did her in!"

"Aha! And what makes you think that?"

Colonel Carbury did not reply to that question directly. "Unpleasant old woman, it seems. No loss. General feeling all around that her popping off was a good thing. Anyway, very difficult to prove anything so long as the family stick together and if necessary lie like hell. One doesn't want complications – or international unpleasantness. Easiest thing to do-let it go! Nothing really to look upon. Knew a doctor chap once. He told me – often had suspicions in cases of his patients - -hurried into the next world a little ahead of time! He said – best thing to do keep quiet unless you really had something damned good to go upon! Otherwise beastly stink, case not proved, black mark against an earnest hard-working G.P. Something in that. All the same –" He scratched his head again. "I'm a tidy man," he said unexpectedly.

Colonel Carbury's tie was under his left ear, his socks were wrinkled, his coat was stained and torn. Yet Hercule Poirot did not smile. He saw, clearly enough, the inner neatness of Colonel Carbury's mind, his neatly docketed facts, his carefully sorted impressions.

"Yes. I'm a tidy man," said Carbury. He waved a vague hand. "Don't like a mess. When I come across a mess I want to clear it up. See?"

Hercule Poirot nodded gravely. He saw. "There was no doctor down there?" he asked.

"Yes, two. One of 'em was down with malaria, though. The other's a girl – just out of the medical student stage. Still, she knows her job, I suppose. There wasn't anything odd about the death. Old woman had got a dicky heart. She'd been taking heart medicine for some time. Nothing really surprising about her conking out suddenly like she did."

"Then what, my friend, is worrying you?" asked Poirot gently.

Colonel Carbury turned a harassed blue eye on him. "Heard of a Frenchman called Gerard? Theodore Gerard?"

"Certainly. A very distinguished man in his own line."

"Loony bins," confirmed Colonel Carbury. "Passion for a charwoman at the age of four makes you insist you're the Archbishop of Canterbury when you're thirty-eight. Can't see why and never have, but these chaps explain it very convincingly."

"Dr. Gerard is certainly an authority on certain forms of deep-seated neurosis," agreed Poirot with a smile. "Are his views on the happening at Petra based on that line of argument?"

Colonel Carbury shook his head vigorously. "No, no. Shouldn't have worried about them if they had been! Not, mind you, that I don't believe it's all true. It's just one of those things I don't understand – like one of my Bedouin fellows who can get out of a car in the middle of a flat desert, feel the ground with his hand and tell you to within a mile or two where you are. It isn't magic, but it looks like it. No, Dr. Gerard's story is quite straightforward. Just plain facts. I think, if you're interested – you are interested?"

"Yes, yes."

"Good man. Then I think I'll just phone over and get Gerard along here and you can hear his story for yourself."

When the Colonel had dispatched an orderly on this quest, Poirot said: "Of what does this family consist?"

"Name's Boynton. There are two sons, one of 'em married. His wife's a nice-looking girl – the quiet sensible kind. And there are two daughters. Both of 'em quite good-looking in totally different styles. Younger one a bit nervy – but that may be just shock."

"Boynton," said Poirot. His eyebrows rose. "That is curious – very curious."

Carbury cocked an inquiring eye at him. But as Poirot said nothing more, he himself went on: "Seems pretty obvious mother was a pest! Had to be waited on hand and foot and kept the whole lot of them dancing attendance. And she held the purse strings. None of them had a penny of their own."

"Aha! All very interesting. Is it known how she left her money?"

"I did just slip that question in – casual like, you know. It gets divided equally among the lot of them."

Poirot nodded his head. Then he asked: "You are of opinion that they are all in it?"

"Don't know. That's where the difficulty's going to lie. Whether it was a concerted effort, or whether it was one bright member's idea. I don't know. Maybe the whole thing's a mare's nest! What it comes to is this: I'd like to have your professional opinion. Ah, here comes Gerard."

TWO

The Frenchman came in with a quick yet unhurried tread. As he shook hands with Colonel Carbury, he shot a keen interested glance at Poirot.

Carbury said: "This is M. Hercule Poirot. Staying with me. Been talking to him about this business down at Petra."

"Ah, yes?" Gerard's quick eyes looked Poirot up and down. "You are interested?"

Hercule Poirot threw up his hands. "Alas! One is always incurably interested in one's own subject."

"True," said Gerard.

"Have a drink?" said Carbury.

He poured out a whisky and soda and placed it by Gerard's elbow. He held up the decanter inquiringly but Poirot shook his head. Colonel Carbury set it down again and drew his chair a little nearer. "Well," he said. "Where are we?"

"I gather," said Poirot to Gerard, "that Colonel Carbury is not satisfied."

Gerard made an expressive gesture. "And that," he said, "is my fault! And I may be wrong. Remember that, Colonel Carbury; I may be entirely wrong."

Carbury gave a grunt. "Give Poirot the facts," he said.

Dr. Gerard began with a brief recapitulation of the events preceding the journey to Petra. He gave a short sketch of the various members of the Boynton family and described the condition of emotional strain under which they were laboring.

Poirot listened with interest.

Then Gerard proceeded to the actual events of their first day at Petra, describing how he had returned to the camp. "I was in for a bad bout of malaria – cerebral type," he explained. "For that I proposed to treat myself by an intravenous injection of quinine. That is the usual method."

Poirot nodded his comprehension.

"The fever was on me badly. I fairly staggered into my tent. I could not at first find my case of drugs, someone had moved it from where I had originally placed it. Then, when I had found that I could not find my hypodermic syringe, I hunted for it for some time, then gave it up and took a large dose of quinine by the mouth and flung myself on my bed."

Gerard paused, then went on: "Mrs. Boynton's death was not discovered until after sunset. Owing to the way in which she was sitting and the support the chair gave to her body no change occurred in her position and it was not until one of the boys went to summon her to dinner at six-thirty that it was noticed that anything was wrong."

He explained in full detail the position of the cave and its distance away from the big marquee. "Miss King, who is a qualified doctor, examined the body. She did not disturb me, knowing that I had fever. There was, indeed, nothing that could be done. Mrs. Boynton was dead-and had been dead for some little time."

Poirot murmured: "How long exactly?"

Gerard said slowly: "I do not think that Miss King paid much attention to that point. She did not, I presume, think it of any importance."

"One can say, at least, when she was last definitely known to be alive?" said Poirot.

Colonel Carbury cleared his throat and referred to an official-looking document. "Mrs. Boynton was spoken to by Lady Westholme and Miss Pierce shortly after four P.M.. Lennox Boynton spoke to his mother about four-thirty. Mrs. Lennox Boynton had a long conversation with her about five minutes later. Carol Boynton had a word with her mother at a time she is unable to state precisely – but which, from the evidence of others, would seem to have been about ten minutes past five."

"Jefferson Cope, an American friend of the family, returning to the camp with Lady Westholme and Miss Pierce, saw her asleep. He did not speak to her. That was about twenty to six. Raymond Boynton, the younger son, seems to have been the last person to see her alive. On his return from a walk he went and spoke to her at about ten minutes to six. The discovery of the body was made at six-thirty when a servant went to tell her dinner was ready."

"Between the time that Mr. Raymond Boynton spoke to her and half-past six did no one go near her?" asked Poirot.

"I understand not."

"But someone might have done so?" Poirot persisted.

"Don't think so. From close on six and up to six-thirty servants were moving about the camp, people were going to and from their tents. No one can be found who saw anyone approaching the old lady."

"Then Raymond Boynton was definitely the last person to see his mother alive?" said Poirot.

Dr. Gerard and Colonel Carbury interchanged a quick glance. Colonel Carbury drummed on the table with his fingers.

"This is where we begin to get into deep waters," he said. "Go on, Gerard. This is your pigeon."

Dr. Gerard said: "As I mentioned just now, Sarah King, when she examined Mrs. Boynton, saw no reason for determining the exact time of death. She merely said that Mrs. Boynton had been dead 'some little time'; but when, on the following day for reasons of my own, I endeavored to narrow things down and happened to mention that Mrs. Boynton was last seen alive by her son, Raymond, at a little before six, Miss King, to my great surprise, said point blank that that was impossible, that at that time Mrs. Boynton must already have been dead."

Poirot's eyebrows rose. "Odd. Extremely odd. And what does M. Raymond Boynton say to that?"

Colonel Carbury said abruptly: "He swears that his mother was alive. He went up to her and said: 'I'm back. Hope you have had a nice afternoon?' Something of that kind. He says she just grunted 'Quite all right,' and he went on to his tent."

Poirot frowned perplexedly. "Curious," he said. "Extremely curious. Tell me – it was growing dusk by then?"

"The sun was just setting."

"Curious," said Poirot again. "And you, Dr. Gerard, when did you see the body?"

"Not until the following day. At nine A.M., to be precise."

"And your estimate of the time death had occurred?"

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders. "It is difficult to be exact after that length of time. There must necessarily be a margin of several hours. Were I giving evidence on oath I could only say that she had been dead certainly twelve hours and not longer than eighteen. You see, that does not help at all!"

"Go on, Gerard," said Colonel Carbury. "Give him the rest of it."

"On getting up in the morning," said Dr. Gerard, "I found my hypodermic syringe – it was behind a case of bottles on my dressing table." He leaned forward. "You may say, if you like, that I had overlooked it the day before. I was in a miserable state of fever and wretchedness, shaking from head to foot, and how often does one look for a thing that is there all the time and yet be unable to find it! I can only say that I am quite positive the syringe was not there then."

"There's something more still," said Carburv. "Yes, two facts for what they are worth and they mean a great deal. There was a mark on the dead woman's wrist – a mark such as would be caused by the insertion of a hypodermic syringe. Her daughter explains it as having been caused by the prick of a pin –"

Poirot stirred. "Which daughter?"

"Her daughter, Carol."

"Yes, continue, I pray you."

"And there is the last fact. Happening to examine my little case of drugs I noticed that my stock of digitoxin was very much diminished."

"Digitoxin," said Poirot, "is a heart poison, is it not?"

"Yes. It is obtained from digitalis purpurea – the common foxglove. There are four active principles – digitalin – digitonin – digitalein – and digitoxin. Of these, digitoxin is considered the most active poisonous constituent of digitalis leaves. According to Kopp's experiments, it is from six to ten times stronger than digitalin or digitalein. It is official in France – but not in the British Pharmacopoeia."

"And a large dose of digitoxin?"

Dr. Gerard said gravely: "A large dose of digitoxin thrown suddenly on the circulation by intravenous injection would cause sudden death by quick palsy of the heart. It has been estimated that four milligrams might prove fatal to an adult man."

"And Mrs. Boynton already suffered with heart trouble?"

"Yes; as a matter of fact, she was actually taking a medicine containing digitalis."

"That," said Poirot, "is extremely interesting."

"D'you mean," asked Colonel Carbury, "that her death might have been attributed to an overdose of her own medicine?"

"That – yes. But I meant more than that. In some senses," said Dr. Gerard, "digitalis may be considered a cumulative drug. Moreover, as regards postmortem appearance, the active principles of the digitalis may destroy life and leave no appreciative sign."

Poirot nodded slow appreciation. "Yes, that is clever – very clever. Almost impossible to prove satisfactorily to a jury. Ah, but let me tell you, gentlemen, if this is a murder, it is a very clever murder! The hypodermic replaced, the poison employed being one which the victim was already taking-the possibilities of a mistake – or accident-are overwhelming. Oh, yes, there are brains here. There is thought-care-genius."

For a moment he sat in silence, then he raised his head. "And yet, one thing puzzles me."

"What is that?"

"The theft of the hypodermic syringe."

"It was taken," said Dr. Gerard quickly.

"Taken – and returned?"

"Yes."

"Odd," said Poirot. "Very odd. Otherwise everything fits so well ..."

Colonel Carbury looked at him curiously. "Well?" he said. "What's your expert opinion? Was it murder – or wasn't it?"

Poirot held up a hand. "One moment. We have not yet arrived at that point. There is still some evidence to consider."

"What evidence? You've had it all."

"Ah! But this is evidence that I, Hercule Poirot, bring to you." He nodded his head and smiled a little at their two astonished faces. ''Yes it is droll, that! That I, to whom you tell the story, should in return present you with a piece of evidence about which you do not know. It was like this. In the Solomon Hotel, one night, I go to the window to make sure it is closed –"

"Closed – or open?" asked Carbury.

"Closed," said Poirot firmly. "It was open, so naturally, I go to close it. But before I do so, as my hand is on the latch, I hear a voice speaking-an agreeable voice, low and clear with a tremor in it of nervous excitement. I say to myself it is a voice I will know again. And what does it say, this voice? It says these words: 'You do see, don't you, that she's got to be killed?' "

He paused.

"At the moment, naturellement, I do not take those words as referring to a killing of flesh and blood. I think it is an author or perhaps a playwright who speaks. But now I am not so sure. That is to say, I am sure it was nothing of the kind."

Again he paused before saying: "Messieurs, I will tell you this-to the best of my knowledge and belief those words were spoken by a young man whom I saw later in the lounge of the hotel and who was, so they told me on inquiring, a young man of the name of Raymond Boynton."

THREE

"RAYMOND BOYNTON SAID THAT?" The exclamation broke from the Frenchman.

"You think it unlikely – psychologically speaking?" Poirot inquired placidly.

Gerard shook his head. "No, I should not say that. I was surprised, yes. If you follow me, I was surprised just because Raymond Boynton was so eminently fitted to be a suspect."

Colonel Carbury sighed. "These psychological fellers!" the sigh seemed to say. "Question is," he murmured, "what are we going to do about it?"

Gerard shrugged his shoulders. "I do not see what you can do," he confessed. "The evidence is bound to be inconclusive. You may know that murder has been done but it will be difficult to prove it."

"I see," said Colonel Carbury. "We suspect that murder's been done and we just sit back and twiddle our fingers! Don't like it!" He added, as if in extenuation, his former odd plea: "I'm a tidy man."

"I know. I know," Poirot nodded his head sympathetically. "You would like to clear this up. You would like to know definitely exactly what occurred and how it occurred. And you. Dr. Gerard? You have said that there is nothing to be done – that the evidence is bound to be inconclusive? That is probably true. But are you satisfied that the matter should rest so?"

"She was a bad life," said Gerard slowly. "In any case she might have died very shortly – a week – a month – a year."

"So you are satisfied?" persisted Poirot.

Gerard went on: "There is no doubt that her death was – how shall we put it – beneficial to the community. It has brought freedom to her family. They will have scope to develop – they are all, I think, people of good character and intelligence. They will be, now, useful members of society! The death of Mrs. Boynton, as I see it, has resulted in nothing but good."

Poirot repeated for the third time: "So you are satisfied?"

"No." Dr. Gerard pounded a fist suddenly on the table. "I am not 'satisfied,' as you put it! It is my instinct to preserve life – not to hasten death. Therefore, though my conscious mind may repeat that this woman's death was a good thing, my unconscious mind rebels against it! It is not well, gentlemen, that a human being should die before his or her time has come."

Poirot smiled. He leaned back, contented with the answer he had probed for so patiently.

Colonel Carbury said unemotionally: "He don't like murder! Quite right! No more do I." He rose and poured himself out a stiff whisky and soda. His guests' glasses were still full. "And now," he said, returning to the subject, "let's get down to brass tacks. Is there anything to be done about it? We don't like it – no! But we may have to lump it! No good making a fuss if you can't deliver the goods."

Gerard leaned forward. "What is your professional opinion, M. Poirot? You are the expert."

Poirot took a little time to speak. Methodically he arranged an ashtray or two and made a little heap of used matches. Then he said: "You desire to know, do you not, Colonel Carbury, who killed Mrs. Boynton? (That is, if she was killed and did not die a natural death.) Exactly how and when she was killed – and, in fact, the whole truth of the matter?"

"I should like to know that, yes." Carbury spoke unemotionally.

Hercule Poirot said slowly: "I see no reason why you should not know it!"

Dr. Gerard looked incredulous. Colonel Carbury looked mildly interested. "Oh," he said. "So you don't, don't you? That's interestin'. How d'you propose to set about it?"

"By methodical sifting of the evidence, by a process of reasoning."

"Suits me," said Colonel Carbury.

"And by a study of the psychological possibilities."

"Suits Dr. Gerard, I expect," said Carbury. "And after that, after you've sifted the evidence and done some reasoning and paddled in psychology – hey, presto! – you think you can produce the rabbit out of the hat?"

"I should be extremely surprised if I could not do so," said Poirot calmly.

Colonel Carbury stared at him over the rim of his glass. Just for a moment the vague eyes were no longer vague – they measured – and appraised. He put down his glass with a grunt. "What do you say to that, Dr. Gerard?"

"I admit that I am skeptical of success ... yet I know that M. Poirot has great powers."

"I am gifted – yes," said the little man. He smiled modestly.

Colonel Carbury turned away his head and coughed.

Poirot said: "The first thing to decide is whether this is a composite murder – planned and carried out by the Boynton family as a whole, or whether it is the work of one of them only. If the latter, which is the most likely member of the family to have attempted it?"

Dr. Gerard said: "There is your own evidence. One must, I think, consider first Raymond Boynton."

"I agree," said Poirot. "The words I overheard and the discrepancy between his evidence and that of the young woman doctor puts him definitely in the forefront of the suspects. He was the last person to see Mrs. Boynton alive. That is his own story, Sarah King contradicts that. Tell me, Dr. Gerard, is there – eh? – you know what I mean – a little tendresse, shall we say – there?"

The Frenchman nodded. "Emphatically so."

"Alas! Is she, this young lady, a brunette with hair that goes back from her forehead – so – and big hazel eyes and a manner very decided?"

Dr. Gerard looked rather surprised. "Yes, that describes her very well."

"I think I have seen her – in the Solomon Hotel. She spoke to this Raymond Boynton and afterwards he remained planté la – in a dream – blocking the exit from the lift. Three times I had to say 'Pardon' before he heard me and moved."

Poirot remained in thought for some moments. Then he said: "So, to begin with, we will accept the medical evidence of Miss Sarah King with certain mental reservations. She is an interested party." He paused-then went on: "Tell me, Dr. Gerard, do you think Raymond Boynton is of the temperament that could commit murder easily?"

Gerard said slowly: "You mean deliberate, planned murder? Yes, I think it is possible – but only under conditions of intense emotional strain."

"Those conditions were present?"

"Definitely. This journey abroad undoubtedly heightened the nervous and mental strain under which all these people were living. The contrast between their own lives and those of other people was more apparent to them. And in Raymond Boynton's case –"

"Yes?"

"There was the additional complication of being strongly attracted to Sarah King."

"That would give him an additional motive? And an additional stimulus?"

"That is so."

Colonel Carbury coughed. "Like to butt in a moment. That sentence of his you overheard-'You do see, don't you, that she's got to be killed?' – must have been spoken to someone."

"A good point," said Poirot. "I had not forgotten it. Yes, to whom was Raymond Boynton speaking? Undoubtedly to a member of his family. But which member? Can you tell us something, Doctor, of the mental conditions of the other members of the family?"

Gerard replied promptly. "Carol Boynton was, I should say, in very much the same state as Raymond – a state of rebellion accompanied by severe nervous excitement, but uncomplicated in her case by the introduction of a sex factor. Lennox Boynton had passed the stage of revolt. He was sunk in apathy. He was finding it, I think, difficult to concentrate. His method of reaction to his surroundings was to retire further and further within himself. He was definitely an introvert."

"And his wife?"

"His wife, though tired and unhappy, showed no signs of mental conflict. She was, I believe, hesitating on the brink of a decision."

"Such a decision being?"

"Whether or not to leave her husband."

He repeated the conversation he had held with Jefferson Cope.

Poirot nodded in comprehension. "And what of the younger girl, Ginevra her name is, is it not?"

The Frenchman's face was grave. He said: "I should say that mentally she is in an extremely dangerous condition. She has already begun to display symptoms of schizophrenia. Unable to bear the suppression of her life, she is escaping into a realm of fantasy. She has advanced delusions of persecution – that is to saw, she claims to be a Royal Personage in danger, enemies surrounding her, all the usual things!"

"And that is dangerous?"

"Very dangerous. It is the beginning of what is often homicidal mania. The sufferer kills – not for the lust of killing – but in self-defense. He or she kills in order not to be killed themselves. From their point of view it is eminently rational."

"So you think that Ginevra Boynton might have killed her mother?"

"Yes. But I doubt if she would have had the knowledge or the constructiveness to do it the way it was done. The cunning of that class of mania is usually very simple and obvious. And I am almost certain she would have chosen a more spectacular method."

"But she is a possibility?" Poirot insisted.

"Yes," admitted Gerard.

"And afterwards-when the deed was done? Do you think the rest of the family knew who had done it?"

"They know!" said Colonel Carbury unexpectedly. "If ever I came across a bunch of people who had something to hide these are they! They're putting something over, all right."

"We will make them tell us what it is," said Poirot.

"Third degree?" said Colonel Carbury, raising his eyebrows.

"No." Poirot shook his head. "Just ordinary conversation. On the whole, you know, people tell you the truth. Because it is easier! Because it is less strain on the inventive faculties! You can tell one lie-or two lies, or three or even four lies – but you cannot lie all the time. The truth becomes plain."

"Something in that," agreed Carbury. Then he said bluntly: "You'll talk to them, you say? That means you're willing to take this on?"

Poirot bowed his head. "Let us be very clear about this," he said. "What you demand, and what I undertake to supply, is the truth. But mark this, even when we have got the truth, there may be no proof. That is to say, no proof that would be accepted in a court of law. You comprehend?"

"Quite," said Carbury. "You satisfy me of what really happened, then it's up to me to decide whether action is possible or not-having regard to the International aspects. Anyway it will be cleared up-no mess. Don't like a mess."

Poirot smiled.

"One more thing," said Carbury. "I can't give you much time. Can't detain these people here indefinitely."

Poirot said quietly: "You can detain them twenty-four hours. You shall have the truth by tomorrow night."

Colonel Carbury stared hard at him. "Pretty confident, aren't you?" he asked.

"I know my own ability," murmured Poirot.

Rendered uncomfortable by this un-British attitude, Colonel Carbury looked away and fingered his untidy moustache. "Well," he mumbled. "It's up to you."

"And if you succeed, my friend," said Dr. Gerard, "you are indeed a marvel!"

FOUR

Sarah King looked long and searchingly at Hercule Poirot. She saw the egg-shaped head, the gigantic moustaches, the dandified appearance and the suspicious blackness of his hair. A look of doubt crept into her eyes.

"Well, Mademoiselle, are you satisfied?"

Sarah flushed as he met the amused ironical glance of his eyes. "I beg your pardon," she said awkwardly.

"Du tout! To use an expression I have recently learnt, you give me the one over, is it not so?"

Sarah smiled a little. "Well, at any rate you can do the same to me," she said.

"Assuredly. I have not neglected to do so."

She glanced at him sharply. Something in his tone – but Poirot was twirling his moustaches complacently and Sarah thought (for the second time), "The man's a mountebank!"

Her self-confidence restored, she sat up a little straighter and said inquiringly: "I don't think I quite understand the object of this interview?"

"The good Dr. Gerard did not explain?"

Sarah said, frowning: "I don't understand Dr. Gerard. He seems to think –"

"That there is something rotten in the state of Denmark." quoted Poirot. "You see, I know your Shakespeare."

Sarah waved aside Shakespeare. "What exactly is all this fuss about?" she demanded.

"Eh bien, one wants, does one not, to get at the truth of this affair?"

"Are you talking about Mrs. Boynton's death?"

"Yes."

"Isn't it rather a fuss about nothing? You, of course, are a specialist, M. Poirot. It is natural for you –"

Poirot finished the sentence for her. "It is natural for me to suspect crime whenever I can possibly find an excuse for doing so?"

"Well – yes – perhaps."

"You have no doubt yourself as to Mrs. Boynton's death?"

Sarah shrugged her shoulders. "Really, M. Poirot, if you had been to Petra you would realize that the journey there is a somewhat strenuous business for an old woman whose cardiac condition was unsatisfactory."

"It seems a perfectly straightforward business to you?"

"Certainly. I can't understand Dr. Gerard's attitude. He didn't even know anything about it. He was down with fever. I'd bow to his superior medical knowledge naturally, but in this case he had nothing whatever to go on. I suppose they can have a p.m. in Jerusalem if they like, if they're not satisfied with my verdict."

Poirot was silent for a moment, then he said: "There is a fact, Miss King, that you do not yet know. Dr. Gerard has not told you of it."

"What fact?" demanded Sarah.

"A supply of a drug – digitoxin – is missing from Dr. Gerard's traveling medicine case."

"Oh!" Quickly Sarah took in this new aspect of the case. Equally quickly she pounced on the one doubtful point. "Is Dr. Gerard quite sure of that?"

Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "A doctor, as you should know, Mademoiselle, is usually fairly careful in making his statements."

"Oh, of course. That goes without saying. But Dr. Gerard had malaria at the time."

"That is so, of course."

"Has he any idea when it could have been taken?"

"He had occasion to go to his case on the night of his arrival in Petra. He wanted some phenacetin as his head was aching badly. When he replaced the phenacetin on the following morning and shut up the case he is almost certain that all the drugs were intact."

"Almost –" said Sarah.

Poirot shrugged.

"Yes, there is a doubt! There is the doubt that any man, who is honest, would be likely to feel."

Sarah nodded. "Yes, I know. One always distrusts those people who are over-sure. But all the same, M. Poirot, the evidence is very slight. It seems to me-" She paused.

Poirot finished the sentence for her. "It seems to you that an inquiry on my part is ill-advised!"

Sarah looked him squarely in the face. "Frankly, it does. Are you sure, M. Poirot, that this is not a case of Roman Holiday?"

Poirot smiled. "The private lives of a family upset and disturbed – so that Hercule Poirot can play a little game of detection to amuse himself?"

"I didn't mean to be offensive – but isn't it a little like that?"

"You, then, are on the side of the famille Boynton, Mademoiselle?"

"I think I am. They've suffered a good deal. They – they oughtn't to have to stand any more."

"And la Maman, she was unpleasant, tyrannical, disagreeable and decidedly better dead than alive? That also – hm?"

"When you put it like that –" Sarah paused, flushed, went on: "One shouldn't, I agree, take that into consideration."

"But all the same one does! That is, you do. Mademoiselle! I do not! To me, it is all the same. The victim may be one of the good God's saints – or, on the contrary, a monster of infamy. It moves me not. The fact is the same. A life taken! I say it always, I do not approve of murder."

"Murder!" Sarah drew in her breath sharply. "But what evidence of that is there? The flimsiest imaginable! Dr. Gerard himself cannot be sure!"

Poirot said quietly: "But there is other evidence, Mademoiselle."

"What evidence?" Her voice was sharp.

"The mark of a hypodermic puncture upon the dead woman's wrist. And something more still – some words that I overheard spoken in Jerusalem on a clear still night when I went to close my bedroom window. Shall I tell you what those words were, Miss King? They were these: I heard Mr. Raymond Boynton say: 'You do see, don't you, that she's got to be killed?' " He saw the color drain slowly from Sarah's face.

She said: "You heard that?"

"Yes."

The girl stared straight ahead of her. She said at last: "It would be you who heard it!"

He acquiesced. "Yes, it would be me. These things happen. You see now why I think there should be an investigation?"

Sarah said quietly: "I think you are quite right."

"Ah! And you will help me?"

"Certainly."

Her tone was matter-of-fact, unemotional. Her eyes met his coolly.

Poirot bowed. "Thank you, Mademoiselle. Now, I will ask you to tell me in your own words exactly what you can remember of that particular day."

Sarah considered for a moment. "Let me see. I went on an expedition in the morning. None of the Boyntons were with us. I saw them at lunch. They were finishing as we came in. Mrs. Boynton seemed in an unusually good temper."

"She was not usually amiable, I understand."

"Very far from it," said Sarah with a slight grimace. She then described how Mrs. Boynton had released her family from attendance on her.

"That, too, was unusual?"

"Yes. She usually kept them around her."

"Do you think, perhaps, that she suddenly felt remorseful, that she had what is called un bon moment?"

"No, I don't," said Sarah bluntly.

"What did you think, then?"

"I was puzzled. I suspected it was something of the cat and mouse order."

"If you would elaborate, Mademoiselle?"

"A cat enjoys letting a mouse away and then catching it again. Mrs. Boynton had that kind of mentality. I thought she was up to some new deviltry or other."

"What happened next, Mademoiselle?"

"The Boyntons started off –"

"All of them?"

"No; the youngest, Ginevra, was left behind. She was told to go and rest."

"Did she wish to do so?"

"No. But that didn't matter. She did what she was told. The others started off. Dr. Gerard and I joined them –"

"When was this?"

"About half-past three."

"Where was Mrs. Boynton then?"

"Nadine – young Mrs. Boynton – had settled her in her chair outside her cave."

"Proceed."

When we got around the bend Dr. Gerard and I caught up with the others. We all walked together. Then, after a while Dr. Gerard turned back. He had been looking rather queer for some time. I could see he had fever. I wanted to go back with him, but he wouldn't hear of it."

"What time was this?"

"Oh, about four, I suppose."

"And the rest?"

"We went on."

"Were you all together?"

"At first. Then we split up." Sarah hurried on as though foreseeing the next question. "Nadine Boynton and Mr. Cope went one way and Carol, Lennox, Raymond and I went another."

"And you continued like that?"

"Well – no. Raymond Boynton and I separated from the others. We sat down on a slab of rock and admired the wildness of the scenery. Then he went off and I stayed where I was for some time longer. It was about half-past five when I looked at my watch and realized I had better get back. I reached the camp at six o'clock. It was just about sunset."

"You passed Mrs. Boynton on the way?"

"I noticed she was still in her chair up on the ridge."

"That did not strike you as odd, that she had not moved?"

"No, because I had seen her sitting there the night before when we arrived."

"I see. Continuez."

"I went into the marquee. The others were all there-except Dr. Gerard. I washed and then came back. They brought in dinner and one of the servants went to tell Mrs. Boynton. He came running back to say she was ill. I hurried out. She was sitting in her chair just as she had been, but as soon as I touched her I realized she was dead."

"You had no doubt at all as to her death being natural?"

"None whatever. I had heard that she suffered from heart trouble, though no specified disease had been mentioned."

"You simply thought she had died sitting there in her chair?"

"Yes."

"Without calling out for assistance?"

"Yes. It happens that way sometimes. She might even have died in her sleep. She was quite likely to have dozed off. In any case, all the camp was asleep most of the afternoon. No one would have heard her unless she had called very loud."

"Did you form an opinion as to how long she had been dead?"

"Well, I didn't really think very much about it. She had clearly been dead some time."

"What do you call some time?" asked Poirot.

"Well – over an hour. It might have been much longer. The refraction off the rock would keep her body from cooling quickly."

"Over an hour? Are you aware, Mademoiselle King, that Mr. Raymond Boynton spoke to her only a little over half an hour earlier and that she was then alive and well?"

Now her eyes no longer met his. But she shook her head. "He must have made a mistake. It must have been earlier than that."

"No, Mademoiselle, it was not." She looked at him point-blank. He noticed again the set of her mouth.

"Well," said Sarah. "I'm young and I haven't had much experience with dead bodies but I know enough to be quite sure of one thing: Mrs. Boynton had been dead at least an hour when I examined her body!"

"That," said Hercule Poirot unexpectedly, "is your story and you are going to stick to it!"

"It's the truth," said Sarah.

"Then can you explain why Mr. Boynton should say his mother was alive when she was, in point of fact, dead?"

"I've no idea," said Sarah. "They're probably rather vague about time, all of them! They're a very nervous family."

"On how many occasions, Mademoiselle, have you spoken with them?"

Sarah was silent a moment, frowning a little. "I can tell you exactly," she said. "I talked to Raymond Boynton in the Wagon-Lit corridor coming to Jerusalem. I had two conversations with Carol Boynton – one at the Mosque of Omar and one late that evening in my bedroom. I had a conversation with Mrs. Lennox Boynton the following morning. That's all, up to the afternoon of Mrs. Boynton's death, when we all went walking together."

"You did not have any conversation with Mrs. Boynton herself?"

Sarah flushed uncomfortably. "Yes. I exchanged a few words with her the day she left Jerusalem." She paused and then blurted out: "As a matter of fact, I made a fool of myself."

"Ah?"

The interrogation was so patent that, stiffly and unwillingly, Sarah gave an account of the conversation.

Poirot seemed interested and cross-examined her closely. "The mentality of Mrs. Boynton, it is very important in this case," he said. "And you are an outsider – an unbiased observer. That is why your account of her is very significant."

Sarah did not reply. She still felt hot and uncomfortable when she thought of that interview. "Thank you, Mademoiselle," said Poirot. "I will now converse with the other witnesses."

Sarah rose. "Excuse me, M. Poirot, but if I might make a suggestion –"

"Certainly. Certainly."

"Why not postpone all this until an autopsy can be made and you discover whether or not your suspicions are justified. I think all this is rather like putting the cart before the horse."

Poirot waved a grandiloquent hand. "This is the method of Hercule Poirot," he announced.

Pressing her lips together, Sarah left the room.

FIVE

LADY WESTHOLME ENTERED the room with the assurance of a transatlantic liner coming into dock. Miss Annabel Pierce, an indeterminate craft, followed in the liner's wake and sat down in an inferior make of chair slightly in the background.

"Certainly, M. Poirot," boomed Lady Westholme, "I shall be delighted to assist you by any means in my power. I have always considered that in matters of this kind one has a public duty to perform –"

When Lady Westholme's public duty had held the stage for some minutes, Poirot was adroit enough to get in a question.

"I have a perfect recollection of the afternoon in question," replied Lady Westholme. "Miss Pierce and I will do all we can to assist you."

"Oh, yes," sighed Miss Pierce, almost ecstatically. "So tragic, was it not? Dead – just like that – in the twinkle of an eye!"

"If you will tell me exactly what occurred on the afternoon in question?"

"Certainly," said Lady Westholme. "After we had finished lunch I decided to take a brief siesta. The morning excursion had been somewhat fatiguing. Not that I was really tired – I seldom am. I do not really know what fatigue is. One has so often, on public occasions, no matter what one really feels –"

There was an adroit murmur from Poirot.

"I saw, I was in favor of a siesta. Miss Pierce agreed with me."

"Oh, yes," sighed Miss Pierce. "And I was terribly tired all the morning. Such a dangerous climb – and although interesting, most exhausting. I'm afraid I'm not quite as strong as Lady Westholme."

"Fatigue," said Lady Westholme, "can be conquered like everything else. I make a point of never giving in to my bodily needs."

Miss Pierce looked at her admiringly.

Poirot said: "After lunch, then, you two ladies went to your tents?"

"Yes."

"Mrs. Boynton was then sitting at the mouth of her cave?"

"Her daughter-in-law assisted her there before she herself went off."

"You could both see her?"

"Oh yes," said Miss Pierce. "She was opposite, you know – only of course a little way along and up above."

Lady Westholme elucidated the statement. "The caves opened onto a ledge. Below that ledge were some tents. Then there was a small stream and across that stream was the big marquee and some other tents. Miss Pierce and I had tents near the marquee. She was on the right side of the marquee and I was on the left. The openings of our tents faced the ledge, but of course it was some distance away."

"Nearly two hundred yards, I understand."

"Possibly."

"I have here a plan," said Poirot, "concocted with the help of the dragoman, Mahmoud."

Lady Westholme remarked that in that case it was probably wrong! "That man is grossly inaccurate. I have checked his statements from my Baedeker. Several times his information was definitely misleading."

"According to my plan," said Poirot, "the cave next to Mrs. Boynton's was occupied by her son, Lennox, and his wife. Raymond, Carol and Ginevra Boynton had tents just below but more to the right – in fact almost opposite the marquee. On the right of Ginevra Boynton's was Dr. Gerard's tent and next to his was that of Miss King. On the other side – next to the marquee on the left – you and Mr. Cope had tents. Miss Pierce's, as you mentioned, was on the right of the marquee. Is that correct?"

Lady Westholme admitted grudgingly that as far as she knew it was.

"I thank you. That is perfectly clear. Pray continue, Lady Westholme."

Lady Westholme smiled graciously on him and went on: "At about a quarter to four I strolled along to Miss Pierce's tent to see if she were awake yet and felt like a stroll. She was sitting in the doorway of the tent reading. We agreed to start in about half an hour when the sun was less hot. I went back to my tent and read for about twenty-five minutes. Then I went along and joined Miss Pierce. She was ready and we started out. Everyone in the camp seemed asleep; there was no one about and, seeing Mrs. Boynton sitting up there alone, I suggested to Miss Pierce that we should ask her if she wanted anything before we left."

"Yes, you did. Most thoughtful of you, I considered it," murmured Miss Pierce.

"I felt it to be my duty," said Lady Westholme with a rich complacency.

"And then for her to be so rude about it!" exclaimed Miss Pierce.

Poirot looked inquiring.

"Our path passed just under the ledge," explained Lady Westholme, "and I called up to her, saying that we were going for a stroll and asking could we do anything for her before we went. Do you know, M. Poirot, absolutely the only answer she gave us was a grunt! A grunt! She just looked at us as though we were – as though we were dirt!"

"Disgraceful it was!" said Miss Pierce, flushing.

"I must confess," said Lady Westholme, reddening a little, "that I then made a somewhat uncharitable remark."

"I think you were quite justified," said Miss Pierce.

"Quite – under the circumstances."

"What was this remark?" asked Poirot.

"I said to Miss Pierce that perhaps she drank! Really, her manner was most peculiar. It had been all along. I thought it possible that drink might account for it. The evils of alcoholic indulgence, as I very well know –"

Dexterously Poirot steered the conversation away from the drink question.

"Had her manner been very peculiar on this particular day? At lunch time, for instance?"

"No," said Lady Westholme, considering. "No, I should say that then her manner had been fairly normal – for an American of that type, that is to say," she added condescendingly.

"She was very abusive to that servant," said Miss Pierce

"Which one?"

"Not very long before we started out."

"Oh, yes, I remember. She did seem extraordinarily annoyed with him! Of course," went on Lady Westholme "to have servants about who cannot understand a word of English is very trying, but what I say is that when one is traveling one must make allowances."

"What servant was this?" asked Poirot.

"One of the Bedouin servants attached to the camp. He went up to her. I think she must have sent him to fetch her something and I suppose he brought the wrong thing. I don't really know what it was, but she was very angry about it. The poor man slunk away as fast as he could, and she shook her stick at him and called out."

"What did she call out?"

"We were too far away to hear. At least I didn't hear anything distinctly. Did you, Miss Pierce?"

"No, I didn't. I think she'd sent him to fetch something from her younger daughter's tent – or perhaps she was angry with him for going into her daughter's tent – I couldn't say exactly."

"What did he look like?"

Miss Pierce, to whom the question was addressed, shook her head vaguely. "Really, I couldn't say. He was too far away. All these Arabs look alike to me."

"He was a man of more than average height," said Lady Westholme, "and wore the usual native headdress. He had on a pair of very torn and patched breeches – really disgraceful they were – and his puttees were wound most untidily – all anyhow! These men need discipline!"

"You could point the man out among the camp servants?"

"I doubt it. We didn't see his face – it was too far away. And, as Miss Pierce says, really, these Arabs all look alike."

"I wonder," said Poirot thoughtfully, "what it was he did to make Mrs. Boynton so angry?"

"They are very trying to the patience sometimes," said Lady Westholme. "One of them took my shoes away, though I had expressly told him – by pantomime too – that I preferred to clean my shoes myself."

"Always I do that too," said Poirot, diverted for a moment from his interrogation. "I take everywhere my little shoe-cleaning outfit. Also, I take a duster."

"So do I." Lady Westholme sounded quite human. "Because these Arabs they do not remove the dust from one's belongings –"

"Never! Of course one has to dust one's things three or four times a day –"

"But it is well worth it."

"Yes, indeed. I cannot stand dirt!" Lady Westholme looked positively militant. She added with feeling: "The flies – in the bazaars – terrible!"

"Well, well," said Poirot, looking slightly guilty. "We can soon inquire from this man what it was that irritated Mrs. Boynton. To continue with your story?"

"We strolled along slowly," said Lady Westholme. "And then we met Dr. Gerard. He was staggering along and looked very ill. I could see at once he had fever."

"He was shaking," put in Miss Pierce. "Shaking all over."

"I saw at once he had an attack of malaria coming on," said Lady Westholme. "I offered to come back with him and get him some quinine but he said he had his own supply with him."

"Poor man," said Miss Pierce. "You know it always seems so dreadful to me to see a doctor ill. It seems all wrong, somehow."

"We strolled on," continued Lady Westholme. "And then we sat down on a rock."

Miss Pierce murmured: "Really – so tired after the morning's exertion – the climbing –"

"I never feel fatigue," said Lady Westholme firmly. "But there was no point in going further. We had a very good view of all the surrounding scenery."

"Were you out of sight of the camp?"

"No, we were sitting facing towards it."

"So romantic," murmured Miss Pierce. "A camp pitched in the middle of a wilderness of rose-red rocks." She sighed and shook her head.

"That camp could be much better run than it is," said Lady Westholme. Her rocking-horse nostrils dilated. "I shall take up the matter with Castle's. I am not at all sure that the drinking water is boiled as well as filtered. It should be. I shall point that out to them."

Poirot coughed and led the conversation quickly away from the subject of drinking water. "Did you see any other members of the party?" he inquired.

"Yes. The elder Mr. Boynton and his wife passed us on their way back to the camp."

"Were they together?"

"No, Mr. Boynton came first. He looked a little as though he had had a touch of the sun. He was walking as though he were slightly dizzy."

"The back of the neck," said Miss Pierce. "One must protect the back of the neck! I always wear a thick silk handkerchief."

"What did Mr. Lennox Boynton do on his return to camp?" asked Poirot.

For once Miss Pierce managed to get in first before Lady Westholme could speak. "He went right up to his mother, but he didn't stay long with her."

"How long?"

"Just a minute or two."

"I should put it at just over a minute myself," said Lady Westholme. "Then he went on into his cave and after that he went down to the marquee."

"And his wife?"

"She came along about a quarter of an hour later. She stopped a minute and spoke to us – quite civilly."

"I think she's very nice," said Miss Pierce. "Very nice indeed."

"She is not so impossible as the rest of the family," allowed Lady Westholme.

"You watched her return to the camp?"

'Yes. She went up and spoke to her mother-in-law. Then she went into her cave and brought out a chair and sat by her talking for some time-about ten minutes, I should say."

"And then?"

"Then she took the chair back to the cave and went down to the marquee where her husband was."

"What happened next?"

"That very peculiar American came along," said Lady Westholme. "Cope, I think his name is. He told us that there was a very good example of the debased architecture of the period just round the bend of the valley. He said we ought not to miss it. Accordingly we walked there. Mr. Cope had with him quite an interesting article on Petra and the Nabateans."

"It was all most interesting," declared Miss Pierce fervently.

Lady Westholme continued: "We strolled back to the camp, it being then about twenty minutes to six. It was growing quite chilly."

"Mrs. Boynton was still sitting where you had left her?"

"Yes."

"Did you speak to her?"

"No. As a matter of fact, I hardly noticed her."

"What did you do next?"

"I went to my tent, changed my shoes and got out my own packet of China tea. I then went to the marquee. The guide person was there and I directed him to make some tea for Miss Pierce and myself with the tea I had brought and to make quite sure that the water with which it was made was boiling. He said that dinner would be ready in about half an hour – the boys were laying the table at the time – but I said that made no difference."

"I always say a cup of tea makes all the difference," murmured Miss Pierce vaguely.

"Was there anyone in the marquee?"

"Oh, yes. Mr. and Mrs. Lennox Boynton were sitting at one end reading. And Carol Boynton was there too."

"And Mr. Cope?"

"He joined us at our tea," said Miss Pierce. "Though he said tea drinking wasn't an American habit."

Lady Westholme coughed. "I became just a little afraid that Mr. Cope was going to be a nuisance – that he might fasten himself upon me. It is a little difficult sometimes to keep people at arm's length when one is traveling. I find they are inclined to presume. Americans, especially, are sometimes rather dense."

Poirot murmured suavely: "I am sure. Lady Westholme, that you are quite capable of dealing with situations of that kind. When traveling acquaintances are no longer of any use to you, I am sure you are an adept at dropping them."

"I think I am capable of dealing with most situations," said Lady Westholme complacently.

The twinkle in Poirot's eye was quite lost upon her. "If you will just conclude your recital of the day's happenings?" murmured Poirot.

"Certainly. As far as I can remember, Raymond Boynton and the red-haired Boynton girl came in shortly afterwards. Miss King arrived last. Dinner was then ready to be served. One of the servants was dispatched by the dragoman to announce the fact to old Mrs. Boynton. The man came running back with one of his comrades in a state of some agitation and spoke to the dragoman in Arabic. There was some mention of Mrs. Boynton being taken ill. Miss King offered her services. She went out with the dragoman. She came back and broke the news to the members of Mrs. Boynton's family."

"She did it very abruptly," put in Miss Pierce. "Just blurted it out. I think myself it ought to have been done more gradually."

"And how did Mrs. Boynton's family take the news?" asked Poirot.

For once both Lady Westholme and Miss Pierce seemed a little at a loss. The former said at last, in a voice lacking its usual self-assurance: "Well – really – it is difficult to say. They – they were very quiet about it."

"Stunned," said Miss Pierce. She offered the word more as a suggestion than as a fact.

"They all went out with Miss King," said Lady Westholme. "Miss Pierce and I very sensibly remained where we were."

A faintly wistful look was observable in Miss Pierce's eye at this point.

"I detest vulgar curiosity!" continued Lady Westholme. The wistful look became more pronounced. It was clear that Miss Pierce had had perforce to hate vulgar curiosity too!

"Later," concluded Lady Westholme, "the dragoman and Miss King returned. I suggested that dinner should be served immediately to the four of us, so that the Boynton family could dine later in the marquee without the embarrassment of strangers being present. My suggestion was adopted and immediately after the meal I retired to my tent. Miss King and Miss Pierce did the same. Mr. Cope, I believe, remained in the marquee; he is a friend of the family and thought he might be of some assistance to them. That is all I know, M. Poirot."

"When Miss King had broken the news, all the Boynton family accompanied her out of the marquee?"

"Yes – no, I believe, now that you come to mention it, that the red-haired girl stayed behind. Perhaps you can remember. Miss Pierce?"

"Yes, I think-I am quite sure she did."

Poirot asked: "What did she do?"

Lady Westholme stared at him. "What did she do, M. Poirot? She did not do anything, as far as I can remember."

"I mean was she sewing, or reading, did she look anxious, did she say anything?"

"Well, really –" Lady Westholme frowned. "She – er – she just sat there, as far as I can remember."

"She twiddled her fingers," said Miss Pierce suddenly. "I remember noticing – poor thing; I thought, it shows what she's feeling! Not that there was anything to show in her face, you know-just her hands turning and twisting."

"Once," went on Miss Pierce conversationally, "I remember tearing up a pound note that way – not thinking of what I was doing. 'Shall I catch the first train and go to her?' I thought (it was a great aunt of mine – taken suddenly ill), 'or shall I not?' And I couldn't make up my mind one way or the other and then I looked down, and instead of the telegram I was tearing up a pound note – a pound note! – into tiny pieces!" Miss Pierce paused dramatically.

Not entirely approving of this sudden bid for the limelight on the part of her satellite Lady Westholme said coldly: "Is there anything else, M. Poirot?"

With a start, Poirot seemed to come out of a brown study. "Nothing, nothing. You have been most clear – most definite."

"I have an excellent memory," said Lady Westholme with satisfaction.

"One last little demand. Lady Westholme," said Poirot. "Please continue to sit as you are sitting – without looking around. Now, would you be so kind as to describe to me just what Miss Pierce is wearing today – that is, if Miss Pierce does not object?"

"Oh, no, not in the least!" twittered Miss Pierce. "Really, M. Poirot, is there any object –"

"Please be so kind as to do as I ask, Madame."

Lady Westholme shrugged her shoulders and then said with a rather bad grace: "Miss Pierce has on a striped brown and white cotton dress and is wearing with it a Sudanese belt of red, blue and beige leather. She is wearing beige silk stockings and brown glace strap shoes. There is a ladder in her left stocking. She has a necklace of cornelian beads and one of bright royal blue beads and is wearing a brooch with a pearl butterfly on it. She has an imitation scarab ring on the third finger of her right hand. On her head she has a double terai of pink and brown felt." She paused-a pause of quiet competence. Then: "Is there anything further?" she asked coldly.

Poirot spread out his hands in a wide gesture. "You have my entire admiration, Madame. Your observation is of the highest order."

"Details rarely escape me." Lady Westholme rose, made a slight inclination of her head and left the room. As Miss Pierce was following her, gazing down ruefully at her left leg, Poirot said: "A little moment, please, Mademoiselle?"

"Yes?" Miss Pierce looked up, a slightly apprehensive look upon her face.

Poirot leaned forward confidentially. "You see this bunch of wild flowers on the table here?"

"Yes," said Miss Pierce staring.

"And you noticed that, when you first came into the room, I sneezed once or twice?"

"Yes."

"Did you notice if I had just been sniffing those flowers?"

"Well – really – no – I couldn't say."

"But you remember my sneezing?"

"Oh, yes, I remember that!"

"Ah, well-no matter. I wondered, you see, if these flowers might induce the hay fever. No matter!"

"Hay fever!" cried Miss Pierce. "I remember a cousin of mine was a martyr to it! She always said that if you sprayed your nose daily with a solution of boracic –"

With some difficulty Poirot shelved the cousin's nasal treatment and got rid of Miss Pierce. He shut the door and came back into the room with his eyebrows raised.

"But I did not sneeze," he murmured. "So much for that. No, I did not sneeze."

SIX

Lennox Boynton came into the room with a quick resolute step. Had he been there, Dr. Gerard would have been surprised at the change in the man. The apathy was gone. His bearing was alert – although he was plainly nervous. His eyes had a tendency to shift rapidly from point to point about the room.

"Good morning, M. Boynton." Poirot rose and bowed ceremoniously. Lennox responded somewhat awkwardly. "I much appreciate your giving me this interview."

Lennox Boynton said rather uncertainly: "Er – Colonel Carbury said it would be a good thing. Advised it. Some formalities he said."

"Please sit down, M. Boynton."

Lennox sat down on the chair lately vacated by Lady Westholme.

Poirot went on conversationally: "This has been a great shock to you, I am afraid."

"Yes, of course. Well, no, perhaps not ... we always knew that my mother's heart was not strong."

"Was it wise, under those circumstances, to allow her to undertake such an arduous expedition?"

Lennox Boynton raised his head. He spoke not without a certain sad dignity. "My mother, M. Poirot, made her own decisions. If she had made up her mind to anything it was no good our opposing her." He drew in his breath sharply as he said the last words. His face suddenly grew rather white.

"I know well," admitted Poirot, "that elderly ladies are sometimes headstrong."

Lennox said irritably: "What is the purpose of all this? That is what I want to know. Why have all these formalities arisen?"

"Perhaps you do not realize, M. Boynton, that in cases of sudden and unexplained deaths, formalities must necessarily arise."

Lennox said sharply: "What do you mean by 'unexplained'?"

Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "There is always the question to be considered: Is a death natural or might it perhaps be suicide?"

"Suicide?" Lennox Boynton stared.

Poirot said lightly: "You, of course, would know best about such possibilities. Colonel Carbury, naturally, is in the dark. It is necessary for him to decide whether to order an inquiry – an autopsy – all the rest of it. As I was on the spot and as I have much experience of these matters, he suggested that I should make a few inquiries and advise him upon the matter. Naturally, he does not wish to cause you inconvenience if it can be helped."

Lennox Boynton said angrily: "I shall wire to our Consul in Jerusalem."

Poirot said noncommittally: "You are quite within your rights in doing so, of course." There was a pause. Then Poirot said, spreading out his hands: "If you object to answering my questions –"

Lennox Boynton said quickly: "Not at all. Only – it seems – all so unnecessary."

"I comprehend. I comprehend perfectly. But it is all very simple, really. A matter, as they say, of routine. Now, on the afternoon of your mother's death, M. Boynton, I believe you left the camp at Petra and went for a walk?"

"Yes. We all went, with the exception of my mother and my younger sister."

"Your mother was then sitting in the mouth of her cave?"

"Yes, just outside it. She sat there every afternoon."

"Quite so. You started – when?"

"Soon after three, I should say."

"You returned from your walk – when?"

"I really couldn't say what time it was – four o'clock – five o'clock perhaps."

"About an hour to two hours after you set out?"

"Yes – about that, I should think."

"Did you pass anyone on your way back?"

"Did I what?"

"Pass anyone. Two ladies sitting on a rock, for instance?"

"I don't know. Yes, I think I did."

"You were, perhaps, too absorbed in your thoughts to notice?"

"Yes, I was."

"Did you speak to your mother when you got back to the camp?"

"Yes – yes, I did."

"She did not then complain of feeling ill?"

"No – no, she seemed perfectly all right."

"May I ask what passed between you?"

Lennox paused a minute. "She said I had come back soon. I said, yes, I had." He paused again in an effort of concentration. "I said it was hot. She – she asked me the time – said her wristwatch had stopped. I took it from her, wound it up, set it and put it back on her wrist."

Poirot interrupted gently: "And what time was it?"

"Eh?" said Lennox.

"What time was it when you set the hands of the wristwatch?"

"Oh, I see. It – it was twenty-five minutes to five."

"So you do know exactly the time you returned to the camp!" said Poirot gently.

Lennox flushed. "Yes, what a fool I am! I'm sorry, M. Poirot, my wits are all astray, I'm afraid. All this worry –"

Poirot chimed in quickly: "Oh! I understand – I understand perfectly! It is all of the most disquieting! And what happened next?"

"I asked my mother if she wanted anything. A drink – tea, coffee, etc.. She said no. Then I went to the marquee. None of the servants seemed to be about, but I found some soda water and drank it. I was thirsty. I sat there reading some old numbers of the Saturday Evening Post. I think I must have dozed off."

"Your wife joined you in the marquee?"

"Yes, she came in not long after."

"And you did not see your mother again alive?"

"No."

"She did not seem in any way agitated or upset when you were talking to her?"

"No, she was exactly as usual."

"She did not refer to any trouble or annoyance with one of the servants?"

Lennox stared. "No, nothing at all."

"And that is all you can tell me?"

"I am afraid so – yes."

"Thank you, M. Boynton." Poirot inclined his head as a sign that the interview was over.

Lennox did not seem very willing to depart. He stood hesitating by the door. "Er – there's nothing else?"

"Nothing. Perhaps you would be so good as to ask your wife to come here?"

Lennox went slowly out. On the pad beside him Poirot wrote "L. B. 4:35 P.M."

SEVEN

Poirot looked with interest at the tall dignified young woman who entered the room. He rose and bowed to her politely.

"Mrs. Lennox Boynton? Hercule Poirot, at your service."

Nadine Boynton sat down. Her thoughtful eyes were on Poirot's face.

"I hope you do not mind, Madame, my intruding on your sorrow in this way?"

Her gaze did not waver. She did not reply at once. Her eyes remained steady and grave. At last, she gave a sigh and said: "I think it is best for me to be quite frank with you, M. Poirot."

"I agree with you, Madame."

"You apologized for intruding upon my sorrow. That sorrow, M. Poirot, does not exist and it is idle to pretend that it does. I had no love for my mother-in-law and I cannot honestly say that I regret her death."

"Thank you, Madame, for your plain speaking."

Nadine went on: "Still, although I cannot pretend sorrow, I can admit to another feeling – remorse."

"Remorse?" Poirot's eyebrows went up.

"Yes. Because, you see, it was I who brought about her death. For that I blame myself bitterly."

"What is this that you are saying, Madame?"

"I am saying that I was the cause of my mother-in-law's death. I was acting, as I thought, honestly – but the result was unfortunate. To all intents and purposes, I killed her."

Poirot leaned back in his chair. "Will you be so kind as to elucidate this statement, Madame?"

Nadine bent her head. "Yes, that is what I wish to do. My first reaction, naturally, was to keep my private affairs to myself, but I see that the time has come when it would be better to speak out. I have no doubt, M. Poirot, that you have often received confidences of a somewhat intimate nature?"

"That, yes."

"Then I will tell you quite simply what occurred. My married life, M. Poirot, has not been particularly happy. My husband is not entirely to blame for that – his mother's influence over him has been unfortunate – but I have been feeling for some time that my life was becoming intolerable,"

She paused and then went on: "On the afternoon of my mother-in-law's death I came to a decision. I have a friend – a very good friend. He has suggested more than once that I should throw in my lot with his. On that afternoon I accepted his proposal."

"You decided to leave your husband?"

"Yes."

"Continue, Madame."

Nadine said in a lower voice: "Having once made my decision I wanted to – to establish it as soon as possible. I walked home to the camp by myself. My mother-in-law was sitting alone, there was one about, and I decided to break the news to her right there. I got a chair, sat down by her and told her abruptly what I had decided."

"She was surprised?"

"Yes I am afraid it was a great shock to her. She was both surprised and angry – very angry. She – she worked herself into quite a state about it! Presently I refused to discuss the matter any longer. I got up and walked away." Her voice dropped. "I – I never saw her again alive."

Poirot nodded his head slowly. He said: "I see." Then he said: "You think her death was the result of the shock?"

"It seems to me almost certain. You see, she had already overexerted herself considerably getting to this place. My news, and her anger at it, would do the rest ... I feel additionally guilty because I have had a certain amount of training in illness and so I, more than anyone else, ought to have realized the possibility of such a thing happening."

Poirot sat in silence for some minutes, then he said: "What exactly did you do when you left her?"

"I took the chair I had brought out back into my cave, then I went down to the marquee. My husband was there."

Poirot watched her closely as he said: "Did you tell him of your decision? Or had you already told him?"

There was a pause, an infinitesimal pause, before Nadine said: "I told him then."

"How did he take it?"

She answered quietly: "He was very upset."

"Did he urge you to reconsider your decision?"

She shook her head. "He – he didn't say very much. You see, we had both known for some time that something like this might happen."

Poirot said: "You will pardon me, but the other man was, of course, M. Jefferson Cope?"

She bent her head. "Yes."

There was a long pause, then, without any change of voice, Poirot asked: "Do you own a hypodermic syringe, Madame?"

"Yes – no."

His eyebrows rose.

She explained. "I have an old hypodermic amongst other things in a traveling medicine chest, but it is in our big luggage which we left in Jerusalem."

"I see."

There was a pause, then she said with a shiver of uneasiness: "Why did you ask me that, M. Poirot?"

He did not answer the question. Instead he put one of his own. "Mrs. Boynton was, I believe, taking a mixture containing digitalis?"

"Yes."

He thought that she was definitely watchful now. "That was for her heart trouble?"

"Yes."

"Digitalis is, to some extent, a cumulative drug?"

"I believe it is. I do not know very much about it."

"Mrs. Boynton had taken a big overdose of digitalis –"

She interrupted him quickly but with decision. "She did not. She was always most careful. So was I, if I measured the dose for her."

"There might have been an overdose in this particular bottle. A mistake of the chemist who made it up?"

"I think that is very unlikely," she replied quietly.

"Ah well, the analysis will soon tell us."

Nadine said: "Unfortunately the bottle was broken."

Poirot eyed her with sudden interest. "Indeed! Who broke it?"

"I'm not quite sure. One of the servants, I think. In carrying my mother-in-law's body into her cave, there was a good deal of confusion and the light was very poor. A table got knocked over."

Poirot eyed her steadily for a minute or two. "That," he said, "is very interesting."

Nadine Boynton shifted wearily in her chair. "You are suggesting, I think, that my mother-in-law did not die of shock, but of an overdose of digitalis?" she said and went on: "That seems to me most improbable."

Poirot leaned forward. "Even when I tell you that Dr. Gerard, the French physician who was staying in the camp, had missed an appreciable quantity of a preparation of digitoxin from his medicine chest?"

Her face grew very pale. He saw the clutch of her other hand on the table. Her eyes dropped. She sat very still. She was like a Madonna carved in stone.

"Well, Madame," said Poirot at last. "What have you say to that?"

The seconds ticked on but she did not speak. It was quite two minutes before she raised her head, and he started a little when he saw the look in her eyes.

"M. Poirot, I did not kill my mother-in-law. That you know! She was alive and well when I left her. There are many people who can testify to that! Therefore, being innocent of the crime, I can venture to appeal to you. Why must you mix yourself up in this business? If I swear to you on my honor that justice and only justice has been done. Will you not abandon this inquiry? There has been so much suffering – you do not know. Now that at last there is peace and the possibility of happiness, must you destroy it all?"

Poirot sat up very straight. His eyes shone with a green light. "Let me be clear, Madame. What are you asking me to do?"

"I am telling you that my mother-in-law died a natural death and I am asking you to accept that statement."

"Let us be definite. You believe that your mother-in-law was deliberately killed, and you are asking me to condone – murder!"

"I am asking you to have pity!"

"Yes – on someone who had no pity!"

"You don't understand – it was not like that."

"Did you commit the crime yourself, Madame, that you know so well?"

Nadine shook her head. She showed no signs of guilt. "No," she said quietly. "She was alive when I left her."

"Then what happened? You know – or you suspect –"

Nadine said passionately: "I have heard, M. Poirot, that once, in that affair of the Orient Express, you accepted an official verdict of what had happened?"

Poirot looked at her curiously. "I wonder who told you that."

"Is it true?"

He said slowly: "That case was – different."

"No. No, it was not different! The man who was killed was evil," her voice dropped, "as she was ..."

Poirot said: "The moral character of the victim has nothing to do with it! A human being who has exercised the right of private judgment and taken the life of another human being is not safe to exist amongst the community. I tell you that! I, Hercule Poirot!"

"How hard you are!"

"Madame, in some ways I am adamant. I will not condone murder! That is the final word of Hercule Poirot."

She got up. Her dark eyes flashed with sudden fire. "Then go on! Bring ruin and misery into the lives of innocent people! I have nothing more to say."

"But I – I think, Madame, that you have a lot to say."

"No, nothing more."

"What happened, Madame, after you left your mother-in-law? Whilst you and your husband were in the marquee together?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "How should I know?"

"You do know – or you suspect."

She looked him straight in the eyes. "I know nothing, M. Poirot." Turning, she left the room.

EIGHT

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.

Poirot 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 colorless 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 or 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.

She flushed and looked away. "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 color – 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?"

"No, 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 learned she was 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 color 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 traveling 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 mad! And we saw that something had to be done.

Poirot nodded his head slowly. "Yes, it has seemed so, I know, to many. That is, by history."

"That's how Ray and I felt that night ..." She put her hand on the table. "But we didn't really do it. Of course we didn't do it! When daylight came the thing seemed absurd, melodramatic. Oh, yes, and wicked too! Indeed, indeed, M. Poirot, Mother died naturally of heart failure. Ray and I had nothing to do with it."

Poirot said quietly: "Will you swear to me, Mademoiselle, as your salvation after death, that Mrs. Boynton did not die as a result of any action of yours?"

She lifted her head. Her voice came steadily "I swear," said Carol, "as I hope for salvation I never harmed her ..."

Poirot leaned back in his chair. "No," he said, "that is that."

There was silence. Poirot thoughtfully caressed his moustache. Then he said: "What exactly was your plan?"

"Plan?"

"Yes, you and your 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 around passionately. "I have told you the truth – I have!"

Hercule Poirot did not answer and Carol Boynton went slowly out of the room.

CONTINUED IN

NEXT INSTALMENT