Lord Edgware Dies

Poirot did not reply for a moment. He seemed to be deliberating. I believe, now, that it was a cleverly calculated move on his part. He wanted to goad her into further speech. She was, he realized, of the impatient type. She wanted things in a hurry.

‘Was he afraid of something? Tell me. Tell me. I must know. Who was he afraid of? Why? What did he say to you? Oh! why can’t you speak?’ 

I had thought that that forced composure was not natural. It had soon broken down. She was leaning forward now, her hands twisting themselves nervously on her lap.

‘What passed between Lord Edgware and myself was in confidence,’ said Poirot slowly.

His eyes never left her face.

‘Then it was about-I mean, it must have been something to do with-the family. Oh! you sit there and torture me. Why won’t you tell me? It’s necessary for me to know. It’s necessary. I tell you.’

Again, very slowly, Poirot shook his head, apparently a prey to deep perplexity.

‘M. Poirot.’ She drew herself up. ‘I’m his daughter. It is my right to know-what my father dreaded on the last day but one of his life. It isn’t fair to leave me in the dark. It isn’t fair to him-not to tell me.’

‘Were you so devoted to your father, then, Mademoiselle?’ asked Poirot gently.

She drew back as though stung.

‘Fond of him?’ she whispered. ‘Fond of him. I-I-’

And suddenly her self-control snapped. Peals of laughter broke from her. She lay back in her chair and laughed and laughed.

‘It’s so funny,’ she gasped. ‘It’s so funny-to be asked that.’ 

That hysterical laughter had not passed unheard. The door opened and Miss Carroll came in. She was firm and efficient.

‘Now, now, Geraldine, my dear, that won’t do. No, no. Hush, now. I insist. No. Stop it. I mean it. Stop it at once.’

Her determined manner had its effect. Geraldine’s laughter grew fainter. She wiped her eyes and sat up.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I’ve never done that before.’

Miss Carroll was still looking at her anxiously.

‘I’m all right now, Miss Carroll. It was idiotic.’

She smiled suddenly. A queer bitter smile that twisted her lips. She sat up very straight in her chair and looked at no one.

‘He asked me,’ she said in a cold clear voice, ‘if I had been very fond of my father.’

Miss Carroll made a sort of indeterminate cluck. It denoted irresolution on her part. Geraldine went on, her voice high and scornful.

‘I wonder if it is better to tell lies or the truth? The truth, I think. I wasn’t fond of my father. I hated him!’

‘Geraldine dear.’

‘Why pretend? You didn’t hate him because he couldn’t touch you! You were one of the few people in the world that he couldn’t get at. You saw him as the employer who paid you so much a year. His rages and his queerness didn’t interest you-you ignored them. I know what you’d say, “Everyone has got to put up with something.” You were cheerful and uninterested. You’re a very strong woman. You’re not really human. But then you could have walked out of the house any minute. I couldn’t. I belonged.’

‘Really, Geraldine, I don’t think it’s necessary going into all this. Fathers and daughters often don’t get on. But the less said in life the better, I’ve found.’

Geraldine turned her back on her. She addressed herself to Poirot.

‘M. Poirot, I hated my father! I am glad he is dead! It means freedom for me-freedom and independence. I am not in the least anxious to find his murderer. For all we know the person who killed him may have had reasons-ample reasons-justifying that action.’

Poirot looked at her thoughtfully.

‘That is a dangerous principle to adopt, Mademoiselle.’

‘Will hanging someone else bring father back to life?’

‘No,’ said Poirot dryly. ‘But it may save other innocent people from being murdered.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘A person who has once killed, Mademoiselle, nearly always kills again-sometimes again and again.’ 

‘I don’t believe it. Not-not a real person.’

‘You mean-not a homicidal maniac? But yes, it is true. One life is removed-perhaps after a terrific struggle with the murderer’s conscience. Then-danger threatens-the second murder is morally easier. At the slightest threatening of suspicion a third follows. And little by little an artistic pride arises-it is ametier -to kill. It is done at last almost for pleasure.’

The girl had hidden her face in her hands.

‘Horrible. Horrible. It isn’t true.’

‘And supposing I told you that ithad already happened? That already-to save himself-the murderer has killed a second time?’

‘What’s that, M. Poirot?’ cried Miss Carroll. ‘Another murder? Where? Who?’

Poirot gently shook his head.

‘It was an illustration only. I ask pardon.’

‘Oh! I see. For a moment I really thought-Now, Geraldine, if you’ve finished talking arrant nonsense.’

‘You are on my side, I see,’ said Poirot with a little bow.

‘I don’t believe in capital punishment,’ said Miss Carroll briskly. ‘Otherwise I am certainly on your side. Society must be protected.’

Geraldine got up. She smoothed back her hair.