The Hollow

"Henrietta… I think if they were to have the wedding in October-October of next year, I mean, then we could go and stop for that Christmas. I've been thinking, Henry-"

"I wish you wouldn't, my dear. You think too much."

"You know the barn? It will make a perfect studio. And Henrietta will need a studio.

She has real talent, you know. Edward, I am sure, will be immensely proud of her. Two boys and a girl would be nice-or two boys and two girls-"

"Lucy-Lucy! How you run on."

"But, darling," Lady Angkatell opened wide beautiful eyes, "Edward will never marry anyone but Henrietta-he is very, very obstinate. Rather like my father in that way. He gets an idea in his head! So, of course, Henrietta must marry him-and she will now that John Christow is out of the way. He was really the greatest misfortune that could possibly have happened to her."

"Poor devil!"

"Why? Oh, you mean because he's dead?

Oh, well, everyone has to die sometime. I never worry over people dying…"

He looked at her curiously.

"I always thought you liked Christow,

Lucy?"

"I found him amusing. And he had charm. But I never think one ought to attach too much importance to anybody."

And gently, with a smiling face. Lady Angkatell clipped remorselessly at a vine.

Chapter XVIII

Hercule Poirot looked out of his window and saw Henrietta Savernake walking up the path to the front door. She was wearing the same green tweeds that she had worn on the day of the tragedy. There was a spaniel with her.

He hastened to the front door and opened it. She stood smiling at him.

"May I come in and see your house? I like looking at people's houses. I'm just taking the dog for a walk."

"But most certainly. How English it is to take the dog for a walk!"

"I know," said Henrietta. "I thought of that. Do you know that nice poem: 'The days passed slowly one by one. I fed the ducks, reproved my wife, played Handel's Largo on the fife. And took the dog a run.'"

Again she smiled-a brilliant, unsubstantial smile.

Poirot ushered her into his sitting room.

She looked round its neat and prim arrangement and nodded her head.

"Nice," she said, "two of everything.

How you would hate my studio."

"Why should I hate it?"

"Oh, a lot of clay sticking to things-and here and there just one thing that I happen to like and which would be ruined if there were two of them."

"But I can understand that. Mademoiselle.

You are an artist."

"Aren't you an artist too, M. Poirot?"

Poirot put his head on one side.

"It is a question, that. But, on the whole, I would say no. I have known crimes that were artistic-they were, you understand, supreme exercises of imagination-but the solving of them-no, it is not the creative power that is needed. What is required is a passion for the truth."

"A passion for the truth," said Henrietta meditatively. "Yes, I can see how dangerous that might make you. Would the truth satisfy you?"

He looked at her curiously.

"What do you mean. Miss Savernake?"

"I can understand that you would want to know. But would knowledge be enough?

Would you have to go a step further and translate knowledge into action?"

He was interested in her approach.

"You are suggesting that if I knew the truth about Dr. Christow's death-I might be satisfied to keep that knowledge to myself.

Do you know the truth about his death?"

Henrietta shrugged her shoulders.

"The obvious answer seems to be Gerda.

How cynical it is that a wife or a husband is always the first suspect."

"But you do not agree?"

"I always like to keep an open mind."

Poirot said quietly:

"Why did you come here. Miss Saver - nake?"

"I must admit that I haven't your passion for truth, M. Poirot. Taking the dog for a walk was such a nice English countryside excuse. But, of course, the Angkatells haven't got a dog-as you may have noticed the other day."

"The fact had not escaped me."

"So I borrowed the gardener's spaniel. I am not, you must understand, M. Poirot, very truthful."

Again that brilliant, brittle smile flashed out. He wondered why he should suddenly find it unendurably moving. He said quietly:

"No, but you have integrity."

"Why on earth do you say that?"

She was startled-almost, he thought, dismayed.

"Because I believe it to be true."

"Integrity," Henrietta repeated thoughtfully.

"I wonder what that word really means…"

She sat very still, staring down at the carpet, then she raised her head and looked at him steadily.

"Don't you want to know why I did come?"

"You find a difficulty, perhaps, in putting it into words."

"Yes, I think I do… The inquest, M.

Poirot, is tomorrow. One has to make up one's mind just how much-"

She broke off. Getting up, she wandered across to the mantel piece, displaced one or two of the ornaments and moved a vase of Michaelmas daisies from its position in the middle of a table, to the extreme corner of the mantelpiece. She stepped back, eyeing the arrangement with her head on one side.

"How do you like that, M. Poirot?"

"Not at all. Mademoiselle."