Hickory Dickory Dock. Агата Кристи

complacence and superiority of Colin’s manner underwent a sudden and not unlikeable change.

      ‘They do,’ he said. ‘Believe me, they do. It’s serious. She ought to have treatment—at once. But medical treatment, that’s the point. It’s not a case for the police. She’s all tied up in knots. If I…’

      Poirot interrupted him.

      ‘You know then who she is?’

      ‘Well, I have a very strong suspicion.’

      Poirot murmured with the air of one who is recapitulating:

      ‘A girl who is not outstandingly successful with the other sex. A shy girl. An affectionate girl. A girl whose brain is inclined to be slow in its reactions. A girl who feels frustrated and lonely. A girl…’

      There was a tap on the door. Poirot broke off. The tap was repeated.

      ‘Come in,’ said Mrs Hubbard.

      The door opened and Celia Austin came in.

      ‘Ah,’ said Poirot, nodding his head. ‘Exactly. Miss Celia Austin.’

      Celia looked at Colin with agonised eyes.

      ‘I didn’t know you were here,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I came—I came…’

      She took a deep breath and rushed to Mrs Hubbard.

      ‘Please, please don’t send for the police. It’s me. I’ve been taking those things. I don’t know why. I can’t imagine. I didn’t want to. It just—it just came over me.’ She whirled round on Colin. ‘So now you know what I’m like…and I suppose you’ll never speak to me again. I know I’m awful…’

      ‘Och! not a bit of it,’ said Colin. His rich voice was warm and friendly. ‘You’re just a bit mixed-up, that’s all. It’s just a kind of illness you’ve had, from not looking at things clearly. If you’ll trust me, Celia, I’ll soon be able to put you right.’

      ‘Oh Colin—really?’

      Celia looked at him with unconcealed adoration.

      ‘I’ve been so dreadfully worried.’

      He took her hand in a slightly avuncular manner.

      ‘Well, there’s no need to worry any more.’ Rising to his feet he drew Celia’s hand through his arm and looked sternly at Mrs Hubbard.

      ‘I hope now,’ he said, ‘that there’ll be no more foolish talk of calling in the police. Nothing’s been stolen of any real worth, and what has been taken Celia will return.’

      ‘I can’t return the bracelet and the powder compact,’ said Celia anxiously. ‘I pushed them down a gutter. But I’ll buy new ones.’

      ‘And the stethoscope?’ said Poirot. ‘Where did you put that?’

      Celia flushed.

      ‘I never took any stethoscope. What should I want with a silly old stethoscope?’ Her flush deepened. ‘And it wasn’t me who spilt ink all over Elizabeth’s papers. I’d never do a—malicious thing like that.’

      ‘Yet you cut and slashed Miss Hobhouse’s scarf, mademoiselle.’

      Celia looked uncomfortable. She said rather uncertainly:

      ‘That was different. I mean—Valerie didn’t mind.’

      ‘And the rucksack?’

      ‘Oh, I didn’t cut that up. That was just temper.’

      Poirot took out the list he had copied from Mrs Hubbard’s little book.

      ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘and this time it must be the truth. What are you or are you not responsible for of these happenings?’

      Celia glanced down the list and her answer came at once.

      ‘I don’t know anything about the rucksack, or the electric light bulbs, or boracic or bath salts, and the ring was just a mistake. When I realised it was valuable I returned it.’

      ‘I see.’

      ‘Because really I didn’t mean to be dishonest. It was only—’

      ‘Only what?’

      A faintly wary look came into Celia’s eyes.

      ‘I don’t know—really I don’t. I’m all mixed-up.’

      Colin cut in in a peremptory manner.

      ‘I’ll be thankful if you’ll not catechise her. I can promise you that there will be no recurrence of this business. From now on I’ll definitely make myself responsible for her.’

      ‘Oh, Colin, you are good to me.’

      ‘I’d like you to tell me a great deal about yourself, Celia. Your early home life, for instance. Did your father and mother get on well together?’

      ‘Oh no, it was awful—at home—’

      ‘Precisely. And—’

      Mrs Hubbard cut in. She spoke with the voice of authority.

      ‘That will do now, both of you. I’m glad, Celia, that you’ve come and owned up. You’ve caused a great deal of worry and anxiety, though, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself. But I’ll say this. I accept your word that you didn’t spill ink deliberately on Elizabeth’s notes. I don’t believe you’d do a thing like that. Now take yourself off, you and Colin. I’ve had enough of you both for this evening.’

      As the door closed behind them, Mrs Hubbard drew a deep breath.

      ‘Well,’ she said. ‘What do you think of that?’

      There was a twinkle in Hercule Poirot’s eye. He said:

      ‘I think—that we have assisted at a love scene—modern style.’

      Mrs Hubbard made an ejaculation of disapproval.

      ‘Autres temps, autres mœurs,’ murmured Poirot. ‘In my young days the young men lent the girls books on theosophy or discussed Maeterlinck’s “Bluebird”. All was sentiment and high ideals. Nowadays it is the maladjusted lives and the complexes which bring a boy and girl together.’

      ‘All such nonsense,’ said Mrs Hubbard.

      Poirot dissented.

      ‘No, it is not all nonsense. The underlying principles are sound enough—but when one is an earnest young researcher like Colin one sees nothing but complexes and the victim’s unhappy home life.’

      ‘Celia’s father died when she was four years old,’ said Mrs Hubbard. ‘And she’s had a very agreeable childhood with a nice but stupid mother.’

      ‘Ah, but she is wise enough not to say so to the young McNabb! She will say what he wants to hear. She is very much in love.’

      ‘Do you believe all this hooey, M. Poirot?’

      ‘I do not believe that Celia had a Cinderella complex or that she stole things without knowing what she was doing. I think she took the risk of stealing unimportant trifles with the object of attracting the attention of the earnest Colin McNabb—in which object she has been successful. Had she remained a pretty, shy, ordinary girl he might never have looked at her. In my opinion,’ said Poirot, ‘a girl is entitled to attempt desperate measures to get her man.’

      ‘I shouldn’t have thought she had the brains to think it up,’ said Mrs Hubbard.

      Poirot did not reply. He frowned. Mrs Hubbard went on:

      ‘So the whole thing’s been a mare’s nest! I really do apologise, M. Poirot, for taking up your time over such a trivial business. Anyway, all’s well that ends well.’

      ‘No, no.’ Poirot shook his head. ‘I