Death on the Nile. Agatha Christie

planting herself in the village, so that I should see her every time I went out of the grounds.’

      ‘True.’

      ‘Besides,’ said Linnet slowly, ‘I don’t think that Simon would agree to run away.’

      ‘What is his attitude in this?’

      ‘He’s furious–simply furious.’

      Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

      Linnet said appealingly, ‘You will–talk to her?’

      ‘Yes, I will do that. But it is my opinion that I shall not be able to accomplish anything.’

      Linnet said violently: ‘Jackie is extraordinary! One can’t tell what she will do!’

      ‘You spoke just now of certain threats she had made. Would you tell me what those threats were?’

      Linnet shrugged her shoulders.

      ‘She threatened to–well–kill us both. Jackie can be rather–hot-headed sometimes.’

      ‘I see.’ Poirot’s tone was grave.

      Linnet turned to him appealingly.

      ‘You will act for me?’

      ‘No, Madame.’ His tone was firm. ‘I will not accept a commission from you. I will do what I can in the interests of humanity. That, yes. There is here a situation that is full of difficulty and danger. I will do what I can to clear it up–but I am not very sanguine as to my chance of success.’

      Linnet Doyle said slowly: ‘But you will not act for me?’

      ‘No, Madame,’ said Hercule Poirot.

       Chapter 5

      Hercule Poirot found Jacqueline de Bellefort sitting on the rocks directly overlooking the Nile. He had felt fairly certain that she had not retired for the night and that he would find her somewhere about the grounds of the hotel.

      She was sitting with her chin cupped in the palms of her hands, and she did not turn her head or look around at the sound of his approach.

      ‘Mademoiselle de Bellefort?’ asked Poirot. ‘You permit that I speak to you for a little moment?’

      Jacqueline turned her head slightly. A faint smile played round her lips.

      ‘Certainly,’ she said. ‘You are Monsieur Hercule Poirot, I think? Shall I make a guess? You are acting for Mrs Doyle, who has promised you a large fee if you succeed in your mission.’

      Poirot sat down on the bench near her.

      ‘Your assumption is partially correct,’ he said, smiling. ‘I have just come from Madame Doyle, but I am not accepting any fee from her and, strictly speaking, I am not acting for her.’

      ‘Oh!’

      Jacqueline studied him attentively.

      ‘Then why have you come?’ she asked abruptly.

      Hercule Poirot’s reply was in the form of another question.

      ‘Have you ever seen me before, Mademoiselle?’

      She shook her head.

      ‘No, I do not think so.’

      ‘Yet I have seen you. I sat next to you once at Chez Ma Tante. You were there with Monsieur Simon Doyle.’

      A strange mask like expression came over the girl’s face. She said, ‘I remember that evening…’

      ‘Since then,’ said Poirot, ‘many things have occurred.’

      ‘As you say, many things have occurred.’

      Her voice was hard with an undertone of desperate bitterness.

      ‘Mademoiselle, I speak as a friend. Bury your dead!’

      She looked startled.

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘Give up the past! Turn to the future! What is done is done. Bitterness will not undo it.’

      ‘I’m sure that that would suit dear Linnet admirably.’

      Poirot made a gesture.

      ‘I am not thinking of her at this moment! I am thinking of you. You have suffered–yes–but what you are doing now will only prolong the suffering.’

      She shook her head.

      ‘You’re wrong. There are times when I almost enjoy myself.’

      ‘And that, Mademoiselle, is the worst of all.’

      She looked up swiftly.

      ‘You’re not stupid,’ she said. She added slowly, ‘I believe you mean to be kind.’

      ‘Go home, Mademoiselle. You are young; you have brains, the world is before you.’

      Jacqueline shook her head slowly.

      ‘You don’t understand–or you won’t. Simon is my world.’

      ‘Love is not everything, Mademoiselle,’ Poirot said gently. ‘It is only when we are young that we think it is.’

      But the girl still shook her head.

      ‘You don’t understand.’ She shot him a quick look. ‘You know all about it, of course? You’ve talked to Linnet? And you were in the restaurant that night…Simon and I loved each other.’

      ‘I know that you loved him.’

      She was quick to perceive the inflection of his words. She repeated with emphasis:

      ‘We loved each other. And I loved Linnet…I trusted her. She was my best friend. All her life Linnet has been able to buy everything she wanted. She’s never denied herself anything. When she saw Simon she wanted him–and she just took him.’

      ‘And he allowed himself to be–bought?’

      Jacqueline shook her dark head slowly.

      ‘No, it’s not quite like that. If it were, I shouldn’t be here now…You’re suggesting that Simon isn’t worth caring for…If he’d married Linnet for her money, that would be true. But he didn’t marry her for her money. It’s more complicated than that. There’s such a thing as glamour, Monsieur Poirot. And money helps that. Linnet had an “atmosphere”, you see. She was the queen of a kingdom–the young princess–luxurious to her fingertips. It was like a stage setting. She had the world at her feet, one of the richest and most sought-after peers in England wanting to marry her. And she stoops instead to the obscure Simon Doyle…Do you wonder it went to his head?’ She made a sudden gesture. ‘Look at the moon up there. You see her very plainly, don’t you? She’s very real. But if the sun were to shine you wouldn’t be able to see her at all. It was rather like that. I was the moon…When the sun came out, Simon couldn’t see me any more…He was dazzled. He couldn’t see anything but the sun–Linnet.’

      She paused and then she went on: ‘So you see it was–glamour. She went to his head. And then there’s her complete assurance–her habit of command. She’s so sure of herself that she makes other people sure. Simon was weak, perhaps, but then he’s a very simple person. He would have loved me and me only if Linnet hadn’t come along and snatched him up in her golden chariot. And I know–I know perfectly–that he wouldn’t ever have fallen in love with her if she hadn’t made him.’

      ‘That is what you think–yes.’

      ‘I know it. He loved me–he will always love me.’

      Poirot said: ‘Even now?’

      A quick answer seemed to rise to her lips, then be stifled. She looked at Poirot and a deep burning colour spread over her face. She looked away;