Death in the Clouds by Agatha Christie

is my belief that Madame had never seen that daughter since she was a tiny baby.’
    ‘How was that?’ demanded Fournier sharply.
    Elise’s hands flew out in an expressive gesture.
    ‘I do not know. It was in the days when Madame was young. I have heard that she was pretty then—pretty and poor. She may have been married; she may not. Myself, I think not. Doubtless some arrangement was made about the child. As for Madame, she had the smallpox—she was very ill—she nearly died. When she got well her beauty was gone. There were no more follies, no more romance. Madame became a woman of business.’
    ‘But she left her money to this daughter?’
    ‘That is only right,’ said Elise. ‘Who should one leave one’s money to except one’s own flesh and blood? Blood is thicker than water; and Madame had no friends. She was always alone. Money was her passion—to make more and more money. She spent very little. She had no love for luxury.’
    ‘She left you a legacy. You know that?’
    ‘But yes, I have been informed. Madame was always generous. She gave me a good sum every year as well as my wages. I am very grateful to Madame.’
    ‘Well,’ said Fournier, ‘we will take our leave. On the way out I will have another word with old Georges.’
    ‘Permit me to follow you in a little minute, my friend,’ said Poirot.
    ‘As you wish.’
    Fournier departed.
    Poirot roamed once more round the room, then sat down and fixed his eyes on Elise.
    Under his scrutiny the Frenchwoman got slightly restive.
    ‘Is there anything more Monsieur requires to know?’
    ‘Mademoiselle Grandier,’ said Poirot, ‘do you know who murdered your mistress?’
    ‘No, Monsieur. Before the good God I swear it.’
    She spoke very earnestly. Poirot looked at her searchingly, then bent his head.
    ‘ Bien ,’ he said. ‘I accept that. But knowledge is one thing, suspicion is another. Have you any idea—an idea only—who might have done such a thing?’
    ‘I have no idea, Monsieur. I have already said so to the agent of police.’
    ‘You might say one thing to him and another thing to me.’
    ‘Why do you say that, Monsieur? Why should I do such a thing?’
    ‘Because it is one thing to give information to the police and another thing to give it to a private individual.’
    ‘Yes,’ admitted Elise. ‘That is true.’
    A look of indecision came over her face. She seemed to be thinking. Watching her very closely, Poirot leaned forward and spoke:
    ‘Shall I tell you something, Mademoiselle Grandier? It is part of my business to believe nothing I am told—nothing that is, that is not proved . I do not suspect first this person and then that person. I suspect everybody . Anybody connected with a crime is regarded by me as a criminal until that person is proved innocent.’
    Elise Grandier scowled at him angrily.
    ‘Are you saying that you suspect me— me —of having murdered Madame? It is too strong, that! Such a thought is of a wickedness unbelievable!’
    Her large bosom rose and fell tumultuously.
    ‘No, Elise,’ said Poirot. ‘I do not suspect you of having murdered Madame. Whoever murdered Madame was a passenger in the aeroplane. Therefore it was not your hand that did the deed. But you might have been an accomplice before the act . You might have passed on to someone the details of Madame’s journey.’
    ‘I did not. I swear I did not.’
    Poirot looked at her again for some minutes in silence. Then he nodded his head.
    ‘I believe you,’ he said. ‘But, nevertheless, there is something that you conceal. Oh, yes there is! Listen, I will tell you something. In every case of a criminal nature one comes across the same phenomena when questioning witnesses. Everyone keeps something back . Sometimes—often indeed—it is something quite harmless, something, perhaps, quite unconnectedwith the crime; but—I say it again—there is always something . That is so with you. Oh, do not deny! I am Hercule Poirot and I know . When