A great many years ago, when my wife was only a young girl, she passed through a terrible ordeal. She has, I hope, recovered from the shock. I have come to believe that she has forgotten it. Now you appear and necessarily your questions will reawaken these old memories.”
“It is regrettable,” said Hercule Poirot politely.
“I do not know quite what the result will be.”
“I can only assure you, Lord Dittisham, that I shall be as discreet as possible, and do all I can not to distress Lady Dittisham. She is, no doubt, of a delicate and nervous temperament.”
Then, suddenly and surprisingly, the other laughed. He said, “Elsa? Elsa's as strong as a horse!”
“Then -” Poirot paused diplomatically. The situation intrigued him.
Lord Dittisham said, “My wife is equal to any amount of shocks. I wonder if you know her reason for seeing you?”
Poirot replied placidly, “Curiosity?”
A kind of respect showed in the other man's eyes. “Ah, you realize that?”
“It is inevitable,” Hercule Poirot said. “Women will always see a private detective. Men will tell him to go to the devil.”
“Some women might tell him to go to the devil, too.”
“After they have seen him - not before.”
“Perhaps.” Lord Dittisham paused. “What is the idea behind this book?”
Hercule Poirot shrugged his shoulders. “One resurrects the old tunes, the old stage turns, the old costumes. One resurrects, too, the old murders.”
“Faugh!” said Lord Dittisham.
“Faugh! if you like. But you will not alter human nature by saying faugh. Murder is a drama. The desire for drama is very strong in the human race.”
Lord Dittisham murmured, “I know - I know...”
He rose and rang the bell. “My wife will be waiting for you,” he said brusquely.
The door opened.
“You rang, my lord?”
“Take M. Poirot up to her ladyship.”
Up two flights of stairs, feet sinking into soft-pile carpets. Subdued flood lighting. Money, money everywhere. Of taste, not so much. There had been a somber austerity in Lord Dittisham's room. But here, in the house, there was only a solid lavishness. The best. Not necessarily the showiest nor the most startling. Merely “expense no object,” allied to a lack of imagination.
It was not a large room into which Poirot was shown. The big drawing-room was on the first floor. This was the personal sitting-room of the mistress of the house, and the mistress of the house was standing against the mantelpiece as Poirot was announced and shown in.
A phrase leaped into his startled mind and refused to be driven out: She died young...
That was his thought as he looked at Elsa Dittisham who had been Elsa Greer.
He would never have recognized her from the picture Meredith Blake had shown him. That had been, above all, a picture of youth, a picture of vitality. Here there was no youth - there might never have been youth. And yet he realized, as he had not realized from Crale's picture, that Elsa was beautiful. Yes, it was a very beautiful woman who came forward to meet him. And certainly not old. After all, what was she? Not more than thirty-six now, if she had been twenty at the time of the tragedy.
He felt a strange pang. It was, perhaps, the fault of old Mr Johnathan, speaking of Juliet... No Juliet here - unless perhaps one could imagine Juliet a survivor - living on, deprived of Romeo... Was it not an essential part of Juliet's make-up that she should die young?
Elsa Greer had been left alive...
She was greeting him in a level, rather monotonous voice. “I am so interested, M. Poirot! Sit down and tell me what you want me to do.”
He thought: “But she isn't interested. Nothing interests her.”
Big gray eyes - like dead lakes.
Poirot became, as was his way, a little obviously foreign. He exclaimed, “I am confused, madame, veritably I am confused.”
“Oh, no; why?”
“Because I realize that this - this reconstruction of a past drama must be excessively painful to
“It is regrettable,” said Hercule Poirot politely.
“I do not know quite what the result will be.”
“I can only assure you, Lord Dittisham, that I shall be as discreet as possible, and do all I can not to distress Lady Dittisham. She is, no doubt, of a delicate and nervous temperament.”
Then, suddenly and surprisingly, the other laughed. He said, “Elsa? Elsa's as strong as a horse!”
“Then -” Poirot paused diplomatically. The situation intrigued him.
Lord Dittisham said, “My wife is equal to any amount of shocks. I wonder if you know her reason for seeing you?”
Poirot replied placidly, “Curiosity?”
A kind of respect showed in the other man's eyes. “Ah, you realize that?”
“It is inevitable,” Hercule Poirot said. “Women will always see a private detective. Men will tell him to go to the devil.”
“Some women might tell him to go to the devil, too.”
“After they have seen him - not before.”
“Perhaps.” Lord Dittisham paused. “What is the idea behind this book?”
Hercule Poirot shrugged his shoulders. “One resurrects the old tunes, the old stage turns, the old costumes. One resurrects, too, the old murders.”
“Faugh!” said Lord Dittisham.
“Faugh! if you like. But you will not alter human nature by saying faugh. Murder is a drama. The desire for drama is very strong in the human race.”
Lord Dittisham murmured, “I know - I know...”
He rose and rang the bell. “My wife will be waiting for you,” he said brusquely.
The door opened.
“You rang, my lord?”
“Take M. Poirot up to her ladyship.”
Up two flights of stairs, feet sinking into soft-pile carpets. Subdued flood lighting. Money, money everywhere. Of taste, not so much. There had been a somber austerity in Lord Dittisham's room. But here, in the house, there was only a solid lavishness. The best. Not necessarily the showiest nor the most startling. Merely “expense no object,” allied to a lack of imagination.
It was not a large room into which Poirot was shown. The big drawing-room was on the first floor. This was the personal sitting-room of the mistress of the house, and the mistress of the house was standing against the mantelpiece as Poirot was announced and shown in.
A phrase leaped into his startled mind and refused to be driven out: She died young...
That was his thought as he looked at Elsa Dittisham who had been Elsa Greer.
He would never have recognized her from the picture Meredith Blake had shown him. That had been, above all, a picture of youth, a picture of vitality. Here there was no youth - there might never have been youth. And yet he realized, as he had not realized from Crale's picture, that Elsa was beautiful. Yes, it was a very beautiful woman who came forward to meet him. And certainly not old. After all, what was she? Not more than thirty-six now, if she had been twenty at the time of the tragedy.
He felt a strange pang. It was, perhaps, the fault of old Mr Johnathan, speaking of Juliet... No Juliet here - unless perhaps one could imagine Juliet a survivor - living on, deprived of Romeo... Was it not an essential part of Juliet's make-up that she should die young?
Elsa Greer had been left alive...
She was greeting him in a level, rather monotonous voice. “I am so interested, M. Poirot! Sit down and tell me what you want me to do.”
He thought: “But she isn't interested. Nothing interests her.”
Big gray eyes - like dead lakes.
Poirot became, as was his way, a little obviously foreign. He exclaimed, “I am confused, madame, veritably I am confused.”
“Oh, no; why?”
“Because I realize that this - this reconstruction of a past drama must be excessively painful to
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