# The Mystery of the Blue Train/Chapter 29

CHAPTER XXIX
A LETTER FROM HOME
"Dear Katherine—Living among grand friends as you are doing now, I don't suppose you will care to hear any of our news; but as I always thought you were a sensible girl, perhaps you are a trifle less swollen-headed than I suppose. Everything goes on much the same here. There was great trouble about the new curate, who is scandalously high. In my view, he is neither more nor less than a Roman. Everybody has spoken to the Vicar about it, but you know what the Vicar is—all Christian charity and no proper spirit. I have had a lot of trouble with maids lately. That girl Annie was no good—skirts up to her knees and wouldn't wear sensible woollen stockings. Not one of them can bear being spoken to. I have had a lot of pain with my rheumatism one way and another, and Dr. Harris persuaded me to go and see a London specialist—a waste of three guineas and a railway fare, as I told him; but by waiting until Wednesday I managed to get a cheap return. The London doctor pulled a long face and talked all round about and never straight out, until I said to him, 'I'm a plain woman, Doctor, and I like things to be plainly stated. Is it cancer, or is it not?' And then, of course, he had to say it was. They say a year with care, and not too much pain, though I am sure I can bear pain as well as any other Christian woman. Life seems rather lonely at times, with most of my friends dead or gone before. I wish you were in St. Mary Mead, my dear, and that is a fact. If you hadn't come into this money and gone off into grand society, I would have offered you double the salary poor Jane ​gave you to come and look after me; but there—there's no good wanting what we can't get. However, if things should go ill with you—and that is always possible. I have heard no end of tales of bogus noblemen marrying girls and getting hold of their money and then leaving them at the church door. I dare say you are too sensible for anything of the kind to happen to you, but one never knows; and never having had much attention of any kind it might easily go to your head now. So just in case, my dear, remember there is always a home for you here; and though a plain-spoken woman I am a warm-hearted one too.—Your affectionate old friend,
"Amelia Viner.
"P.S.—I saw a mention of you in the paper with your cousin, Viscountess Tamplin, and I cut it out and put it with my cuttings. I prayed for you on Sunday that you might be kept from pride and vainglory."
Katherine read this characteristic epistle through twice, then she laid it down and stared out of her bedroom window across the blue waters of the Mediterranean. She felt a curious lump in her throat. A sudden wave of longing for St. Mary Mead swept over her. So full of familiar, everyday, stupid little things—and yet—home. She felt very inclined to lay her head down on her arms and indulge in a real good cry.
Lenox, coming in at the moment, saved her.
"Hello, Katherine," said Lenox. "I say—what is the matter?"
"Nothing," said Katherine, grabbing up Miss Viner's letter and thrusting it into her handbag.
"You looked rather queer," said Lenox. "I say I hope you don't mind—I rang up your detective friend, M. Poirot, and asked him to lunch with us in Nice. I ​said you wanted to see him, as I thought he might not come for me."
"Did you want to see him then?" asked Katherine.
"Yes," said Lenox. "I have rather lost my heart to him. I never met a man before whose eyes were really green like a cat's."
"All right," said Katherine. She spoke listlessly. The last few days had been trying. Derek Kettering's arrest had been the topic of the hour, and the Blue Train Mystery had been thrashed out from every conceivable standpoint.
"I have ordered the car," said Lenox, "and I have told Mother some lie or other—unfortunately I can't remember exactly what; but it won't matter, as she never remembers. If she knew where we were going, she would want to come too, to pump M. Poirot."
The two girls arrived at the Negresco to find Poirot waiting.
He was full of Gallic politeness, and showered so many compliments upon the two girls that they were soon helpless with laughter; yet for all that the meal was not a gay one. Katherine was dreamy and distracted, and Lenox made bursts of conversation, interspersed by silences. As they were sitting on the terrace sipping their coffee she suddenly attacked Poirot bluntly.
"How are things going? You know what I mean?"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "They take their course," he said.
"And you are just letting them take their course?"
He looked at Lenox a little sadly.
"You are young, Mademoiselle, but there are three ​things that cannot be hurried—le bon Dieu, Nature, and old people."
"Nonsense!" said Lenox. "You are not old."
"Ah, it is pretty what you say there."
"Here is Major Knighton," said Lenox.
Katherine looked round quickly and then turned back again.
"He is with Mr. Van Aldin," continued Lenox.
"There is something I want to ask Major Knighton about. I won't be a minute."
Left alone together, Poirot bent forward and murmured to Katherine:
"You are distraite, Mademoiselle; your thoughts, they are far away, are they not?"
"Just as far as England, no farther."
Guided by a sudden impulse, she took the letter she had received that morning and handed it across to him to read.
"That is the first word that has come to me from my old life; somehow or other—it hurts."
He read it through and then handed it back to her.
"So you are going back to St. Mary Mead?" he said slowly.
"No, I am not," said Katherine; "why should I?"
"Ah," said Poirot, "it is my mistake. You will excuse me one little minute."
He strolled across to where Lenox Tamplin was talking to Van Aldin and Knighton. The American looked old and haggard. He greeted Poirot with a curt nod but without any other sign of animation.
As he turned to reply to some observation made by Lenox, Poirot drew Knighton aside.
​"M. Van Aldin looks ill," he said.
"Do you wonder?" asked Knighton. "The scandal of Derek Kettering's arrest has about put the lid on things, as far as he is concerned. He is even regretting that he asked you to find out the truth."
"He should go back to England," said Poirot.
"We are going the day after to-morrow."
"That is good news," said Poirot.
He hesitated, and looked across the terrace to where Katherine was sitting.
"I wish," he murmured, "that you could tell Miss Grey that."
"Tell her what?"
"That you—I mean that M. Van Aldin is returning to England."
Knighton looked a little puzzled, but he readily crossed the terrace and joined Katherine.
Poirot saw him go with a satisfied nod of the head, and then joined Lenox and the American. After a minute or two they joined the others. Conversation was general for a few minutes, then the millionaire and his secretary departed. Poirot also prepared to take his departure.
"A thousand thanks for your hospitality, Mesdemoiselles," he cried; "it has been a most charming luncheon. Ma foi, I needed it!" He swelled out his chest and thumped it. "I am now a lion—a giant. Ah, Mademoiselle Katherine, you have not seen me as I can be. You have seen the gentle, the calm Hercule Poirot; but there is another Hercule Poirot. I go now to bully, to threaten, to strike terror into the hearts of those who listen to me."
​He looked at them in a self-satisfied way, and they both appeared to be duly impressed, though Lenox was biting her under lip, and the corners of Katherine's mouth had a suspicious twitch.
"And I shall do it," he said gravely. "Oh yes, I shall succeed."
He had gone but a few steps when Katherine's voice made him turn.
"M. Poirot, I—I want to tell you. I think you were right in what you said. I am going back to England almost immediately."
Poirot stared at her very hard, and under the directness of his scrutiny she blushed.
"I see," he said gravely.
"I don't believe you do," said Katherine.
"I know more than you think. Mademoiselle," he said quietly.
He left her, with an odd little smile upon his lips. Entering a waiting car, he drove to Antibes.
Hippolyte, the Comte de la Roche's wooden-faced man-servant, was busy at the Villa Marina polishing his master's beautiful cut table glass. The Comte de la Roche himself had gone to Monte Carlo for the day. Chancing to look out of the window, Hippolyte espied a visitor walking briskly up to the hall door, a visitor of so uncommon a type that Hippolyte, experienced as he was, had some difficulty in placing him. Calling to his wife, Marie, who was busy in the kitchen, he drew her attention to what he called ce type là.
"It is not the police again?" said Marie anxiously.
"Look for yourself," said Hippolyte.
Marie looked.
​"Certainly not the police," she declared. "I am glad."
"They have not really worried us much," said Hippolyte. "In fact, but for Monsieur le Comte's warning, I should never have guessed that stranger at the wineshop to be what he was."
The hall bell pealed and Hippolyte, in a grave and decorous manner, went to open the door.
"M. le Comte, I regret to say, is not at home."
The little man with the large moustaches beamed placidly.
"I know that," he replied. "You are Hippolyte Flavelle, are you not?"
"Yes, Monsieur, that is my name."
"And you have a wife, Marie Flavelle?"
"Yes, Monsieur, but——"
"I desire to see you both," said the stranger, and he stepped nimbly past Hippolyte into the hall.
"Your wife is doubtless in the kitchen," he said. "I will go there."
Before Hippolyte could recover his breath, the other had selected the right door at the back of the hall and passed along the passage and into the kitchen, where Marie paused open-mouthed to stare at him.
"Voilà" said the stranger, and sank into a wooden arm-chair; "I am Hercule Poirot."
"Yes, Monsieur?"
"You do not know the name?"
"I have never heard it," said Hippolyte.
"Permit me to say that you have been badly educated. It is the name of one of the great ones of this world."
He sighed and folded his hands across his chest.
​Hippolyte and Marie were staring at him uneasily. They were at a loss what to make of this unexpected and extremely strange visitor.
"Monsieur desires——" murmured Hippolyte mechanically.
"I desire to know why you have lied to the police."
"Monsieur!" cried Hippolyte; "I—lied to the police? Never have I done such a thing."
M. Poirot shook his head.
"You are wrong," he said; "you have done it on several occasions. Let me see." He took a small notebook from his pocket and consulted it. "Ah, yes; on seven occasions at least. I will recite them to you."
In a gentle unemotional voice he proceeded to outline the seven occasions.
Hippolyte was taken aback.
"But it is not of these past lapses that I wish to speak," continued Poirot, "only, my dear friend, do not get into the habit of thinking yourself too clever. I come now to the particular lie in which I am concerned—your statement that the Comte de la Roche arrived at this villa on the morning of 14th January."
"But that was no lie. Monsieur; that was the truth. Monsieur le Comte arrived here on the morning of Tuesday, the 14th. That is so, Marie, is it not?"
Marie assented eagerly.
"Ah, yes, that is quite right. I remember it perfectly."
"Ah," said Poirot, "and what did you give your good master for déjeuner that day?"
"I——" Marie paused, trying to collect herself.
​"Odd," said Poirot, "how one remembers some things—and forgets others."
He leant forward and struck the table a blow with his fist; his eyes flashed with anger.
"Yes, yes, it is as I say. You tell your lies and you think nobody knows. But there are two people who know. Yes—two people. One is le bon Dieu——"
He raised a hand to heaven, and then settling himself back in his chair and shutting his eyelids, he murmured comfortably:
"And the other is Hercule Poirot."
"I assure you, Monsieur, you are completely mistaken. Monsieur le Comte left Paris on Monday night——"
"True," said Poirot—"by the Rapide. I do not know where he broke his journey. Perhaps you do not know that. What I do know is that he arrived here on Wednesday morning, and not on Tuesday morning."
"Monsieur is mistaken," said Marie stolidly.
Poirot rose to his feet.
"Then the law must take its course," he murmured. "A pity."
"What do you mean, Monsieur?" asked Marie, with a shade of uneasiness.
"You will be arrested and held as accomplices concerned in the murder of Mrs. Kettering, the English lady who was killed."
"Murder!"
The man's face had gone chalk white, his knees knocked together. Marie dropped the rolling-pin and began to weep.
"But it is impossible—impossible. I thought——"
​"Since you stick to your story, there is nothing to be said. I think you are both foolish."
He was turning towards the door when an agitated voice arrested him.
"Monsieur, Monsieur, just a little moment. I—I had no idea that it was anything of this kind. I—I thought it was just a matter concerning a lady. There have been little awkwardnesses with the police over ladies before. But murder—that is very different."
"I have no patience with you," cried Poirot. He turned round on them and angrily shook his fist in Hippolyte's face. "Am I to stop here all day, arguing with a couple of imbeciles thus? It is the truth I want. If you will not give it to me, that is your look out. For the last time, when did Monsieur le Comte arrive at the Villa Marina—Tuesday morning or Wednesday morning?"
"Wednesday," gasped the man, and behind him Marie nodded confirmation.
Poirot regarded them for a minute or two, then inclined his head gravely.
"You are wise, my children," he said quietly. "Very nearly you were in serious trouble."
He left the Villa Marina, smiling to himself.
"One guess confirmed," he murmured to himself. "Shall I take a chance on the other?"
It was six o'clock when the card of Monsieur Hercule Poirot was brought up to Mirelle. She stared at it for a moment or two, and then nodded. When Poirot entered, he found her walking up and down the room feverishly. She turned on him furiously.
"Well?" she cried. "Well? What is it now? Have you ​not tortured me enough, all of you? Have you not made me betray my poor Dereek? What more do you want?"
"Just one little question, Mademoiselle. After the train left Lyons, when you entered Mrs. Kettering's compartment——"
"What is that?"
Poirot looked at her with an air of mild reproach and began again.
"I say when you entered Mrs. Kettering's compartment——"
"I never did."
"And found her——"
"I never did."
"Ah, sacré!"
He turned on her in a rage and shouted at her, so that she cowered back before him.
"Will you lie to me? I tell you I know what happened as well as though I had been there. You went into her compartment and you found her dead. I tell you I know it. To lie to me is dangerous. Be careful. Mademoiselle Mirelle."
Her eyes wavered beneath his gaze and fell.
"I—I didn't——" she began uncertainly and stopped.
"There is only one thing about which I wonder," said Poirot—"I wonder, Mademoiselle, if you found what you were looking for or whether——"
"Whether what?"
"Or whether some one else had been before you."
"I will answer no more questions," screamed the dancer. She tore herself away from Poirot’s restraining hand, and flinging herself down on the floor in a ​frenzy, she screamed and sobbed. A frightened maid came rushing in.
Hercule Poirot shrugged his shoulders, raised his eyebrows, and quietly left the room.
But he seemed satisfied.