Appointment With Death

by Agatha Christie

  His shot proved right. He saw it in the way the colour drained out of her cheeks again.

  ‘You know about that?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘But how—how?’

  ‘Part of your conversation was overheard.’

  ‘Oh!’ Carol Boynton buried her face in her hands. Her sobs shook the table.

  Hercule Poirot waited a minute, then he said quietly:

  ‘You were planning together to bring about your stepmother’s death.’

  Carol sobbed out brokenly: ‘We were mad—mad—that evening!’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘It’s impossible for you to understand the state we were in!’ She sat up, pushing back the hair from her face. ‘It would sound fantastic. It wasn’t so bad in America—but travelling brought it home to us so.’

  ‘Brought what home to you?’ His voice was kind now, sympathetic.

  ‘Our being different from—other people! We—we got desperate about it. And there was Jinny.’

  ‘Jinny?’

  ‘My sister. You haven’t seen her. She was going—well, queer. And Mother was making her worse. She didn’t seem to realize. We were afraid, Ray and I, that Jinny was going quite, quite mad! And we saw Nadine thought so, too, and that made us more afraid because Nadine knows about nursing and things like that.’

  ‘Yes, yes?’

  ‘That evening in Jerusalem things kind of boiled up! Ray was beside himself. He and I got all strung up and it seemed—oh, indeed, it did seem right to plan as we did! Mother—Mother wasn’t sane. I don’t know what you think, but it can seem quite right—almost noble—to kill someone!’

  Poirot nodded his head slowly. ‘Yes, it has seemed so, I know, to many. That is proved by history.’

  ‘That’s how Ray and I felt—that night…’ She beat her hand on the table. ‘But we didn’t really do it. Of course we didn’t do it! When daylight came the whole thing seemed absurd, melodramatic—oh, yes, and wicked too! Indeed, indeed, M. Poirot, Mother died perfectly naturally of heart failure. Ray and I had nothing to do with it.’

  Poirot said quietly: ‘Will you swear to me, mademoiselle, as you hope for salvation after death, that Mrs Boynton did not die as the result of any action of yours?’

  She lifted her head. Her voice came steady and deep:

  ‘I swear,’ said Carol, ‘as I hope for salvation, that I never harmed her…’

  Poirot leaned back in his chair.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘that is that.’

  There was silence. Poirot thoughtfully caressed his superb moustaches. Then he said: ‘What exactly was your plan?’

  ‘Plan?’

  ‘Yes, you and you brother must have had a plan.’

  In his mind he ticked off the seconds before her answer came. One, two, three.

  ‘We had no plan,’ said Carol at last. ‘We never got as far as that.’

  Hercule Poirot got up.

  ‘That is all, mademoiselle. Will you be so good as to send your brother to me?’

  Carol rose. She stood undecidedly for a minute.

  ‘M. Poirot, you do—you do believe me?’

  ‘Have I said,’ asked Poirot, ‘that I do not?’

  ‘No, but—’ She stopped.

  He said: ‘You will ask your brother to come here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She went slowly towards the door. She stopped as she got to it, turning round passionately.

  ‘I have told you the truth—I have!’

  Hercule Poirot did not answer.

  Carol Boynton went slowly out of the room.

  Chapter 9

  Poirot noted the likeness between brother and sister as Raymond Boynton came into the room.

  His face was stern and set. He did not seem nervous or afraid. He dropped into a chair, stared hard at Poirot, and said: ‘Well?’

  Poirot said gently: ‘Your sister has spoken with you?’

  Raymond nodded. ‘Yes, when she told me to come here. Of course I realize that your suspicions are quite justified. If our conversation was overheard that night, the fact that my stepmother died rather suddenly certainly would seem suspicious! I can only assure you that the conversation was—the madness of an evening! We were, at the time, under an intolerable strain. This fantastic plan of killing my stepmother did—oh, how shall I put it?—it let off steam somehow!’

  Hercule Poirot bent his head slowly.

  ‘That,’ he said, ‘is possible.’

  ‘In the morning, of course, it all seemed—rather absurd! I swear to you, M. Poirot, that I never thought of the matter again!’

  Poirot did not answer.

  Raymond said quickly:

  ‘Oh, yes, I know that that is easy enough to say. I cannot expect you to believe me on my bare word. But consider the facts. I spoke to my mother just a little before six o’clock. She was certainly alive and well then. I went to my tent, had a wash and joined the others in the marquee. From that time onwards neither Carol nor I moved from the place. We were in full sight of everyone. You must see, M. Poirot, that my mother’s death was natural—a case of heart failure—it couldn’t be anything else! There were servants about, a lot of coming and going. Any other idea is absurd.’

  Poirot said quietly: ‘Do you know, Mr Boynton, that Miss King is of the opinion that when she examined the body—at six-thirty—death had occurred at least an hour and a half and probably two hours earlier?’

  Raymond stared at him. He looked dumbfounded.

  ‘Sarah said that?’ he gasped.

  Poirot nodded. ‘What have you to say now?’

  ‘But—it’s impossible!’

  ‘That is Miss King’s testimony. Now you come and tell me that your mother was alive and well only forty minutes before Miss King examined the body.’

  Raymond said: ‘But she was!’

  ‘Be careful, Mr Boynton.’

  ‘Sarah must be mistaken! There must be some factor she didn’t take into account. Refraction off the rock—something. I can assure you, M. Poirot, that my mother was alive at just before six and that I spoke to her.’

  Poirot’s face showed nothing.

  Raymond leant forward earnestly.

  ‘M. Poirot, I know how it must seem to you, but look at the thing fairly. You are a biased person. You are bound to be by the nature of things. You live in an atmosphere of crime. Every sudden death must seem to you a possible crime! Can’t you realize that your sense of proportion is not to be relied upon? People die every day—especially people with weak hearts—and there is nothing in the least sinister about such deaths.’

  Poirot sighed. ‘So you would teach me my business, is that it?’

  ‘No, of course not. But I do think that you are prejudiced—because of that unfortunate conversation. There is nothing really about my mother’s death to awaken suspicion except that unlucky hysterical conversation between Carol and myself.’

  Poirot shook his head. ‘You are in error,’ he said. ‘There is something else. There is the poison taken from Dr Gerard’s medicine chest.’

  ‘Poison?’ Ray stared at him. ‘Poison?’ He pushed his chair back a little. He looked completely stupefied. ‘Is that what you suspect?’

  Poirot gave him a minute or two. Then he said quietly, almost indifferently: ‘Your plan was different—eh?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Raymond answered mechanically. ‘That’s why—this changes everything…I—I can’t think clearly.’

  ‘What was your plan?’

  ‘Our plan? It was—’

  Raymond stopped abruptly. His eyes became alert, suddenly watchful.

  ‘I don’t think,’ he said, ‘that I’ll say any more.’

  ‘As you please,’ said Poirot.

  He watched the young man out of the room.

  He drew his pad towards him and in small, neat characters made a final entry. R.B. 5.55?

  Then, taking a large sheet of paper, he proceeded to write. His task completed, he sat back with his head
on one side contemplating the result. It ran as follows:

  Boyntons and Jefferson Cope leave the camp 3.5 (approx.)

  Dr Gerard and Sarah King leave the camp 3.15 (approx.)

  Lady Westholme and Miss Pierce leave the camp 4.15

  Dr Gerard returns to camp 4.20 (approx.)

  Lennox Boynton returns to camp 4.35

  Nadine Boynton returns to camp and talks to Mrs Boynton 4.40

  Nadine Boynton leaves her mother-in-law and goes to marquee 4.50 (approx.)

  Carol Boynton returns to camp 5.10

  Lady Westholme, Miss Pierce and Mr Jefferson Cope

  return to camp 5.40

  Raymond Boynton returns to camp 5.50

  Sarah King returns to camp 6.0

  Body discovered 6.30

  Chapter 10

  ‘I wonder,’ said Hercule Poirot. He folded up the list, went to the door and ordered Mahmoud to be brought to him. The stout dragoman was voluble. Words dripped from him in a rising flood.

  ‘Always, always, I am blamed. When anything happens, say always, my fault. Always my fault. When Lady Ellen Hunt sprain her ankle coming down from Place of Sacrifice it my fault, though she would go high-heeled shoes and she sixty at least—perhaps seventy. My life all one misery! Ah! what with miseries and iniquities, Jews do to us—’

  At last Poirot succeeded in stemming the flood and in getting in his question.

  ‘Half-past five o’clock, you say? No, I not think any of servants were about then. You see, lunch is late—two o’clock. And then to clear it away. After the lunch all afternoon sleep. Yes, Americans, they not take tea. We all settle sleep by half-past three. At five I who am soul of efficiency—always—always I watch for the comfort of ladies and gentlemen I serving, I come out knowing that time all English ladies want tea. But no one there. They all gone walking. For me, that is very well—better than usual. I can go back sleep. At quarter to six trouble begin—large English lady—very grand lady—come back and want tea although boys are now laying dinner. She makes quite fuss—says water must be boiling—I am to see myself. Ah, my good gentlemen! What a life—what a life! I do all I can—always I blamed—I—’

  Poirot asked about the recriminations.

  ‘There is another small matter. The dead lady was angry with one of the boys. Do you know which one it was and what it was about?’

  Mahmoud’s hands rose to heaven.

  ‘Should I know? But naturally not. Old lady did not complain to me.’

  ‘Could you find out?’

  ‘No, my good gentlemen, that would be impossible. None of the boys admit it for a moment. Old lady angry, you say? Then naturally boys would not tell. Abdul say it Mohammed, and Mohammed say it Aziz and Aziz say it Aissa, and so on. They are all very stupid Bedouin—understand nothing.’

  He took a breath and continued: ‘Now I, I have advantage of Mission education. I recite to you Keats—Shelley—“Iadadoveandasweedovedied—”’

  Poirot flinched. Though English was not his native tongue, he knew it well enough to suffer from the strange enunciation of Mahmoud.

  ‘Superb!’ he said hastily. ‘Superb! Definitely I recommend you to all my friends.’

  He contrived to escape from the dragoman’s eloquence. Then he took his list to Colonel Carbury, whom he found in his office.

  Carbury pushed his tie a little more askew and asked:

  ‘Got anything?’

  Poirot said: ‘Shall I tell you a theory of mine?’

  ‘If you like,’ said Colonel Carbury and sighed. One way and another he heard a good many theories in the course of his existence.

  ‘My theory is that criminology is the easiest science in the world! One has only to let the criminal talk—sooner or later he will tell you everything.’

  ‘I remember you said something of the kind before. Who’s been telling you things?’

  ‘Everybody.’ Briefly, Poirot retailed the interviews he had had that morning.

  ‘H’m,’ said Carbury. ‘Yes, you’ve got hold of a pointer or two, perhaps. Pity of it is they all seem to point in opposite directions. Have we got a case, that’s what I want to know?’

  ‘No.’

  Carbury sighed again. ‘I was afraid not.’

  ‘But before nightfall,’ said Poirot, ‘you shall have the truth!’

  ‘Well, that’s all you ever promised me,’ said Colonel Carbury. ‘And I rather doubted you getting that! Sure of it?’

  ‘I am very sure.’

  ‘Must be nice to feel like that,’ commented the other.

  If there was a faint twinkle in his eye, Poirot appeared unaware of it. He produced his list.

  ‘Neat,’ said Colonel Carbury approvingly.

  He bent over it.

  After a minute or two he said: ‘Know what I think?’

  ‘I should be delighted if you would tell me.’

  ‘Young Raymond Boynton’s out of it.’

  ‘Ah! you think so?’

  ‘Yes. Clear as a bell what he thought. We might have known he’d be out of it. Being, as in detective stories, the most likely person. Since you practically overheard him saying he was going to bump off the old lady—we might have known that meant he was innocent!’

  ‘You read the detective stories, yes?’

  ‘Thousands of them,’ said Colonel Carbury. He added, and his tone was that of a wistful schoolboy: ‘I suppose you couldn’t do the things the detective does in books? Write a list of significant facts—things that don’t seem to mean anything but are really frightfully important—that sort of thing.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Poirot kindly. ‘You like that kind of detective story? But certainly, I will do it for you with pleasure.’

  He drew a sheet of paper towards him and wrote quickly and neatly:

  Significant points

  Mrs Boynton was taking a mixture containing digitalis.

  Dr Gerard missed a hypodermic syringe.

  Mrs Boynton took definite pleasure in keeping her family from enjoying themselves with other people.

  Mrs Boynton, on the afternoon in question, encouraged her family to go away and leave her.

  Mrs Boynton was a mental sadist.

  The distance from the marquee to the place where Mrs Boynton was sitting is (roughly) two hundred yards.

  Mr Lennox Boynton said at first he did not know what time he returned to the camp, but later he admitted having set his mother’s wrist-watch to the right time.

  Dr Gerard and Miss Genevra Boynton occupied tents next door to each other.

  At half-past six, when dinner was ready, a servant was dispatched to announce the fact to Mrs Boynton.

  The Colonel perused this with great satisfaction.

  ‘Capital!’ he said. ‘Just the thing! You’ve made it difficult—and seemingly irrelevant—absolutely the authentic touch! By the way, it seems to me there are one or two noticeable omissions. But that, I suppose, is what you tempt the mug with?’

  Poirot’s eyes twinkled a little, but he did not answer.

  ‘Point two, for instance,’ said Colonel Carbury tentatively. ‘Dr Gerard missed a hypodermic syringe—yes. He also missed a concentrated solution of digitalis—or something of that kind.’

  ‘The latter point,’ said Poirot, ‘is not important in the way the absence of his hypodermic syringe is important.’

  ‘Splendid!’ said Colonel Carbury, his face irradiated with smiles. ‘I don’t get it at all. I should have said the digitalis was much more important than the syringe! And what about that servant motif that keeps cropping up—a servant being sent to tell her dinner was ready—and that story of her shaking her stick at a servant earlier in the afternoon? You’re not going to tell me one of my poor desert mutts bumped her off after all? Because,’ added Colonel Carbury sternly, ‘if so, that would be cheating.’

  Poirot smiled, but did not answer.

  As he left the office he murmured to himself:

  ‘Incredible! The English never grow up!’

&n
bsp; Chapter 11

  Sarah King sat on a hill-top absently plucking up wild flowers. Dr Gerard sat on a rough wall of stones near her.

  She said suddenly and fiercely: ‘Why did you start all this? If it hadn’t been for you—’

  Dr Gerard said slowly: ‘You think I should have kept silence?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Knowing what I knew?’

  ‘You didn’t know,’ said Sarah.

  The Frenchman sighed. ‘I did know. But I admit one can never be absolutely sure.’

  ‘Yes, one can,’ said Sarah uncompromisingly.

  The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders. ‘You, perhaps!’

  Sarah said: ‘You had fever—a high temperature—you couldn’t be clear-headed about the business. The syringe was probably there all the time. And you may have made a mistake about the digitoxin or one of the servants may have meddled with the case.’

  Gerard said cynically: ‘You need not worry! The evidence is almost bound to be inconclusive. You will see, your friends the Boyntons will get away with it!’

  Sarah said fiercely: ‘I don’t want that, either.’

  He shook his head. ‘You are illogical!’

  ‘Wasn’t it you—’ Sarah demanded, ‘in Jerusalem—who said a great deal about not interfering? And now look!’

  ‘I have not interfered. I have only told what I know!’

  ‘And I say you don’t know it. Oh dear, there we are, back again! I’m arguing in a circle.’

  Gerard said gently: ‘I am sorry, Miss King.’

  Sarah said in a low voice:

  ‘You see, after all, they haven’t escaped—any of them! She’s still there! Even from her grave she can still reach out and hold them. There was something—terrible about her—she’s just as terrible now she’s dead! I feel—I feel she’s enjoying all this!’

  She clenched her hands. Then she said in an entirely different tone, a light everyday voice: ‘That little man’s coming up the hill.’

  Dr Gerard looked over his shoulder.

  ‘Ah! he comes in search of us, I think.’

  ‘Is he as much of a fool as he looks?’ asked Sarah.