Poirot said:
“She may not have been actively unkind—that I will grant. But you were not fond of her—Oh no—I think you disliked her very much. That was very plain to see.”
Linda said:
“Perhaps I didn’t like her very much. But one can’t say that when a person is dead. It wouldn’t be decent.”
Poirot sighed. He said:
“They taught you that at your school?”
“More or less, I suppose.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“When a person has been murdered, it is more important to be truthful than to be decent.”
Linda said:
“I suppose you would say a thing like that.”
“I would say it and I do say it. It is my business, you see, to find out who killed Arlena Marshall.”
Linda muttered:
“I want to forget it all. It’s so horrible.”
Poirot said gently:
“But you can’t forget, can you?”
Linda said:
“I suppose some beastly madman killed her.”
Hercule Poirot murmured:
“No, I do not think it was quite like that.”
Linda caught her breath. She said:
“You sound—as though you knew?”
Poirot said:
“Perhaps I do know.” He paused and went on: “Will you trust me, my child, to do the best I can for you in your bitter troub
le?”
Linda sprang up. She said:
“I haven’t any trouble. There is nothing you can do for me. I don’t know what you are talking about.”
Poirot said, watching her:
“I am talking about candles….”
He saw the terror leap into her eyes. She cried: