She leaned forward.
“We’re still engaged. But all the same, you know, it does matter. It matters to me. And it matters to John too…It isn’t the past that matters to us—it’s the future.” She clenched her hands. “We want children, you see. We both want children. And we don’t want to watch our children growing up and be afraid.”
Poirot said:
“Do you not realize that amongst every one’s ancestors there has been violence and evil?”
“You don’t understand. That’s so, of course. But then, one doesn’t usually know about it. We do. It’s very near to us. And sometimes—I’ve seen John just look at me. Such a quick glance—just a flash. Supposing we were married and we’d quarrelled—and I saw him look at me and—and wonder?”
Hercule Poirot said: “How was your father killed?”
Carla’s voice came clear and firm.
“He was poisoned.”
Hercule Poirot said: “I see.”
There was a silence.
Then the girl said in a calm, matter-of-fact voice:
“Thank goodness you’re sensible. You see that it does matter—and what it involves. You don’t try and patch it up and trot out consoling phrases.”
“I understand very well,” said Poirot. “What I do not understand is what you want of me?”
Carla Lemarchant said simply:
“I want to marry John! And I mean to marry John! And I want to have at least two girls and two boys. And you’re going to make that possible!”
“You mean—you want me to talk to your fiancé? Ah no, it is idiocy what I say there! It is something quite different that you are suggesting. Tell me what is in your mind.”
“Listen, Mr. Poirot. Get this—and get it clearly. I’m hiring you to investigate a case of murder.”
“Do you mean—?”
“Yes, I do mean. A case of murder is a case of murder whether it happened yesterday or sixteen years ago.”
“But my dear young lady—”
“Wait, Mr. Poirot. You haven’t got it all yet. There’s a very important point.”
“Yes?”
“My mother was innocent,” said Carla Lemarchant.
Hercule Poirot rubbed his nose. He murmured:
“Well, naturally—I comprehend that—”
“It isn’t sentiment. There’s her letter. She left it for me before she died. It was to be given to me when I was twenty-one. She left it for that one reason—that I should be quite sure. That’s all that was in it. That she hadn’t done it—that she was innocent—that I could be sure of that always.”
Hercule Poirot looked thoughtfully at the young vital face staring so earnestly at him. He said slowly:
“Tout de même—”
Carla smiled.
“No, mother wasn’t like that! You’re thinking that it might be a lie—a sentimental lie?” She leaned forward earnestly. “Listen, Mr. Poirot, there are some things that children know quite well. I can remember my mother—a patchy remembrance, of course, but I remember quite well the sort of person she was. She didn’t tell lies—kind lies. If a thing was going to hurt she always told you so. Dentists, or thorns in your finger—all that sort of thing. Truth was a—a natural impulse to her. I wasn’t, I don’t think, especially fond of her—but I trusted her. I still trust her! If she says she didn’t kill my father then she didn’t kill him! She wasn’t the sort of person who would solemnly write down a lie when she knew she was dying.”