Supposing he couldn’t understand what they were telling him? Would the real woman be able to tell him? Or were those eyes saying something that the real woman did not know?
Such arrogance, such triumphant anticipation.
And then Death had stepped in and taken the prey out of those eager, clutching young hands….
And the light had gone out of those passionately anticipating eyes. What were the eyes of Elsa Greer like now?
He went out of the room with one last look.
He thought: “She was too much alive.”
He felt—a little—frightened….
Eight
THIS LITTLE PIG HAD ROAST BEEF
The house in Brook Street had Darwin tulips in the window boxes. Inside the hall a great vase of white lilac sent eddies of perfume towards the open front door.
A middle-aged butler relieved Poirot of his hat and stick. A footman appeared to take them and the butler murmured deferentially:
“Will you come this way, sir?”
Poirot followed him along the hall and down three steps. A door was opened, the butler pronounced his name with every syllable correct.
Then the door closed behind him and a tall thin man got up from a chair by the fire and came towards him.
Lord Dittisham was a man just under forty. He was not only a Peer of the Realm, he was a poet. Two of his fantastical poetic dramas had been staged at vast expense and had had a succès d’estime. His forehead was rather prominent, his chin was eager, and his eyes and his mouth unexpectedly beautiful.
He said:
“Sit down, Mr. Poirot.”
Poirot sat down and accepted a cigarette from his host. Lord Dittisham shut the box, struck a match and held it for Poirot to light his cigarette, then he himself sat down and looked thoughtfully at his visitor.
Then he said:
“It is my wife you have come to see, I know.”
Poirot answered:
“Lady Dittisham was so kind as to give me an appointment.”
“Yes.”
There was a pause. Poirot hazarded:
“You do not, I hope, object, Lord Dittisham?”
The thin dreamy face was transformed by a sudden quick smile.
“The objections of husbands, Mr. Poirot, are never taken seriously in these days.”
“Then you do object?”
“No. I cannot say that. But I am, I must confess it, a little fearful of the effect upon my wife. Let me be quite frank. 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.