Зло под солнцем / Evil Under the Sun

I’m wondering why I came here!”

“You’ve been here before, have you not?”

“Yes, two years ago, at Easter. There weren’t so many people then.”

Hercule Poirot looked at her. He said gently:

“Something has occurred to worry you. That is right, is it not?”

She nodded. Her foot swung to and fro. She stared down at it. She said:

“I’ve met a ghost. That’s what it is.”

“A ghost, Mademoiselle?”

“Yes.”

“The ghost of what? Or of whom?”

“Oh, the ghost of myself.”

Poirot asked gently: “Was it a painful ghost?”

“Unexpectedly painful.

It took me back, you know.” She paused, musing. Then she said: “Imagine my childhood – No, you can’t. You’re not English!”

Poirot asked: “Was it a very English childhood?”

“Oh, incredibly so! The country – a big shabby house – horses, dogs – walks in the rain – wood fires – apples in the orchard – lack of money – old tweeds – evening dresses that went on from year to year – a neglected garden – with Michaelmas daisies coming out like great banners in the Autumn…”

Poirot asked gently: “And you want to go back?”

Rosamund Darnley shook her head.

She said: “One can’t go back, can one? That – never. But I’d like to have gone on – a different way.”

Poirot said: “I wonder.”

Rosamund Darnley laughed. “So do I really!”

Poirot said: “When I was young (and that, Mademoiselle, is indeed a long time ago) there was a game entitled ‘if not yourself, who would you be?’ One wrote the answer in young ladies’ albums.

They had gold edges and were bound in blue leather. The answer, Mademoiselle, is not really very easy to find.”

Rosamund said: “No – I suppose not. It would be a big risk. One wouldn’t like to take on being Mussolini or Princess Elizabeth. As for one’s friends, one knows too much about them. I remember once meeting a charming husband and wife. They were so courteous and delightful to one another and seemed on such good terms after years of marriage that I envied the woman.

I’d have changed places with her willingly. Somebody told me afterwards that in private they’d never spoken to each other for eleven years!” She laughed. “That shows, doesn’t it, that you never know?”

After a moment or two Poirot said:

“Many people. Mademoiselle, must envy you.”

Rosamund Darnley said coolly: “Oh – yes. Naturally.”

She thought about it, her lips curved upward in their ironic smile.