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.
‘Yes, I’m really the perfect type of the successful woman! I enjoy the artistic satisfaction of the successful creative artist (I really do like designing clothes) and the financial satisfaction of the successful business woman. I’m very well off, I’ve a good figure, a passable face, and a not too malicious tongue.’
She paused. Her smiled widened.
‘Of course—I haven’t got a husband! I’ve failed there, haven’t I, M. Poirot?’
Poirot said gallantly:
‘Mademoiselle, if you are not married, it is because none of my sex have been sufficiently eloquent. It is from choice, not necessity, that you remain single.’
Rosamund Darnley said:
‘And yet, like all men, I’m sure you believe in your heart that no woman is content unless she is married and has children.’
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
‘To marry and have children, that is the common lot of women. Only one woman in a hundred—more, in a thousand, can make for herself a name and a position as you have done.’
Rosamund grinned at him.
‘And yet, all the same, I’m nothing but a wretched old maid! That’s what I feel today, at any rate. I’d be happier with twopence a year and a big silent brute of a husband and a brood of brats running after me. That’s true, isn’t it?’
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
‘Since you say so, then, yes, Mademoiselle.’
Rosamund laughed, her equilibrium suddenly restored. She took out a cigarette and lit it.
She said:
‘You certainly know how to deal with women, M. Poirot. I now feel like taking the opposite point of view and arguing with you in favour of careers for women. Of course I’m damned well off as I am—and I know it!’
‘Then everything in the garden—or shall we say at the seaside? is lovely, Mademoiselle.’
‘Quite right.’
Poirot, in his turn, extracted his cigarette case and lit one of those tiny cigarettes which it was his affection to smoke.
Regarding the ascending haze with a quizzical eye, he murmured:
‘So Mr—no, Captain Marshall is an old friend of yours, Mademoiselle?’
Rosamund sat up. She said:
‘Now how do you know that? Oh, I suppose Ken told you.’
Poirot shook his head.
‘Nobody has told me anything. After all, Mademoiselle, I am a detective. It was the obvious conclusion to draw.’
Rosamund Darnley said: ‘I don’t see it.’
‘But consider!’ The little man’s hands were eloquent. ‘You have been here a week. You are lively, gay, without a care. Today, suddenly, you speak of ghosts, of old times. What has happened? For several days there have been no new arrivals until last night when Captain Marshall and his wife and daughter arrive. Today the change! It is obvious!’
Rosamund Darnley
