it was valuable I returned it.’
‘I see.’
‘Because really I didn’t mean to be dishonest. It was only—’
‘Only what?’
A faintly wary look came into Celia’s eyes.
‘I don’t know—really I don’t. I’m all mixed-up.’
Colin cut in in a peremptory manner.
‘I’ll be thankful if you’ll not catechise her. I can promise you that there will be no recurrence of this business. From now on I’ll definitely make myself responsible for her.’
‘Oh, Colin, you are good to me.’
‘I’d like you to tell me a great deal about yourself, Celia. Your early home life, for instance. Did your father and mother get on well together?’
‘Oh no, it was awful—at home—’
‘Precisely. And—’
Mrs Hubbard cut in. She spoke with the voice of authority.
‘That will do now, both of you. I’m glad, Celia, that you’ve come and owned up. You’ve caused a great deal of worry and anxiety, though, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself. But I’ll say this. I accept your word that you didn’t spill ink deliberately on Elizabeth’s notes. I don’t believe you’d do a thing like that. Now take yourself off, you and Colin. I’ve had enough of you both for this evening.’
As the door closed behind them, Mrs Hubbard drew a deep breath.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘What do you think of that?’
There was a twinkle in Hercule Poirot’s eye. He said:
‘I think—that we have assisted at a love scene—modern style.’
Mrs Hubbard made an ejaculation of disapproval.
‘Autres temps, autres mœurs,’ murmured Poirot. ‘In my young days the young men lent the girls books on theosophy or discussed Maeterlinck’s “Bluebird”. All was sentiment and high ideals. Nowadays it is the maladjusted lives and the complexes which bring a boy and girl together.’
‘All such nonsense,’ said Mrs Hubbard.
Poirot dissented.
‘No, it is not all nonsense. The underlying principles are sound enough—but when one is an earnest young researcher like Colin one sees nothing but complexes and the victim’s unhappy home life.’
‘Celia’s father died when she was four years old,’ said Mrs Hubbard. ‘And she’s had a very agreeable childhood with a nice but stupid mother.’
‘Ah, but she is wise enough not to say so to the young McNabb! She will say what he wants to hear. She is very much in love.’
‘Do you believe all this hooey, M. Poirot?’
‘I do not believe that Celia had a Cinderella complex or that she stole things without knowing what she was doing. I think she took the risk of stealing unimportant trifles with the object of attracting the attention of the earnest Colin McNabb—in which object she has been successful. Had she remained a pretty, shy, ordinary girl he might never have looked at her. In my opinion,’ said Poirot, ‘a girl is entitled to attempt desperate measures to get her man.’
‘I shouldn’t have thought she had the brains to think it up,’ said Mrs Hubbard.
Poirot did not reply. He frowned. Mrs Hubbard went on:
‘So the whole thing’s been a mare’s nest! I really do apologise, M. Poirot, for taking up your time over such a trivial business. Anyway, all’s well that ends well.’
‘No, no.’ Poirot shook his head. ‘I do not think we are at the end yet. We have cleared out of the way something rather trivial that was at the front of the picture. But there are things still that are not explained; and me, I have the impression that we have here something serious—really serious.’
‘Oh, M. Poirot, do you really think so?’
‘It is my impression… I wonder, madame, if I could speak to Miss Patricia Lane. I would like to examine the ring that was stolen.’
‘Why, of course, M. Poirot. I’ll go down and send her up to you. I want to speak to Len Bateson about something.’
Patricia Lane came in shortly afterwards with an inquiring look on her face.
‘I am so sorry to disturb you, Miss Lane.’
‘Oh, that’s all right. I wasn’t busy. Mrs Hubbard said you wanted to see my ring.’
She slipped it off her finger and held it out to him.
‘It’s quite a large diamond really, but of course it’s an old-fashioned setting. It was my mother’s engagement ring.’
Poirot, who was examining the ring, nodded his head.
‘She is alive still, your mother?’
‘No. Both my parents are dead.’
‘That is sad.’
‘Yes. They were both very nice people but somehow I was never quite so close to them as I ought to have been. One regrets that afterwards. My mother wanted a frivolous pretty daughter, a daughter who was fond of clothes and social things. She was very disappointed when I took up archaeology.’
‘You have always been of a serious turn of mind?’
‘I think so, really. One feels life is so short one ought really to be doing something worth while.’
Poirot looked at her thoughtfully.
Patricia Lane was, he guessed, in her early thirties. Apart from a smear of lipstick, carelessly applied, she wore no make-up. Her mouse-coloured hair was combed back from her face and arranged without artifice. Her quite pleasant blue eyes looked at you seriously through glasses.
‘No allure, bon Dieu,’ said Poirot to himself with feeling. ‘And her clothes! What is it they say? Dragged through a hedge backwards? Ma foi, that expresses it exactly!’
He was disapproving. He found Patricia’s well-bred unaccented tones wearisome to the ear. ‘She is intelligent and cultured, this girl,’ he said to himself, ‘and, alas, every year she will grow more boring! In old age—’ His mind darted for a fleeting moment to the memory of Countess Vera Rossakoff. What exotic splendour there, even in decay! These girls of nowadays—
But that is because I grow old,’ said Poirot to himself. ‘Even this excellent girl may appear a veritable Venus to some man.’ But he doubted that.
Patricia was saying:
‘I’m really very shocked about what happened to Bess—to Miss Johnston. Using that green ink seems to me to be a deliberate
