Lord Edgeware Dies by Agatha Christie Page B

that has it not occurred to you to ask yourself who killed your husband?”
    “No.” She seemed quite surprised by the idea. We could see her thinking about it.
    “Does it not interest you to know?” asked Poirot.
    “Not very much, I'm afraid,” she admitted. “I suppose the police will find out. They're very clever, aren't they?”
    “So it is said. I, too, am going to make it my business to find out.”
    “Are you? How funny.”
    “Why funny?”
    “Well, I don't know.” Her eyes strayed back to the clothes. She slipped on a satin coat and studied herself in the glass.
    “You do not object, eh?” said Poirot, his eyes twinkling.
    “Why, of course not, M. Poirot. I should just love you to be clever about it all. I wish you every success.”
    “Madame - I want more than your wishes. I want your opinion.”
    “Opinion?” said Jane absently, as she twisted her head over her shoulder. “What on?”
    “Who do you think likely to have killed Lord Edgware?”
    Jane shook her head. “I haven't any idea!”
    She wriggled her shoulders experimentally and took up the hand-glass.
    “Madame!” said Poirot in a loud, emphatic voice. “Who do you think killed your husband?”
    This time it got through. Jane threw him a startled glance. “Geraldine, I expect,” she said.
    “Who is Geraldine?”
    But Jane's attention was gone again.
    “Ellis, take this up a little on the right shoulder. So. What, M. Poirot? Geraldine's his daughter. No, Ellis, the right shoulder. That's better. Oh! must you go, M. Poirot? I'm terribly grateful for everything. I mean, for the divorce, even though it isn't necessary after all. I shall always think you were wonderful.”
    I only saw Jane Wilkinson twice again. Once on the stage, once when I sat opposite her at a luncheon party. I always think of her as I saw her then, absorbed heart and soul in clothes, her lips carelessly throwing out the words that were to influence Poirot's further actions, her mind concentrated firmly and beatifically on herself,
    “Йpatant,” said Poirot with reverence as we emerged into the Strand.

Lord Edgeware Dies

Chapter 12
    THE DAUGHTER
    There was a letter sent by hand lying on the table when we got back to our rooms. Poirot picked it up, slit it open with his usual neatness, and then laughed.
    “What is it you say - 'Talk of the devil'? See here, Hastings.”
    I took the note from him.
    The paper was stamped 17 Regent Gate and was written in very upright characteristic handwriting which looked easy to read and, curiously enough, was not.
    "Dear Sir, (it ran)
    I hear you were at the house this morning with the inspector. I am sorry not to have had the opportunity of speaking to you. If convenient to yourself I should be much obliged if you could spare me a few minutes any time this afternoon.
    Yours truly,
    Geraldine Marsh."
    “Curious,” I said. “I wonder why she wants to see you?”
    “Is it curious that she should want to see me? You are not polite, my friend.”
    Poirot has the most irritating habit of joking at the wrong moment.
    “We will go round at once, my friend,” he said, and lovingly brushing an imagined speck of dust from his hat, he put it on his head.
    Jane Wilkinson's careless suggestion that Geraldine might have killed her father seemed to me particularly absurd. Only a particularly brainless person could have suggested it. I said as much to Poirot.
    “Brains. Brains. What do we really mean by the term? In your idiom you would say that Jane Wilkinson has the brains of a rabbit. That is a term of disparagement. But consider the rabbit for a moment. He exists and multiplies, does he not? That, in Nature, is a sign of mental superiority. The lovely Lady Edgware she does not know history, or geography, nor the classics sans doute. The name of Lao Tse would suggest to her a prize Pekingese dog, the name of Moliиre a maison de couture. But when it comes to choosing clothes, to making rich and advantageous marriages, and to getting