IV
It was three months later that Hercule Poirot stood on a rocky point and surveyed the Atlantic
damp.
Hercule Poirot had the feeling, not
uncommon4 in those who come to Inishgowlen for the first
time, that he had reached the end of the world. He had never in his life imagined anything so
remote, so
desolate5, so abandoned. It had beauty, a melancholy, haunted beauty, the beauty of a
remote and incredible past. Here, in the west of Ireland, the Romans had never marched, tramp,
tramp, tramp: had never
fortified6 a camp: had never built a well-ordered, sensible, useful road. It
was a land where common sense and an orderly way of life were unknown.
Hercule Poirot looked down at the tips of his patent-leather shoes and sighed. He felt forlorn
and very much alone. The standards by which he lived were here not appreciated.
His eyes swept slowly up and down the desolate coast line, then once more out to sea.
Somewhere out there, so tradition had it, were the
Isles7 of the Blest, the Land of Youth. . . .
He murmured to himself:
“The Apple Tree, the Singing and the Gold . . .”
And suddenly, Hercule Poirot was himself again—the spell was broken, he was once more in
harmony with his patent-leather shoes and
natty8, dark grey gent’s suiting.
Not very far away he had heard the
toll9 of a bell. He understood that bell. It was a sound he
had been familiar with from early youth.
He set off briskly along the cliff. In about ten minutes he came in sight of the building on the
cliff. A high wall surrounded it and a great wooden door studded with nails was set in the wall.
Hercule Poirot came to this door and knocked. There was a vast iron knocker. Then he cautiously
A small panel in the door was pushed aside and showed a face. It was a suspicious face,
framed in
starched13 white. There was a distinct moustache on the upper lip, but the voice was the
voice of a woman, it was the voice of what Hercule Poirot called a femme formidable.
It demanded his business.
“Is this the Convent of St. Mary and All Angels?”
“And what else would it be?”
Hercule Poirot did not attempt to answer that. He said to the dragon:
“I would like to see the Mother Superior.”
The dragon was
unwilling15, but in the end she yielded. Bars were
drawn16 back, the door opened
and Hercule Poirot was conducted to a small bare room where visitors to the Convent were
received.
Hercule Poirot was a Catholic by birth. He understood the atmosphere in which he found
himself.
“I apologize for troubling you, ma mère,” he said, “but you have here, I think, a religieuse
who was, in the world, Kate Casey.”
The Mother Superior bowed her head. She said:
“That is so. Sister Mary Ursula in religion.”
Hercule Poirot said: “There is a certain wrong that needs righting. I believe that Sister Mary
Ursula could help me. She has information that might be
invaluable19.”
The Mother Superior shook her head. Her face was
placid20, her voice calm and remote. She
said:
“Sister Mary Ursula cannot help you.”
“But I assure you—”
He broke off. The Mother Superior said:
“Sister Mary Ursula died two months ago.”
V
In the saloon bar of Jimmy Donovan’s Hotel, Hercule Poirot sat uncomfortably against the wall.
The hotel did not come up to his ideas of what a hotel should be. His bed was broken—so were
two of the window
panes21 in his room—thereby admitting that night air which Hercule Poirot
distrusted so much. The hot water brought him had been
tepid22 and the meal he had eaten was
producing curious and painful sensations in his inside.
There were five men in the bar and they were all talking politics. For the most part Hercule
Poirot could not understand what they said. In any case, he did not much care.
Presently he found one of the men sitting beside him. This was a man of slightly different
class to the others. He had the stamp of the seedy townsman upon him.
He said with immense dignity:
“I tell you, sir. I tell you—Pegeen’s Pride hasn’t got a chance, not a chance . . . bound to
finish right down the course—right down the course. You take my tip . . . everybody ought to take
my tip. Know who I am, shir, do you know, I shay?
Atlas23, thatsh who I am—Atlas of the Dublin
Sun . . . been tipping winnersh all the season . . . Didn’t I give Larry’s Girl? Twenty-five to one—
twenty-five to one. Follow Atlas and you can’t go wrong.”
Hercule Poirot regarded him with a strange
reverence24. He said, and his voice trembled:
VI
It was some hours later. The moon showed from time to time, peeping out coquettishly from
behind the clouds. Poirot and his new friend had walked some miles. The former was limping. The
idea crossed his mind that there were, after all, other shoes—more suitable to country walking
than patent leather. Actually George had respectfully conveyed as much. “A nice pair of brogues,”
was what George had said.
Hercule Poirot had not cared for the idea. He liked his feet to look neat and well-shod. But
now, tramping along this
stony26 path, he realized that there were other shoes. . . .
His companion said suddenly:
“Is it the way the Priest would be after me for this? I’ll not have a mortal sin upon my
conscience.”
Hercule Poirot said: “You are only restoring to Cæsar the things which are Cæsar’s.”
They had come to the wall of the Convent. Atlas prepared to do his part.
A
groan27 burst from him and he exclaimed in low,
poignant28 tones that he was destroyed
Hercule Poirot
spoke30 with authority.
“Be quiet. It is not the weight of the world that you have to support—only the weight of
Hercule Poirot.”
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