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Fifteen
Lynn came out of the house and glanced up at the sky.
The sun was getting low, there was no red in the sky but a rather unnatural glow of light. A still
evening with a breathless feel about it. There would be, she thought, a storm later.
Well, the time had come now. She couldn’t put things off any longer. She must go to Long
Willows and tell Rowley. She owed him that at least—to tell him herself. Not to choose the easy
way of the written word.
Her mind was made up—quite made up—she told herself and yet she felt a curious reluctance.
She looked round her and thought: “It’s goodbye to all this—to my own world—my own way
of life.”
For she had no illusions. Life with David was a gamble—an adventure that was as likely to turn
out badly as to turn out well. He himself had warned her….
The night of the murder, over the telephone.
And now, a few hours ago, he had said:
“I meant to go out of your life. I was a fool—to think I could leave you behind me. We’ll go
to London and be married by special licence—oh, yes, I’m not going to give you the chance of
shilly-shallying about. You’ve got roots here, roots that hold you down. I’ve got to pull you up
by the roots.” He had added: “We’ll break it to Rowley when you’re actually Mrs. David
Hunter. Poor devil, it’s the best way to break it to him.”
But to that she did not agree, though she had not said so at the time. No, she must tell Rowley
herself.
It was to Rowley she was going now!
The storm was just starting as Lynn tapped at the door of Long Willows. Rowley opened it and
looked astonished to see her.
“Hallo, Lynn, why didn’t you ring up and say you were coming? I might have been out.”
“I want to talk to you, Rowley.”
He stood aside to let her pass and followed her into the big kitchen. The remains of his supper
were on the table.
“I’m planning to get an Aga or an Esse put in here,” he said. “Easier for you. And a new
sink—steel—”
She interrupted. “Don’t make plans, Rowley.”
“You mean because that poor kid isn’t buried yet? I suppose it does seem rather heartless.
But she never struck me as a particularly happy person. Sickly, I suppose. Never got over that
damned air raid. Anyway, there it is. She’s dead and in her grave and oh the difference to me—
or rather to us—”
Lynn caught her breath.
“No, Rowley. There isn’t any ‘us.’ That’s what I came to tell you.”
He stared at her. She said quietly, hating herself, but steadfast in her purpose:
“I’m going to marry David Hunter, Rowley.”
She did not know quite what she expected—protests, perhaps an angry outburst—but she
certainly did not expect Rowley to take it as he did.
He stared at her for a minute or two, then he went across and poked at the stove, turning at last
in an almost absentminded manner.
“Well,” he said, “let’s get it clear. You’re going to marry David Hunter. Why?”
“Because I love him.”
“You love me.”
“No. I did love you—when I went away. But it’s been four years and I’ve—I’ve changed.
We’ve both changed.”
“You’re wrong…” he said quietly. “I haven’t changed.”
“Well, perhaps you haven’t changed so much.”
“I haven’t changed at all. I haven’t had much chance to change. I’ve just gone plodding
on here. I haven’t dropped from parachutes or swarmed up cliffs by night or wound an arm
round a man in the darkness and stabbed him—”
“Rowley—”
“I haven’t been to the war. I haven’t fought. I don’t know what war is! I’ve led a nice
safe life here, down on the farm. Lucky Rowley! But as a husband, you’d be ashamed of me!”
“No, Rowley—oh, no! It isn’t that at all.”
“But I tell you it is!” He came nearer to her. The blood was welling up in his neck, the veins
of his forehead were starting out. That look in his eyes—she had seen it once as she passed a bull
in a field. Tossing its head, stamping its foot, slowly lowering its head with the great horns.
Goaded to a dull fury, a blind rage….
“Be quiet, Lynn, you’ll listen to me for a change. I’ve missed what I ought to have had.
I’ve missed my chance of fighting for my country. I’ve seen my best friend go and be killed.
I’ve seen my girl—my girl—dress up in uniform and go overseas. I’ve been Just the Man She
Left Behind Her. My life’s been hell—don’t you understand, Lynn? It’s been hell. And then
you came back—and since then it’s been worse hell. Ever since that night at Aunt Kathie’s
when I saw you looking at David Hunter across the table. But he’s not going to have you, do you
hear? If you’re not for me, then no one shall have you. What do you think I am?”
“Rowley—”
She had risen, was retreating a step at a time. She was terrified. This man was not a man any
longer, he was a brute beast.
“I’ve killed two people,” said Rowley Cloade. “Do you think I shall stick at killing a
third?”
“Rowley—”
He was upon her now, his hands round her throat….
“I can’t bear any more, Lynn—”
The hands tightened round her neck, the room whirled, blackness, spinning blackness,
suffocation—everything going dark….
And then, suddenly a cough. A prim, slightly artificial cough.
Rowley paused, his hands relaxed, fell to his sides. Lynn, released, sank in a crumpled heap on
the floor.
Just inside the door, Hercule Poirot stood apologetically coughing.
“I hope,” he said, “that I do not intrude? I knocked. Yes, indeed, I knocked, but no one
answered…I suppose you were busy?”
For a moment the air was tense, electric. Rowley stared. It looked for a moment as though he
might fling himself on Hercule Poirot, but finally he turned away. He said in a flat empty voice:
“You turned up—just in the nick of time.”
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