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Seventeen
It was a Sunday morning when Rowley Cloade, answering a knock at the farm door, found Lynn
waiting outside.
He stepped back a pace.
“Lynn!”
“Can I come in, Rowley?”
He stood back a little. She passed him and went into the kitchen. She had been at church and
was wearing a hat. Slowly, with an almost ritual air, she raised her hands, took off the hat and laid
it down on the windowsill.
“I’ve come home, Rowley.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“Just that. I’ve come home. This is home—here, with you. I’ve been a fool not to know it
before—not to know journey’s end when I saw it. Don’t you understand, Rowley, I’ve come
home!”
“You don’t know what you’re saying, Lynn. I—I tried to kill you.”
“I know.” Lynn gave a grimace and put her fingers gingerly to her throat. “Actually, it was
just when I thought you had killed me, that I began to realize what a really thundering fool I’d
been making of myself!”
“I don’t understand,” said Rowley.
“Oh, don’t be stupid. I always wanted to marry you, didn’t I? And then I got out of touch
with you—you seemed to me so tame—so meek—I felt life would be so safe with you—so dull. I
fell for David because he was dangerous and attractive—and, to be honest, because he knows
women much too well. But none of that was real. When you caught hold of me by the throat and
said if I wasn’t for you, no one should have me—well—I knew then that I was your woman!
Unfortunately it seemed that I was going to know it—just too late…Luckily Hercule Poirot
walked in and saved the situation. And I am your woman, Rowley!”
Rowley shook his head.
“It’s impossible, Lynn. I’ve killed two men—murdered them—”
“Rubbish,” cried Lynn. “Don’t be pigheaded and melodramatic. If you have a row with a
hulking big man and hit him and he falls down and hits his head on a fender—that isn’t murder.
It’s not even legally murder.”
“It’s manslaughter. You go to prison for it.”
“Possibly. If so, I shall be on the step when you come out.”
“And there’s Porter. I’m morally responsible for his death.”
“No, you’re not. He was a fully adult responsible man—he could have turned down your
proposition. One can’t blame any one else for the things one decides to do with one’s eyes
open. You suggested dishonesty to him, he accepted it and then repented and took a quick way
out. He was just a weak character.”
Rowley shook his head obstinately.
“It’s no good, old girl. You can’t marry a gaolbird.”
“I don’t think you’re going to gaol. A policeman would have been round for you before
now if so.”
Rowley stared.
“But damn it all, manslaughter—bribing Porter—”
“What makes you think the police know anything about all that or ever will?”
“That fellow Poirot knows.”
“He isn’t the police. I’ll tell you what the police think. They think David Hunter killed
Arden as well as Rosaleen, now they know he was in Warmsley Vale that evening. They won’t
charge him with it because it isn’t necessary—and besides, I believe you can’t be arrested
twice on the same charge. But as long as they think he did it, they won’t look for any one else.”
“But that chap Poirot—”
“He told the Superintendent it was an accident, and I gather the Superintendent just laughed at
him. If you ask me I think Poirot will say nothing to any one. He’s rather a dear—”
“No, Lynn. I can’t let you risk it. Apart from anything else I—well, I mean, can I trust
myself? What I mean is, it wouldn’t be safe for you.”
“Perhaps not…But you see, Rowley, I do love you—and you’ve had such a hell of a time—
and I’ve never, really, cared very much for being safe—”
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