Free Peril at End House by Agatha Christie

morning,’ I said. ‘She spoke about it very sensibly, I thought. She’s obviously fond of the place—just as anyone in her position would be—but certainly nothing more.’
    ‘So, in fact, one of the two is lying,’ said Poirot, thoughtfully.
    ‘One would not suspect Vyse of lying.’
    ‘Clearly a great asset if one has any lying to do,’ remarked Poirot. ‘Yes, he has quite the air of a George Washington, that one. Did you notice another thing, Hastings?’
    ‘What was that?’
    ‘ He was not in his office at half-past twelve on Saturday .’

Chapter 7
Tragedy
    The first person we saw when we arrived at End House that evening was Nick. She was dancing about the hall wrapped in a marvellous kimono covered with dragons.
    ‘Oh! it’s only you!’
    ‘Mademoiselle—I am desolated!’
    ‘I know. It did sound rude. But you see, I’m waiting for my dress to arrive. They promised—the brutes—promised faithfully!’
    ‘Ah! if it is a matter of la toilette ! There is a dance tonight, is there not?’
    ‘Yes. We are all going on to it after the fireworks. That is, I suppose we are.’
    There was a sudden drop in her voice. But the next minute she was laughing.
    ‘Never give in! That’s my motto. Don’t think of trouble and trouble won’t come! I’ve got my nerveback tonight. I’m going to be gay and enjoy myself.’
    There was a footfall on the stairs. Nick turned.
    ‘Oh! here’s Maggie. Maggie, here are the sleuths that are protecting me from the secret assassin. Take them into the drawing-room and let them tell you about it.’
    In turn we shook hands with Maggie Buckley, and, as requested, she took us into the drawing-room. I formed an immediate favourable opinion of her.
    It was, I think, her appearance of calm good sense that so attracted me. A quiet girl, pretty in the old-fashioned sense—certainly not smart. Her face was innocent of make-up and she wore a simple, rather shabby, black evening dress. She had frank blue eyes, and a pleasant slow voice.
    ‘Nick has been telling me the most amazing things,’ she said. ‘Surely she must be exaggerating? Who ever would want to harm Nick? She can’t have an enemy in the world.’
    Incredulity showed strongly in her voice. She was looking at Poirot in a somewhat unflattering fashion. I realized that to a girl like Maggie Buckley, foreigners were always suspicious.
    ‘Nevertheless, Miss Buckley, I assure you that it is the truth,’ said Poirot quietly.
    She made no reply, but her face remained unbelieving.
    ‘Nick seems quite fey tonight,’ she remarked. ‘Idon’t know what’s the matter with her. She seems in the wildest spirits.’
    That word—fey! It sent a shiver through me. Also, something in the intonation of her voice had set me wondering.
    ‘Are you Scotch, Miss Buckley?’ I asked, abruptly.
    ‘My mother was Scottish,’ she explained.
    She viewed me, I noticed, with more approval than she viewed Poirot. I felt that my statement of the case would carry more weight with her than Poirot’s would.
    ‘Your cousin is behaving with great bravery,’ I said. ‘She’s determined to carry on as usual.’
    ‘It’s the only way, isn’t it?’ said Maggie. ‘I mean—whatever one’s inward feelings are—it is no good making a fuss about them. That’s only uncomfortable for everyone else.’ She paused and then added in a soft voice: ‘I’m very fond of Nick. She’s been good to me always.’
    We could say nothing more for at that moment Frederica Rice drifted into the room. She was wearing a gown of Madonna blue and looked very fragile and ethereal. Lazarus soon followed her and then Nick danced in. She was wearing a black frock, and round her was wrapped a marvellous old Chinese shawl of vivid lacquer red.
    ‘Hello, people,’ she said. ‘Cocktails?’
    We all drank, and Lazarus raised his glass to her.
    ‘That’s a marvellous shawl, Nick,’ he said. ‘It’s an old one, isn’t it?’
    ‘Yes—brought back by