Maggie fell to her knees and reached out a trembling hand to the stricken Clara, whose face was silently drowning in a sanguine tide. Her wild howls had given way to dry-mouthed whimpering and as she knelt, the hem of her apron drank deeply of the gory pool slowly spreading across the flagstones. In the half-light of the late evening, it appeared almost black.
“Leave her be, mademoiselle, there is nothing that can be done for her now,” said Poirot, his voice soft yet adamant. “To find the truth of this terrible act, all must be left exactly as it is.”
“I can’t… I can’t bear it..!” wailed James, his face sallow and haunted. He crossed the pantry, heading for the steps that would take him up and out into the courtyard, while his father the vicar continued his prayers, much good they would do poor Clara now.
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