Poirot drew a finger slowly along the wooden rail.
"You are accustomed, Mademoiselle, to carrying your own burdens... But you can do that too long. The strain becomes too great. For you, Mademoiselle, the strain is becoming too great."
"I don't know what you are talking about," said Rosalie.
"I am talking about facts, Mademoiselle - plain ugly facts. Let us call the spade the spade and say it in one little short sentence. Your mother drinks, Mademoiselle."
Rosalie did not answer. Her mouth opened; then she closed it again. For once she seemed at a loss.
"There is no need for you to talk, Mademoiselle. I will do all the talking. I was interested at Assuan in the relations existing between you. I saw at once that, in spite of your carefully studied unfilial remarks, you were in reality passionately protecting her from something. I very soon knew what that something was. I knew it long before I encountered your mother one morning in an unmistakable state of intoxication. Moreover, her case, I could see, was one of secret bouts of drinking - by far the most difficult kind of case with which to deal. You were coping with it manfully. Nevertheless, she had all the secret drunkard's cunning. She managed to get hold of a secret supply of spirits and to keep it successfully hidden from you. I should not be surprised if you discovered its hiding place only yesterday. Accordingly, last night, as soon as your mother was really soundly asleep, you stole out with the contents of the cache, went round to the other side of the boat (since your own side was up against the bank) and cast it overboard into the Nile."
He paused.
"I am right, am I not?"
"Yes - you're quite right." Rosalie spoke with sudden passion. "I was a fool not to say so, I suppose! But I didn't want everyone to know. It would go all over the boat. And it seemed so - so silly - I mean - that I -"
Poirot finished the sentence for her.
"So silly that you should be suspected of committing a murder?"
Rosalie nodded.
Then she burst out again: "I've tried so hard to - keep everyone from knowing... It isn't really her fault. She got discouraged. Her books didn't sell any more. People are tired of all that cheap sex stuff... It hurt her - it hurt her dreadfully. And so she began to - to drink. For a long time I didn't know why she was so queer. Then, when I found out, I tried to - to stop it. She'd be all right for a bit, and then, suddenly, she'd start, and there would be dreadful quarrels and rows with people. It was awful." She shuddered. "I had always to be on the watch - to get her away.
"And then - she began to dislike me for it. She - she's turned right against me. I think she almost hates me sometimes."
"Pauvre petite," said Poirot.
She turned on him vehemently.
"Don't be sorry for me. Don't be kind. It's easier if you're not." She sighed - a long heart-rending sigh. "I'm so tired... I'm so deadly, deadly tired."
"I know," said Poirot.
"People think I'm awful. Stuck-up and cross and bad-tempered. I can't help it. I've forgotten how to be - to be nice."
"That is what I said to you; you have carried your burden by yourself too long."
Rosalie said slowly: "It is a relief - to talk about it. You - you've always been kind to me, Monsieur Poirot. I'm afraid I've been rude to you often."
"La politesse, it is not necessary between friends."
The suspicion came back to her face suddenly.
"Are you - are you going to tell everyone? I suppose you must, because of those damned bottles I threw overboard."
"No, no, it is not necessary. Just tell me what I want to know. At what time was this? Ten minutes past one?"
"About that, I should think. I don't remember exactly."
"Now tell me, Mademoiselle. Mademoiselle Van Schuyler saw you, did you see her?" Rosalie shook her head.
"No, I didn't."
"She says that she looked out of the door of her cabin."
"I don't think I should have seen her. I just looked along the deck and then out to the river."
Poirot nodded.
"And did you see anyone - anyone at all, when you looked down the deck?"
There was a pause - quite a long pause. Rosalie was frowning. She seemed to be thinking earnestly.
At last she shook her head quite decisively.
"No," she said. "I saw nobody."
Hercule Poirot slowly nodded his head. But his eyes were grave.
Chapter 19
People crept into the dining-saloon by ones and twos in a very subdued manner. There seemed a general feeling that to sit down eagerly to food displayed an unfortunate heartlessness. It was with an almost apologetic air that one passenger after another came and sat down at their tables. Tim Allerton arrived some few minutes after his mother had taken her seat. He was looking in a thoroughly bad temper.
"I wish we'd never come on this blasted trip," he growled.
Mrs Allerton shook her head sadly.
"Oh, my dear, so do I. That beautiful girl! It all seems such a waste. To think that anyone could shoot her in cold blood. It seems awful to me that anyone could do such a thing. And that other poor child."
"Jacqueline?"
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