"We're still engaged. But all the same, you know, it does matter. It matters to me.
And it matters to John, too... It isn't the past that matters to us - it's the future." She clenched her hands. "We want children, you see.
We both want children.
And we don't want to watch our children growing up and be afraid."
"Do you not realize," Poirot said, "that among everyone's ancestors there has been violence and evil?"
"You don't understand.
That's so, of course.
But, then, one doesn't usually know about it.
We do. It's very near to us.
And - sometimes - I've seen John just - look at me. Such a quick glance - just a flash. Supposing we were married and we'd quarreled - and I saw him look at me and - and wonder?"
Hercule Poirot said, "How was your father killed?"
Carla's voice came clear and firm.
"He was poisoned."
Hercule Poirot said, "I see."
There was a silence.
Then the girl said in a calm, matter-of-fact voice, "Thank goodness, you're sensible.
You see that it does matter - and what it involves.
You don't try to patch it up and trot out consoling phrases."
"I understand very well," said Poirot. "What I do not understand is what you want of me?"
"I want to marry John!"
Carla Lemarchant said simply.
"And I mean to marry John!
And I want to have at least two girls and two boys.
And you're going to make that possible!"
"You mean - you want me to talk to your fiance?
Ah, no, it is idiocy what I say there!
It is something quite different that you are suggesting.
Tell me what is in your mind."
"Listen, M. Poirot. Get this - and get it clearly. I'm hiring you to investigate a case of murder."
"Do you mean -"
"Yes, I do mean.
A case of murder is a case of murder whether it happened yesterday or sixteen years ago."
"But, my dear young lady -"
"Wait, M. Poirot You haven't got it all yet.
There's a very important point."
"Yes?"
"My mother was innocent," said Carla Lemarchant.
Hercule Poirot rubbed his nose.
He murmured, "Well, naturally - I comprehend that -"
"It isn't sentiment.
There's her letter.
She left it for me before she died. It was to be given to me when I was twenty-one. She left it for that one reason - that I should be quite sure. That's all that was in it.
That she hadn't done it - that she was innocent - that I could be sure of that always."
Hercule Poirot looked thoughtfully at the young, vital face staring so earnestly at him.
He said slowly,
"Tout de mкme -"
Carla smiled.
"No, Mother wasn't like that!
You're thinking that it might be a lie - a sentimental lie."
She leaned forward earnestly. "Listen, M. Poirot, there are some things that children know quite well.