11. The Evidence of Miss Debenham

           WhenMaryDebenhamenteredthediningcarsheconfirmedPoirot’spreviousestimateofher.

           VeryneatlydressedinalittleblacksuitwithaFrenchgreyshirt,thesmoothwavesofherdarkheadwereneatandunruffled.Hermannerwasascalmandunruffledasherhair.

           ShesatdownoppositePoirotandM.Boucandlookedattheminquiringly.

           “YournameisMaryHermioneDebenham,andyouaretwenty-sixyearsofage?”beganPoirot.

           “Yes.”

           “English?”

           “Yes.”

           “Willyoubesokind,Mademoiselle,astowritedownyourpermanentaddressonthispieceofpaper?”

           Shecomplied.Herwritingwasclearandlegible.

           “Andnow,Mademoiselle,whathaveyoutotellusoftheaffairlastnight?”

           “IamafraidIhavenothingtotellyou.Iwenttobedandslept.”

           “Doesitdistressyouverymuch,Mademoiselle,thatacrimehasbeencommittedonthistrain?”

           Thequestionwasclearlyunexpected.Hergreyeyeswidenedalittle.

           “Idon’tquiteunderstandyou.”

           “ItwasaperfectlysimplequestionthatIaskedyou,Mademoiselle.Iwillrepeatit.Areyouverymuchdistressedthatacrimeshouldhavebeencommittedonthistrain?”

           “Ihavenotreallythoughtaboutitfromthatpointofview.No,IcannotsaythatIamatalldistressed.”

           “Acrime—itisallintheday’sworktoyou,eh?”

           “Itisnaturallyanunpleasantthingtohavehappen,”saidMaryDebenhamquietly.

           “YouareveryAnglo-Saxon.Mademoiselle.Vousn’éprouvezpasd’émotion.”

           Shesmiledalittle.

           “IamafraidIcannothavehystericstoprovemysensibility.Afterall,peopledieeveryday.”

           “Theydie,yes.