Murder on the Orient Express

“Well,” she said, “you know everything now, M. Poirot. What are you going to do about it? If it must all come out, can’t you lay the blame upon me and me only? I would have stabbed that man twelve times willingly. It wasn’t only that he was responsible for my daughter’s death and her child’s and that of the other child who might have been alive and happy now. It was more than that: there had been other children kidnapped before Daisy, and there might be others in the future. Society had condemned him – we were only carrying out the sentence. But it’s unnecessary to bring all these others into it. All these good faithful souls – and poor Michel – and Mary and Colonel Arbuthnot – they love each other…”

Her voice was wonderful, echoing through the crowded space – that deep, emotional, heart-stirring voice that had thrilled many a New York audience.

Poirot looked at his friend.

“You are a director of the company, M. Bouc,” he said. “What do you say?”

M. Bouc cleared his throat.

“In my opinion, M. Poirot,” he said, “the first theory you put forward was the correct one – decidedly so. I suggest that that is the solution we offer to the Jugo-Slavian police when they arrive. You agree, doctor?”

“Certainly I agree,” said Dr. Constantine. “As regards the medical evidence, I think – er – that I made one or two fantastic suggestions.”

“Then,” said Poirot, “having placed my solution before you, I have the honour to retire from the case…”