And then I saw you and your friend, watching us that night. I was frantic. You must suspect, or you wouldn’t have tracked us down. I had to know the worst, so I followed you. I was desperate. And then, before I’d had time to say anything, I tumbled to it that it was me you suspected, not Bella! Or at least that you thought I was Bella since I’d stolen the dagger.
I wish, honey, that you could see back into my mind at that moment—you’d forgive me, perhaps—I was so frightened, and muddled, and desperate. All I could get clearly was that you would try and save me. I didn’t know whether you’d be willing to save her. I thought very likely not—it wasn’t the same thing! And I couldn’t risk it! Bella’s my twin—I’d got to do the best for her. So I went on lying. I felt mean—I feel mean still. That’s all—enough too, you’ll say, I expect. I ought to have trusted you. If I had—
As soon as the news was in the paper that Jack Renauld had been arrested, it was all up. Bella wouldn’t even wait to see how things went.
I’m very tired. I can’t write any more.
She had begun to sign herself Cinderella, but had crossed that out and written instead Dulcie Duveen.
It was an ill-written, blurred epistle but I have kept it to this day.
Poirot was with me when I read it. The sheets fell from my hand, and I looked across at him.
“Did you know all the time that it was—the other?”
“Yes, my friend.”
“Why did you not tell me?”
“To begin with, I could hardly believe it conceivable that you could make such a mistake. You had seen the photograph. The sisters are very alike, but by no means incapable of distinguishment.”
“But the fair hair?”
“A wig, worn for the sake of a piquant contrast on the stage. Is it conceivable that with identical twins one should be fair and one dark?”
“Why didn’t you tell me that night at the hotel in Coventry?”
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