Murder on the Orient Express

Agatha Christie 
™
 MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS 
115
“In fact, all that your husband and you told me was a tissue of lies.” 
“Monsieur!” cried the Count angrily. 
“Do not be angry, Rudolph. M. Poirot puts the fact rather brutally, but what he says is 
undeniable.” 
“I am glad you admit the fact so freely, Madame. Will you now tell me your reasons for that, 
and also for altering your Christian name on your passport?” 
“That was my doing entirely,” put in the Count. 
Helena said quietly: “Surely, M. Poirot, you can guess my reason—our reason. This man who 
was killed is the man who murdered my baby niece, who killed my sister, who broke my brother-
in-law’s heart. Three of the people I loved best and who made up my home—my world!” 
Her voice rang out passionately. She was a true daughter of that mother the emotional force of 
whose acting had moved huge audiences to tears. 
She went on more quietly. 
“Of all the people on the train I alone had probably the best motive for killing him.” 
“And you did not kill him, Madame?” 
“I swear to you, M. Poirot—and my husband knows—and will swear also—that much as I 
may have been tempted to do so, I never lifted a hand against that man.” 
“I, too, gentlemen.” said the Count. “I give you my word of honour that last night Helena 
never left her compartment. She took a sleeping draught exactly as I said. She is utterly and 
entirely innocent.” 
Poirot looked from one to the other of them. 
“On my word of honour,” repeated the Count. 
Poirot shook his head slightly. 
“And yet you took it upon yourself to alter the name in the passport?” 
“Monsieur Poirot,” the Count said earnestly and passionately, “consider my position. Do you 
think I could stand the thought of my wife dragged through a sordid police case? She was 
innocent, I knew it, but what she said was true—because of her connection with the Armstrong 
family she would have been immediately suspected. She would have been questioned—attested, 
perhaps. Since some evil chance had taken us on the same train as this man Ratchett, there was, I 
felt sure, but one thing for it. I admit, Monsieur, that I lied to you—all, that is, save in one thing. 
My wife never left her compartment last night.” 
He spoke with an earnestness that it was hard to gainsay. 
“I do not say that I disbelieve you, Monsieur,” said Poirot slowly. “Your family is, I know, a 
proud and ancient one. It would be bitter indeed for you to have your wife dragged into an 
unpleasant police case. With that I can sympathise. But how then do you explain the presence of 
your wife’s handkerchief actually in the dead man’s compartment?” 
“That handkerchief is not mine, Monsieur,” said the Countess. 
“In spite of the initial H?” 
“In spite of the initial. I have handkerchiefs not unlike that, but not one that is exactly of that 
pattern. I know, of course, that I cannot hope to make you believe me, but I assure you that it is 
so. That handkerchief is not mine.” 
“It may have been placed there by someone in order to incriminate you?” 
She smiled a little. “You are enticing me to admit that, after all, it is mine? But indeed, M. 
Poirot, it isn’t.” She spoke with great earnestness. 
“Then why, if the handkerchief was not yours, did you alter the name in the passport?” 
The Count answered this. 

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