Hickory Dickory Dock by Agatha Christie

but I must admit that he sometimes has a very unfortunate manner. Sneering - you know. And he's much too scornful ever to explain or defend himself. Even if everybody in this place thinks he did that trick with the ink, he won't go out of his way to say he didn't. He'll just say, 'Let them think it if they want to.' And that attitude is really so utterly foolish.”
    “It can be misunderstood, certainly.”
    “It's a kind of pride, I think. Because he's been so much misunderstood always.”
    “You have known him many years?”
    “No, only for about a year. We met on a tour of the Chateaux of the Loire. He went down with flu which turned to pneumonia and I nursed him through it. He's very delicate and he takes absolutely no care of his own health. In some ways, in spite of his being so independent, he needs looking after like a child. He really needs someone to look after him.”
    Poirot sighed. He felt, suddenly, very tired of love... First there had been Celia, with the adoring eyes of a spaniel. And now here was Patricia looking like an earnest Madonna.
    Admittedly there must be love, young people must meet and pair off, but he, Poirot, was mercifully past all that. He rose to his feet.
    “Will you permit me, Mademoiselle, to retain your ring? It shall be returned to you tomorrow without fail.”
    “Certainly, if you like,” said Patricia, rather surprised.
    “You are very kind. And please, Mademoiselle, be careful.”
    “Careful? Careful of what?”
    “I wish I knew,” said Hercule Poirot, still worried.

Hickory Dickory Dock

Chapter 6
    The following day Mrs. Hubbard found exasperating in every particular. She had wakened with a considerable sense of relief. The nagging doubt about recent occurrences was at last relieved. A silly girl, behaving in that silly modern fashion (with which Mrs. Hubbard had no patience), had been responsible. And from now on, order would reign.
    Descending to breakfast in this comfortable assurance, Mrs. Hubbard found her newly attained ease menaced. The students chose this particular morning to be particularly trying, each in his or her way.
    Mr. Chandra Lal who had heard of the sabotage to Elizabeth's papers became excited and voluble.
    “Oppression,” he spluttered, “deliberate oppression of native races. Contempt and prejudice, colour prejudice. It is here well authenticated example.”
    “Now, Mr. Chandra Lal,” said Mrs. Hubbard sharply. “You've no call to say anything of that kind. Nobody knows who did it or why it was done.”
    “Oh but, Mrs. Hubbard, I thought Celia had come to you herself and really faced up,” said Jean Tomlinson. “I thought it splendid of her. We must all be very kind to her.”
    “Must you be so revoltingly pious, Jean?” demanded Valèrie Hobhouse angrily.
    “I think that's a very unkind thing to say.”
    “Faced up,” said Nigel with a shudder. “Such an utterly revolting term.”
    “I don't see why. The Oxford Group use it and -”
    “Oh, for Heaven's sake, have we got to have the Oxford Group for breakfast?”
    “What's all this, Ma? Is it Celia who's been pinching those things, do you say? Is that why she's not down to breakfast?”
    “I do not understand, please,” said Mr. Akibombo.
    Nobody enlightened him. They were all too anxious to say their own piece.
    “Poor kid,” Len Bateson went on. “Was she hard up or something?”
    “I'm not really surprised, you know,” said Sally slowly. “I always had a sort of idea...”
    “You are saying that it was Celia who spilt ink on my notes?” Elizabeth Johnston looked incredulous. “That seems to me surprising and hardly credible.”
    “Celia did not throw ink on your work,” said Mrs. Hubbard. “And I wish you would all stop discussing this. I meant to tell you all quietly later but -”
    “But Jean was listening outside the door last night,” said Valèrie.
    “I was not listening. I just happened to go -”
    “Come now, Bess,” said Nigel. “You know quite well who