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"I wish I’d come over here last night," Julian Farrar announced, addressing no one in particular. "I meant to." "But that awful fog," Laura said quietly. "You couldn’t come out in that." "No," Farrar replied. "I had my committee members over to dine with me. When they found the fog coming on, they went home rather early. I thought then of coming along to see you, but I decided against it." Searching in his pockets, he asked, "Has anyone got a match? I seem to have mislaid my lighter." He looked around, and suddenly noticed the lighter on the table where Laura had left it the night before. Rising, he went across to pick it up, observed by Starkwedder. "Oh, here it is," said Farrar. "Couldn’t imagine where I’d left it." "Julian–" Laura began. "Yes?" Farrar offered her a cigarette, and she took one. "I’m most awfully sorry about all this, Laura," he said. "If there’s anything I can do–" His voice trailed off indecisively. "Yes. Yes, I know," Laura replied, as Farrar lit their cigarettes. Jan suddenly spoke, addressing Starkwedder. "Can you shoot, Mr Starkwedder?" he asked. "I can, you know. Richard used to let me try, sometimes. Of course, I wasn’t as good as he was." "Did he, indeed?" said Starkwedder, turning to Jan. "What sort of gun did he let you use?" As Jan engaged Starkwedder’s attention, Laura took the opportunity of speaking quickly to Julian Farrar. "Julian, I must talk to you. I must," she murmured softly. Farrar’s voice was equally low. "Careful," he warned her. "It was a .22," Jan was telling Starkwedder. "I’m quite good at shooting, aren’t I, Julian?" He went across to Julian Farrar. "Do you remember the time you took me to the fair? I knocked two of the bottles down, didn’t I?" "You did indeed, my lad," Farrar assured him. "You’ve got a good eye, that’s what counts. Good eye for a cricket ball, too. That was quite a sensational game, that match we had last summer," he added. Jan smiled at him happily, and then sat on the footstool, looking across at the inspector who was now examining documents on the desk. There was a pause. Then Starkwedder, as he took out a cigarette, asked Laura, "Do you mind if I smoke?" "Of course not," replied Laura. Starkwedder turned to Julian Farrar. "May I borrow your lighter?" "Of course," said Farrar. "Here it is." "Ah, a nice lighter, this," Starkwedder commented, lighting his cigarette. Laura made a sudden movement, and then stopped herself. "Yes," Farrar said carelessly. "It works better than most." "Rather–distinctive," Starkwedder observed. He gave a quick glance at Laura, and then returned the lighter to Julian Farrar with a murmured word of thanks. Jan left his footstool, and stood behind the inspector’s chair. "Richard has lots of guns," he confided. "Air-guns, too. And he’s got one gun that he used to use in Africa to shoot elephants. Would you like to see them? They’re in Richard’s bedroom through there." He pointed the way. "All right," said the inspector, rising. "You show them to us." He smiled at Jan, adding genially, "You know, you’re being very helpful to us. Helping us quite a lot. We ought to take you into the police force." Putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder, he steered him towards the door, which the sergeant opened for them. "We don’t need to keep you, Mr Starkwedder," the inspector called from the door. "You can go about your business now. Just keep in touch with us, that’s all." "All right," replied Starkwedder, as Jan, the inspector and the sergeant left the room, the sergeant closing the door behind them. Chapter 11 There was an awkward pause after the police officers had left the room with Jan. Then Starkwedder remarked, "Well, I suppose I’d better go and see whether they’ve managed to get my car out of the ditch yet. We didn’t seem to pass it on the way here." "No," Laura explained.
He knew Peter’s weakness of character better than Peter himself knew it, and loved him none the less for it." "No," said Wilding, with vigour, "I can’t agree with you. In my own first marriage," – he paused, then went on – "my wife was – could have been – a really fine character. She’d got into a bad set; all she needed was love, trust, belief. If it hadn’t been for the war –" He stopped. "Well, it was one of the lesser tragedies of war. I was away, she was alone, exposed to bad influences." He paused again before saying abruptly: "I don’t blame her. I make allowances – she was the victim of circumstances. It broke me up at the time. I thought I’d never feel the same man again. But time heals …" He made a gesture. "Why I should tell you the history of my life I don’t know. I’d much rather hear about your life. You see, you’re something absolutely new to me. I want to know the "why" and "how" of you. I was impressed when I came to that meeting, deeply impressed. Not because you swayed your audience – that I can understand well enough. Hitler did it. Lloyd George did it. Politicians, religious leaders and actors, they can all do it in a greater or lesser degree. It’s a gift. No, I wasn’t interested in the effect you were having, I was interested in you. Why was this particular thing worthwhile to you?" Llewellyn shook his head slowly. "You are asking me something that I do not know myself." "Of course, a strong religious conviction." Wilding spoke with slight embarrassment, which amused the other. "You mean, belief in God? That’s a simpler phrase, don’t you think? But it doesn’t answer your question. Belief in God might take me to my knees in a quiet room. It doesn’t explain what you are asking me to explain. Why the public platform?" Wilding said rather doubtfully: "I can imagine that you might feel that in that way you could do more good, reach more people." Llewellyn looked at him in a speculative manner. "From the way you put things, I am to take it that you yourself are not a believer?" "I don’t know, I simply don’t know. Yes, I do believe in a way. I want to believe … I certainly believe in the positive virtues – kindness, helping those who are down, straight dealing, forgiveness." Llewellyn looked at him for some moments. "The Good Life," he said. "The Good Man. Yes, that’s much easier than to attempt the recognition of God. That’s not easy, it’s very difficult, and very frightening. And what’s even more frightening is to stand up to God’s recognition of you." "Frightening?" "It frightened Job." Llewellyn smiled suddenly: "He hadn’t an idea, you know, poor fellow, as to what it was all about. In a world of nice rules and regulations, rewards and punishments, doled out by Almighty God strictly according to merit, he was singled out. (Why? We don’t know. Some quality in him in advance of his generation? Some power of perception given him at birth?) Anyway, the others could go on being rewarded and punished, but Job had to step into what must have seemed to him a new dimension. After a meritorious life, he was not to be rewarded with flocks and herds. Instead, he was to pass through unendurable suffering, to lose his beliefs, and see his friends back away from him. He had to endure the whirlwind. And then, perhaps, having been groomed for stardom, as we say in Hollywood, he could hear the voice of God. And all for what? So that he could begin to recognize what God actually was. "Be still and know that I am God." A terrifying experience. The highest pinnacle that man, so far, had reached. It didn’t, of course, last long. It couldn’t. And he probably made a fine mess trying to tell about it, because there wasn’t the vocabulary, and you can’t describe in terrestrial terms an experience that is spiritual.
Meredith Blake said sharply: "You won’t get much from that. Philip’s a busy man. Things slip his memory once they’re past and done with. Probably he’ll remember things all wrong." "There will be gaps, of course. I realize that." "I tell you what—" Meredith paused abruptly, then went on, reddening a little as he spoke. "If you like, I—I could do the same. I mean, it would be a kind of check, wouldn’t it?" Hercule Poirot said warmly: "It would be most valuable. An idea of the first excellence!" "Right. I will. I’ve got some old diaries somewhere. Mind you," he laughed awkwardly. "I’m not much of a hand at literary language. Even my spelling’s not too good. You—you won’t expect too much?" "Ah, it is not the style I demand. Just a plain recital of everything you can remember. What every one said, how they looked—just what happened. Never mind if it doesn’t seem relevant. It all helps with the atmosphere, so to speak." "Yes, I can see that. It must be difficult visualizing people and places you have never seen." Poirot nodded. "There is another thing I wanted to ask you. Alderbury is the adjoining property to this, is it not? Would it be possible to go there—to see with my own eyes where the tragedy occurred?" Meredith Blake said slowly: "I can take you over there right away. But, of course, it is a good deal changed." "It has not been built over?" "No, thank goodness—not quite so bad as that. But it’s a kind of hostel now—it was bought by some society. Hordes of young people come down to it in the summer, and of course all the rooms have been cut up and partitioned into cubicles, and the grounds have been altered a good deal." "You must reconstruct it for me by your explanations." "I’ll do my best. I wish you could have seen it in the old days. It was one of the loveliest properties I know." He led the way out through the window and began walking down a slope of lawn. "Who was responsible for selling it?" "The executors on behalf of the child. Everything Crale had came to her. He hadn’t made a will, so I imagine that it would be divided automatically between his wife and the child. Caroline’s will left what she had to the child also." "Nothing to her half sister?" "Angela had a certain amount of money of her own left her by her father." Poirot nodded. "I see." Then he uttered an exclamation: "But where is it that you take me? This is the seashore ahead of us!" "Ah, I must explain our geography to you. You’ll see for yourself in a minute. There’s a creek, you see, Camel Creek, they call it, runs inland—looks almost like a river mouth, but it isn’t—it’s just sea. To get to Alderbury by land you have to go right inland and round the creek, but the shortest way from one house to the other is to row across this narrow bit of the creek. Alderbury is just opposite—there, you can see the house through the trees." They had come out on a little beach. Opposite them was a wooded headland and a white house could just be distinguished high up amongst the trees. Two boats were drawn up on the beach. Meredith Blake, with Poirot’s somewhat awkward assistance, dragged one of them down to the water and presently they were rowing across to the other side. "We always went this way in the old days," Meredith explained. "Unless, of course, there was a storm or it was raining, and then we’d take the car. But it’s nearly three miles if you go round that way." He ran the boat neatly alongside a stone quay on the other side. He cast a disparaging eye on a collection of wooden huts and some concrete terraces. "All new, this. Used to be a boathouse—tumbledown old place—and nothing else. And one walked along the shore and bathed off those rocks over there." He assisted his guest to alight, made fast the boat, and led the way up a steep path. "Don’t suppose we’ll meet anyone," he said over his shoulder. "Nobody here in April—except for Easter. Doesn’t matter if we do. I’m on good terms with my neighbours.
"Near a little humpbacked bridge. It was about two miles from here. I wondered what its name was." "Let me see. Canal—humpbacked bridge. Well . . . there are several houses like that. There’s Merricot Farm." "It wasn’t a farm." "Ah, now, I expect it was the Perrys" house—Amos and Alice Perry." "That’s right," said Tuppence. "A Mr. and Mrs. Perry." "She’s a striking-looking woman, isn’t she? Interesting, I always think. Very interesting. Medieval face, didn’t you think so? She’s going to play the witch in our play we’re getting up. The school children, you know. She looks rather like a witch, doesn’t she?" "Yes," said Tuppence. "A friendly witch." "As you say, my dear, absolutely rightly. Yes, a friendly witch." "But he—" "Yes, poor fellow," said the vicar. "Not completely compos mentis—but no harm in him." "They were very nice. They asked me in for a cup of tea," said Tuppence. "But what I wanted to know was the name of the house. I forgot to ask them. They’re only living in half of it, aren’t they?" "Yes, yes. In what used to be the old kitchen quarters. They call it "Waterside," I think, though I believe the ancient name for it was "Watermead." A pleasanter name, I think." "Who does the other part of the house belong to?" "Well, the whole house used to belong originally to the Bradleys. That was a good many years ago. Yes, thirty or forty at least, I should think. And then it was sold, and then sold again and then it remained empty for a long time. When I came here it was just being used as a kind of weekend place. By some actress—Miss Margrave, I believe. She was not here very much. Just used to come down from time to time. I never knew her. She never came to church. I saw her in the distance sometimes. A beautiful creature. A very beautiful creature." "Who does it actually belong to now?" Tuppence persisted. "I’ve no idea. Possibly it still belongs to her. The part the Perrys live in is only rented to them." "I recognized it, you know," said Tuppence, "as soon as I saw it, because I’ve got a picture of it." "Oh really? That must have been one of Boscombe’s, or was his name Boscobel—I can’t remember now. Some name like that. He was a Cornishman, fairly well- known artist, I believe. I rather imagine he’s dead now. Yes, he used to come down here fairly often. He used to sketch all round this part of the world. He did some oils here, too. Very attractive landscapes, some of them." "This particular picture," said Tuppence, "was given to an old aunt of mine who died about a month ago. It was given to her by a Mrs. Lancaster. That’s why I asked if you knew the name." But the vicar shook his head once more. "Lancaster? Lancaster. No, I don’t seem to remember the name. Ah! but here’s the person you must ask. Our dear Miss Bligh. Very active, Miss Bligh is. She knows all about the parish. She runs everything. The Women’s Institute, the Boy Scouts and the Guides—everything. You ask her. She’s very active, very active indeed." The vicar sighed. The activity of Miss Bligh seemed to worry him. "Nellie Bligh, they call her in the village. The boys sing it after her sometimes. Nellie Bligh, Nellie Bligh. It’s not her proper name. That’s something more like Gertrude or Geraldine." Miss Bligh, who was the tweed-clad woman Tuppence had seen in the church, was approaching them at a rapid trot, still holding a small watering can. She eyed Tuppence with deep curiosity as she approached, increasing her pace and starting a conversation before she reached them. "Finished my job," she exclaimed merrily. "Had a bit of a rush today.
He always smelt of whisky, and he used to sham being rather fuddled when his patients came. His idea was that they’d go back to the father again and say the younger man was no good." "And did they?" "Of course not," said Miss Marple. "What happened was what anybody with any sense could have told him would happen! The patients went to Mr. Reilly, the rival dentist. So many people with good hearts have no sense. Besides, Leonard Wylie was so unconvincing … His idea of drunkenness wasn’t in the least like real drunkenness, and he overdid the whisky—spilling it on his clothes, you know, to a perfectly impossible extent." They went into the house by the side door. Nineteen Inside the house, they found the family assembled in the library. Lewis was walking up and down, and there was an air of general tension in the atmosphere. "Is anything the matter?" asked Miss Bellever. Lewis said shortly, "Ernie Gregg is missing from roll call tonight." "Has he run away?" "We don’t know. Maverick and some of the staff are searching the grounds. If we cannot find him we must communicate with the police." "Grandam!" Gina ran over to Carrie Louise, startled by the whiteness of her face. "You look ill." "I am unhappy. The poor boy…." Lewis said, "I was going to question him this evening as to whether he had seen anything noteworthy last night. I have the offer of a good post for him and I thought that after discussing that, I would bring up the other topic. Now—" he broke off. Miss Marple murmured softly: "Foolish boy … poor, foolish boy…." She shook her head, and Mrs. Serrocold said gently: "So you think so too, Jane …?" Stephen Restarick came in. He said, "I missed you at the theatre, Gina. I thought you said you would—Hullo, what’s up?" Lewis repeated his information, and as he finished speaking, Dr. Maverick came in with a fair-haired boy with pink cheeks and a suspiciously angelic expression. Miss Marple remembered his being at dinner on the night she had arrived at Stonygates. "I’ve brought Arthur Jenkins along," said Dr. Maverick. "He seems to have been the last person to talk to Ernie." "Now, Arthur," said Lewis Serrocold, "please help us if you can. Where has Ernie gone? Is this just a prank?" "I dunno, sir. Straight, I don’t. Didn’t say nothing to me, he didn’t. All full of the play at the theatre he was, that’s all. Said as how he’d had a smashing idea for the scenery, what Mrs. Hudd and Mr. Stephen thought was first class." "There’s another thing, Arthur. Ernie claims he was prowling about the grounds after lockup last night. Was that true?" "’Course it ain’t. Just boasting, that’s all. Perishing liar, Ernie. He never got out at night. Used to boast he could, but he wasn’t that good with locks! He couldn’t do anything with a lock as was a lock. Anyway ’e was in larst night, that I do know." "You’re not saying that just to satisfy us, Arthur?" "Cross my heart," said Arthur virtuously. Lewis did not look quite satisfied. "Listen," said Dr. Maverick. "What’s that?" A murmur of voices was approaching. The door was flung open and, looking very pale and ill, the spectacled Mr. Birnbaum staggered in. He gasped out, "We’ve found him—them. It’s horrible…." He sank down on a chair and mopped his forehead. Mildred Strete said sharply: "What do you mean—found them?" Birnbaum was shaking all over. "Down at the theatre," he said. "Their heads crushed in—the big counterweight must have fallen on them. Alexis Restarick and that boy Ernie Gregg. They’re both dead…."
"After the rain, you see, you get all the soil washed off and then the boulders get loose and then down they comes. I remember one year they had three falls—three accidents there was. One boy nearly killed, he was, and then later that year, oh six months later, I think, there was a man got his arm broken, and the third time it was poor old Mrs. Walker. Blind she was and pretty well deaf too. She never heard nothing or she could have got out of the way, they say. Somebody saw it and they called out to her, but they was too far away to reach her or to run to get her. And so she was killed." "Oh how sad," said Miss Marple, "how tragic. The sort of thing that’s not easily forgotten, is it." "No indeed. I expect the Coroner’ll mention it today." "I expect he will," said Miss Marple. "In a terrible way it seems quite a natural thing to happen, doesn’t it, though of course there are accidents sometimes by pushing things about, you know. Just pushing, making stones rock. That sort of thing." "Ah well, there’s boys as be up to anything. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen them up that way, fooling about." Miss Marple went on to the subject of pullovers. Bright coloured pullovers. "It’s not for myself," she said, "it’s for one of my great-nephews. You know he wants a polo-necked pullover and very bright colours he’d like." "Yes, they do like bright colours nowadays, don’t they?" agreed Mrs. Merrypit. "Not in jeans. Black jeans they like. Black or dark blue. But they like a bit of brightness up above." Miss Marple described a pullover of check design in bright colours. There appeared to be quite a good stock of pullovers and jerseys, but anything in red and black did not seem to be on display, nor even was anything like it mentioned as having been lately in stock. After looking at a few samples Miss Marple prepared to take her departure, chatting first about the former murders she had heard about which had happened in this part of the world. "They got the fellow in the end," said Mrs. Merrypit. "Nice looking boy, hardly have thought it of him. He’d been well brought up, you know. Been to university and all that. Father was very rich, they say. Touched in the head, I suppose. Not that they sent him to Broadway, or whatever the place is. No, they didn’t do that, but I think myself he must have been a mental case—there was five or six other girls, so they said. The police had one after another of the young men round hereabouts to help them. Geoffrey Grant they had up. They were pretty sure it was him to begin with. He was always a bit queer, ever since he was a boy. Interfered with little girls going to school, you know. He used to offer them sweets and get them to come down the lanes with him and see the primroses, or something like that. Yes, they had very strong suspicions about him. But it wasn’t him. And then there was another one. Bert Williams, but he’d been far away on two occasions, at least—what they call an alibi, so it couldn’t be him. And then at last it came to this—what’sis-name, I can’t remember him now. Luke I think his name was—no Mike something. Very nice looking, as I say, but he had a bad record. Yes, stealing, forging cheques, all sorts of things like that. And two what-you-call ’em paternity cases, no, I don’t mean that, but you know what I mean. When a girl’s going to have a baby. You know and they make an order and make the fellow pay. He’d got two girls in the family way before this." "Was this girl in the family way?" "Oh yes, she was. At first we thought when the body was found it might have been Nora Broad. That was Mrs. Broad’s niece, down at the mill shop. Great one for going with the boys, she was. She’d gone away missing from home in the same way. Nobody knew where she was. So when this body turned up six months later they thought at first it was her."
"The game is up, Martha – you see, I know. You may as well tell me everything." She sank down on a chair – the tears raced down her face. "It’s true – it’s true – the bell didn’t ring properly – I wasn’t sure, and then I thought I’d better go and see. I got to the door just as he struck her down. The roll of five-pound notes was on the table in front of her – it was the sight of them as made him do it – that and thinking she was alone in the house as she’d let him in. I couldn’t scream. I was too paralysed and then he turned – and I saw it was my boy . . . "Oh, he’s been a bad one always. I gave him all the money I could. He’s been in gaol twice. He must have come around to see me, and then Miss Crabtree, seeing as I didn’t answer the door, went to answer it herself, and he was taken aback and pulled out one of those unemployment leaflets, and the mistress being kind of charitable, told him to come in and got out a sixpence. And all the time that roll of notes was lying on the table where it had been when I was giving her the change. And the devil got into my Ben and he got behind her and struck her down." "And then?" asked Sir Edward. "Oh, sir, what could I do? My own flesh and blood. His father was a bad one, and Ben takes after him – but he was my own son. I hustled him out, and I went back to the kitchen and I went to lay for supper at the usual time. Do you think it was very wicked of me, sir? I tried to tell you no lies when you was asking me questions." Sir Edward rose. "My poor woman," he said with feeling in his voice, "I am very sorry for you. All the same, the law will have to take its course, you know." "He’s fled the country, sir. I don’t know where he is." "There’s a chance, then, that he may escape the gallows, but don’t build upon it. Will you send Miss Magdalen to me." "Oh, Sir Edward. How wonderful of you – how wonderful you are," said Magdalen when he had finished his brief recital. "You’ve saved us all. How can I ever thank you?" Sir Edward smiled down at her and patted her hand gently. He was very much the great man. Little Magdalen had been very charming on the Siluric. That bloom of seventeen – wonderful! She had completely lost it now, of course. "Next time you need a friend –" he said. "I’ll come straight to you." "No, no," cried Sir Edward in alarm. "That’s just what I don’t want you to do. Go to a younger man." He extricated himself with dexterity from the grateful household and hailing a taxi sank into it with a sigh of relief. Even the charm of a dewy seventeen seemed doubtful. It could not really compare with a really well-stocked library on criminology. The taxi turned into Queen Anne’s Close. His cul-de-sac. Chapter 34 The Blue Geranium "The Blue Geranium" was first published in The Christmas Story-Teller, December 1929. "When I was down here last year –" said Sir Henry Clithering, and stopped. His hostess, Mrs Bantry, looked at him curiously. The Ex-Commissioner of Scotland Yard was staying with old friends of his, Colonel and Mrs Bantry, who lived near St Mary Mead. Mrs Bantry, pen in hand, had just asked his advice as to who should be invited to make a sixth guest at dinner that evening. "Yes?" said Mrs Bantry encouragingly. "When you were here last year?" "Tell me," said Sir Henry, "do you know a Miss Marple?" Mrs Bantry was surprised. It was the last thing she had expected. "Know Miss Marple? Who doesn’t! The typical old maid of fiction. Quite a dear, but hopelessly behind the times. Do you mean you would like me to ask her to dinner?" "You are surprised?" "A little, I must confess. I should hardly have thought you – but perhaps there’s an explanation?" "The explanation is simple enough. When I was down here last year we got into the habit of discussing unsolved mysteries – there were five or six of us – Raymond West, the novelist, started it.
"You poor dear," said Tuppence sympathetically. "What a time you have had. Did you want Mr Blunt to investigate this "haunting" business?" "Not exactly. You see, three days ago, a gentleman called upon us. His name was Dr O’Neill. He told us that he was a member of the Society for Physical Research, and that he had heard about the curious manifestations that had taken place in our house and was much interested. So much so, that he was prepared to buy it from us, and conduct a series of experiments there." "Well?" "Of course, at first, I was overcome with joy. It seemed the way out of all our difficulties. But –" "Yes?" "Perhaps you will think me fanciful. Perhaps I am. But–oh! I’m sure I haven’t made a mistake. It was the same man!" "What same man?" "The same man who wanted to buy it before. Oh! I’m sure I’m right." "But why shouldn’t it be?" "You don’t understand. The two men were quite different, different name and everything. The first man was quite young, a spruce, dark young man of thirty odd. Dr O’Neill is about fifty, he has a grey beard and wears glasses and stoops. But when he talked I saw a gold tooth one side of his mouth. It only shows when he laughs. The other man had a tooth in just the same position, and then I looked at his ears. I had noticed the other man’s ears, because they were a peculiar shape with hardly any lobe. Dr O’Neill’s were just the same. Both things couldn’t be a coincidence, could they? I thought and thought and finally I wrote and said I would let him know in a week. I had noticed Mr Blunt’s advertisement some time ago–as a matter of fact in an old paper that lined one of the kitchen drawers. I cut it out and came up to town." "You were quite right," said Tuppence, nodding her head with vigour. "This needs looking into." "A very interesting case, Miss Deane," observed Tommy. "We shall be pleased to look into this for you–eh, Miss Sheringham?" "Rather," said Tuppence, "and we’ll get to the bottom of it too." "I understand, Miss Deane," went on Tommy, "that the household consists of you and your mother and a servant. Can you give me any particulars about the servant?" "Her name is Crockett. She was with my aunt about eight or ten years. She is an elderly woman, not very pleasant in manner, but a good servant. She is inclined to give herself airs because her sister married out of her station. Crockett has a nephew whom she is always telling us is "quite the gentleman"." "H’m," said Tommy, rather at a loss how to proceed. Tuppence had been eyeing Monica keenly, now she spoke with sudden decision. "I think the best plan would be for Miss Deane to come out and lunch with me. It’s just one o’clock. I can get full details from her." "Certainly, Miss Sheringham," said Tommy. "An excellent plan." "Look here," said Tuppence, when they were comfortably ensconced at a little table in a neighbouring restaurant, "I want to know: Is there any special reason why you want to find out about all this?" Monica blushed. "Well, you see –" "Out with it," said Tuppence encouragingly. "Well–there are two men who–who–want to marry me." "The usual story, I suppose? One rich, one poor, and the poor one is the one you like!" "I don’t know how you know all these things," murmured the girl. "That’s a sort of law of Nature," explained Tuppence. "It happens to everybody. It happened to me." "You see, even if I sell the house, it won’t bring us in enough to live on. Gerald is a dear, but he’s desperately poor–though he’s a very clever engineer; and if only he had a little capital, his firm would take him into partnership. The other, Mr Partridge, is a very good man, I am sure–and well off, and if I married him, it would be an end to all our troubles. But–but –" "I know," said Tuppence sympathetically. "It isn’t the same thing at all.
"You’ve walked into my parlour," said the spider to the fly." There was a faint click and a gleam of blue steel showed in his hand. His voice took on a grim note as he said: "And I shouldn’t advise you to make any noise or try to arouse the neighbourhood! You’d be dead before you got so much as a yelp out, and even if you did manage to scream it wouldn’t arouse attention. Patients under gas, you know, often cry out." Tuppence said composedly: "You seem to have thought of everything. Has it occurred to you that I have friends who know where I am?" "Ah! Still harping on the blue-eyed boy—actually brown-eyed! Young Anthony Marsdon. I’m sorry, Mrs. Beresford, but young Anthony happens to be one of our most stalwart supporters in this country. As I said just now, a few yards of canvas creates a wonderful effect. You swallowed the parachute idea quite easily." "I don’t see the point of all this rigmarole!" "Don’t you? We don’t want your friends to trace you too easily, you see. If they pick up your trail it will lead to Yarrow and to a man in a car. The fact that a hospital nurse, of quite different facial appearance, walked into Leatherbarrow between one and two will hardly be connected with your disappearance." "Very elaborate," said Tuppence. Haydock said: "I admire your nerve, you know. I admire it very much. I’m sorry to have to coerce you—but it’s vital that we should know just exactly how much you did discover at Sans Souci." Tuppence did not answer. Haydock said quietly: "I’d advise you, you know, to come clean. There are certain—possibilities—in a dentist’s chair and instruments." Tuppence merely threw him a scornful look. Haydock leant back in his chair. He said slowly: "Yes—I dare say you’ve got a lot of fortitude—your type often has. But what about the other half of the picture?" "What do you mean?" "I’m talking about Thomas Beresford, your husband, who has lately been living at Sans Souci under the name of Mr. Meadowes, and who is now very conveniently trussed up in the cellar of my house." Tuppence said sharply: "I don’t believe it." "Because of the Penny Plain letter? Don’t you realise that that was just a smart bit of work on the part of young Anthony. You played into his hands nicely when you gave him the code." Tuppence’s voice trembled. "Then Tommy—then Tommy—" "Tommy," said Commander Haydock, "is where he has been all along—completely in my power! It’s up to you now. If you answer my questions satisfactorily, there’s a chance for him. If you don’t—well, the original plan holds. He’ll be knocked on the head, taken out to sea and put overboard." Tuppence was silent for a minute or two—then she said: "What do you want to know?" "I want to know who employed you, what your means of communication with that person or persons are, what you have reported so far, and exactly what you know?" Tuppence shrugged her shoulders. "I could tell you what lies I choose," she pointed out. "No, because I shall proceed to test what you say." He drew his chair a little nearer. His manner was now definitely appealing. "My dear woman—I know just what you feel about it all, but believe me when I say I really do admire both you and your husband immensely. You’ve got grit and pluck. It’s people like you that will be needed in the new State—the State that will arise in this country when your present imbecile Government is vanquished. We want to turn some of our enemies into friends—those that are worthwhile. If I have to give the order that ends your husband’s life, I shall do it—it’s my duty—but I shall feel really badly about having to do it! He’s a fine fellow—quiet, unassuming and clever. Let me impress upon you what so few people in this country seem to understand. Our Leader does not intend to conquer this country in the sense that you all think. He aims at creating a new Britain—a Britain strong in its own power—ruled over, not by Germans, but by Englishmen.
Then she began to laugh. She laughed and she laughed—and the tears ran down her face. "The way you said that!" she gasped. "The way you said it. . . ." "Now, now," I said. "This won’t do." I spoke sharply. I pushed her into a chair, went over to the washstand and got a cold sponge and bathed her forehead and wrists. "No more nonsense," I said. "Tell me calmly and sensibly all about it." That stopped her. She sat up and spoke in her natural voice. "You’re a treasure, nurse," she said. "You make me feel as though I’m six. I’m going to tell you." "That’s right," I said. "Take your time and don’t hurry." She began to speak, slowly and deliberately. "When I was a girl of twenty I married. A young man in one of our State departments. It was in 1918." "I know," I said. "Mrs. Mercado told me. He was killed in the war." But Mrs. Leidner shook her head. "That’s what she thinks. That’s what everybody thinks. The truth is something different. I was a queer patriotic, enthusiastic girl, nurse, full of idealism. When I’d been married a few months I discovered—by a quite unforeseeable accident—that my husband was a spy in German pay. I learned that the information supplied by him had led directly to the sinking of an American transport and the loss of hundreds of lives. I don’t know what most people would have done . . . But I’ll tell you what I did. I went straight to my father, who was in the War Department, and told him the truth. Frederick was killed in the war—but he was killed in America—shot as a spy." "Oh dear, dear!" I ejaculated. "How terrible!" "Yes," she said. "It was terrible. He was so kind, too—so gentle . . . And all the time . . . But I never hesitated. Perhaps I was wrong." "It’s difficult to say," I said. "I’m sure I don’t know what one would do." "What I’m telling you was never generally known outside the State department. Ostensibly my husband had gone to the Front and had been killed. I had a lot of sympathy and kindness shown me as a war widow." Her voice was bitter and I nodded comprehendingly. "Lots of people wanted to marry me, but I always refused. I’d had too bad a shock. I didn’t feel I could ever trust anyone again." "Yes, I can imagine feeling like that." "And then I became very fond of a certain young man. I wavered. An amazing thing happened! I got an anonymous letter—from Frederick—saying that if I ever married another man, he’d kill me!" "From Frederick? From your dead husband?" "Yes. Of course, I thought at first I was mad or dreaming . . . At last I went to my father. He told me the truth. My husband hadn’t been shot after all. He’d escaped—but his escape did him no good. He was involved in a train wreck a few weeks later and his dead body was found amongst others. My father had kept the fact of his escape from me, and since the man had died anyway he had seen no reason to tell me anything until now. "But the letter I received opened up entirely new possibilities. Was it perhaps a fact that my husband was still alive? "My father went into the matter as carefully as possible. And he declared that as far as one could humanly be sure the body that was buried as Frederick’s was Frederick’s. There had been a certain amount of disfiguration, so that he could not speak with absolute cast-iron certainty, but he reiterated his solemn belief that Frederick was dead and that this letter was a cruel and malicious hoax. "The same thing happened more than once. If I seemed to be on intimate terms with any man, I would receive a threatening letter." "In your husband’s handwriting?" She said slowly: "That is difficult to say. I had no letters of his. I had only my memory to go by." "There was no allusion or special form of words used that could make you sure?" "No. There were certain terms—nicknames, for instance—private between us—if one of those had been used or quoted, then I should have been quite sure." "Yes," I said thoughtfully.
Sir Henry came to the rescue. "Shall we call it Riverbury?" he suggested gravely. "Oh, yes, that would do splendidly. Riverbury, I’ll remember that. Well, as I say, this—my friend—was at Riverbury with her company, and a very curious thing happened." She puckered her brows again. "It’s very difficult," she said plaintively, "to say just what you want. One gets things mixed up and tells the wrong things first." "You’re doing it beautifully," said Dr. Lloyd encouragingly. "Go on." "Well, this curious thing happened. My friend was sent for to the police station. And she went. It seemed there had been a burglary at a riverside bungalow and they’d arrested a young man, and he told a very odd story. And so they sent for her. "She’d never been to a police station before, but they were very nice to her—very nice indeed." "They would be, I’m sure," said Sir Henry. "The sergeant—I think it was a sergeant—or it may have been an inspector—gave her a chair and explained things, and of course I saw at once that it was some mistake—" "Aha," thought Sir Henry. "I. Here we are. I thought as much." "My friend said so," continued Jane, serenely unconscious of her self- betrayal. "She explained she had been rehearsing with her understudy at the hotel and that she’d never even heard of this Mr. Faulkener. And the sergeant said, "Miss Hel—’" She stopped and flushed. "Miss Helman," suggested Sir Henry with a twinkle. "Yes—yes, that would do. Thank you. He said, "Well, Miss Helman, I felt it must be some mistake, knowing that you were stopping at the Bridge Hotel," and he said would I have any objection to confronting—or was it being confronted? I can’t remember." "It doesn’t really matter," said Sir Henry reassuringly. "Anyway, with the young man. So I said, "Of course not." And they brought him and said, "This is Miss Helier," and—Oh!" Jane broke off openmouthed. "Never mind, my dear," said Miss Marple consolingly. "We were bound to guess, you know. And you haven’t given us the name of the place or anything that really matters." "Well," said Jane. "I did mean to tell it as though it happened to someone else. But it is difficult, isn’t it! I mean one forgets so." Everyone assured her that it was very difficult, and soothed and reassured, she went on with her slightly involved narrative. "He was a nice-looking man—quite a nice-looking man. Young, with reddish hair. His mouth just opened when he saw me. And the sergeant said, "Is this the lady?" And he said, "No, indeed it isn’t. What an ass I have been." And I smiled at him and said it didn’t matter." "I can picture the scene," said Sir Henry. Jane Helier frowned. "Let me see—how had I better go on?" "Supposing you tell us what it was all about, dear," said Miss Marple, so mildly that no one could suspect her of irony. "I mean what the young man’s mistake was, and about the burglary." "Oh, yes," said Jane. "Well, you see, this young man—Leslie Faulkener, his name was—had written a play. He’d written several plays, as a matter of fact, though none of them had ever been taken. And he had sent this particular play to me to read. I didn’t know about it, because of course I have hundreds of plays sent to me and I read very few of them myself—only the ones I know something about. Anyway, there it was, and it seems that Mr. Faulkener got a letter from me—only it turned out not to be really from me—you understand—" She paused anxiously, and they assured her that they understood. "Saying that I’d read the play, and liked it very much and would he come down and talk it over with me. And it gave the address—The Bungalow, Riverbury. So Mr. Faulkener was frightfully pleased and he came down and arrived at this place—The Bungalow.
You’ve heard?" Sir Henry nodded. "Bantry was telling me. Very sad." He was a little puzzled. He could not conceive why Miss Marple should want to see him about Rose Emmott. Miss Marple sat down again. Sir Henry also sat. When the old lady spoke her manner had changed. It was grave, and had a certain dignity. "You may remember, Sir Henry, that on one or two occasions we played what was really a pleasant kind of game. Propounding mysteries and giving solutions. You were kind enough to say that I—that I did not do too badly." "You beat us all," said Sir Henry warmly. "You displayed an absolute genius for getting to the truth. And you always instanced, I remember, some village parallel which had supplied you with the clue." He smiled as he spoke, but Miss Marple did not smile. She remained very grave. "What you said has emboldened me to come to you now. I feel that if I say something to you—at least you will not laugh at me." He realized suddenly that she was in deadly earnest. "Certainly, I will not laugh," he said gently. "Sir Henry—this girl—Rose Emmott. She did not drown herself— she was murdered. . . And I know who murdered her." Sir Henry was silent with sheer astonishment for quite three seconds. Miss Marple’s voice had been perfectly quiet and unexcited. She might have been making the most ordinary statement in the world for all the emotion she showed. "This is a very serious statement to make, Miss Marple," said Sir Henry when he had recovered his breath. She nodded her head gently several times. "I know—I know—that is why I have come to you." "But, my dear lady, I am not the person to come to. I am merely a private individual nowadays. If you have knowledge of the kind you claim, you must go to the police." "I don’t think I can do that," said Miss Marple. "But why not?" "Because, you see, I haven’t got any—what you call knowledge." "You mean it’s only a guess on your part?" "You can call it that, if you like, but it’s not really that at all. I know. I’m in a position to know; but if I gave my reasons for knowing to Inspector Drewitt—well, he’d simply laugh. And really, I don’t know that I’d blame him. It’s very difficult to understand what you might call specialized knowledge." "Such as?" suggested Sir Henry. Miss Marple smiled a little. "If I were to tell you that I know because of a man called Pease-good leaving turnips instead of carrots when he came round with a cart and sold vegetables to my niece several years ago—" She stopped eloquently. "A very appropriate name for the trade," murmured Sir Henry. "You mean that you are simply judging from the facts in a parallel case." "I know human nature," said Miss Marple. "It’s impossible not to know human nature living in a village all these years. The question is, do you believe me, or don’t you?" She looked at him very straight. The pink flush had heightened on her cheeks. Her eyes met his steadily without wavering. Sir Henry was a man with a very vast experience of life. He made his decisions quickly without beating about the bush. Unlikely and fantastic as Miss Marple’s statement might seem, he was instantly aware that he accepted it. "I do believe you, Miss Marple. But I do not see what you want me to do in the matter, or why you have come to me." "I have thought and thought about it," said Miss Marple. "As I said, it would be useless going to the police without any facts. I have no facts. What I would ask you to do is to interest yourself in the matter—Inspector Drewitt would be most flattered, I am sure. And, of course, if the matter went farther, Colonel Melchett, the Chief Constable, I am sure, would be wax in your hands." She looked at him appealingly. "And what data are you going to give me to work upon?" "I thought," said Miss Marple, "of writing a name— the name—on a piece of paper and giving it to you. Then if, on investigation, you decided that the—the person —is not involved in any way—well, I shall have been quite wrong." She paused and then added with a slight shiver. "It would be so dreadful—so very dreadful—if an innocent person were to be hanged."
Tuppence jumped out and she and Mr. Grant ran up the drive. The hall door, as usual, was open. There was no one in sight. Tuppence ran lightly up the stairs. She just glanced inside her own room in passing, and noted the confusion of open drawers and disordered bed. She nodded and passed on, along the corridor and into the room occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Cayley. The room was empty. It looked peaceful and smelt slightly of medicines. Tuppence ran across to the bed and pulled at the coverings. They fell to the ground and Tuppence ran her hand under the mattress. She turned triumphantly to Mr. Grant with a tattered child’s picture book in her hand. "Here you are. It’s all in here—" "What on—?" They turned. Mrs. Sprot was standing in the doorway staring. "And now," said Tuppence, "let me introduce you to M! Yes. Mrs. Sprot! I ought to have known it all along." It was left to Mrs. Cayley arriving in the doorway a moment later to introduce the appropriate anticlimax. "Oh dear," said Mrs. Cayley, looking with dismay at her spouse’s dismantled bed. "Whatever will Mr. Cayley say?" Fifteen "I ought to have known it all along," said Tuppence. She was reviving her shattered nerves by a generous tot of old brandy, and was beaming alternately at Tommy and at Mr. Grant—and at Albert, who was sitting in front of a pint of beer and grinning from ear to ear. "Tell us all about it, Tuppence," urged Tommy. "You first," said Tuppence. "There’s not much for me to tell," said Tommy. "Sheer accident let me into the secret of the wireless transmitter. I thought I’d get away with it, but Haydock was too smart for me." Tuppence nodded and said: "He telephoned to Mrs. Sprot at once. And she ran out into the drive and laid in wait for you with the hammer. She was only away from the bridge table for about three minutes. I did notice she was a little out of breath—but I never suspected her." "After that," said Tommy, "the credit belongs entirely to Albert. He came sniffing round like a faithful dog. I did some impassioned morse snoring and he cottoned on to it. He went off to Mr. Grant with the news and the two of them came back late that night. More snoring! Result was, I agreed to remain put so as to catch the sea forces when they arrived." Mr. Grant added his quota. "When Haydock went off this morning, our people took charge at Smugglers" Rest. We nabbed the boat this evening." "And now, Tuppence," said Tommy. "Your story." "Well, to begin with, I’ve been the most frightful fool all along! I suspected everybody here except Mrs. Sprot! I did once have a terrible feeling of menace, as though I was in danger—that was after I overheard the telephone message about the fourth of the month. There were three people there at the time—I put down my feeling of apprehension to either Mrs. Perenna or Mrs. O’Rourke. Quite wrong—it was the colourless Mrs. Sprot who was the really dangerous personality. "I went muddling on, as Tommy knows, until after he disappeared. Then I was just cooking up a plan with Albert when suddenly, out of the blue, Anthony Marsdon turned up. It seemed all right to begin with—the usual sort of young man that Deb often has in tow. But two things made me think a bit. First I became more and more sure as I talked to him that I hadn’t seen him before and that he never had been to the flat. The second was that, though he seemed to know all about my working at Leahampton, he assumed that Tommy was in Scotland. Now, that seemed all wrong. If he knew about anyone, it would be Tommy he knew about, since I was more or less unofficial. That struck me as very odd. "Mr. Grant had told me that Fifth Columnists were everywhere—in the most unlikely places. So why shouldn’t one of them be working in Deborah’s show? I wasn’t convinced, but I was suspicious enough to lay a trap for him.
Roddy said: "This morning—like a fool—I lost my head—" Elinor said: "Yes?" Roddy said: "Of course she—she shut me up at once! She was shocked. Because of Aunt Laura and—of you—" Elinor drew the diamond ring off her finger. She said: "You’d better take it back, Roddy." Taking it, he murmured without looking at her: "Elinor, you’ve no idea what a beast I feel." Elinor said in her calm voice: "Do you think she’ll marry you?" He shook his head. "I’ve no idea. Not—not for a long time. I don’t think she cares for me now; but she might come to care…." Elinor said: "I think you’re right. You must give her time. Not see her for a bit, and then—start afresh." "Darling Elinor! You’re the best friend anyone ever had." He took her hand suddenly and kissed it. "You know, Elinor, I do love you—just as much as ever! Sometimes Mary seems just like a dream. I might wake up from it—and find she wasn’t there…." Elinor said: "If Mary wasn’t there…." Roddy said with sudden feeling: "Sometimes I wish she wasn’t… You and I, Elinor, belong. We do belong, don’t we?" Slowly she bent her head. She said: "Oh, yes—we belong." She thought: "If Mary wasn’t there…." Five Nurse Hopkins said with emotion: "It was a beautiful funeral!" Nurse O’Brien responded: "It was, indeed. And the flowers! Did you ever see such beautiful flowers? A harp of white lilies there was, and a cross of yellow roses. Beautiful." Nurse Hopkins sighed and helped herself to buttered teacake. The two nurses were sitting in the Blue Tit Café. Nurse Hopkins went on: "Miss Carlisle is a generous girl. She gave me a nice present, though she’d no call to do so." "She’s a fine generous girl," agreed Nurse O’Brien warmly. "I do detest stinginess." Nurse Hopkins said: "Well, it’s a grand fortune she’s inherited." Nurse O’Brien said, "I wonder…" and stopped. Nurse Hopkins said, "Yes?" encouragingly. "’Twas strange the way the old lady made no will." "It was wicked," Nurse Hopkins said sharply. "People ought to be forced to make wills! It only leads to unpleasantness when they don’t." "I’m wondering," said Nurse O’Brien, "if she had made a will, how she’d have left her money?" Nurse Hopkins said firmly: "I know one thing." "What’s that?" "She’d have left a sum of money to Mary—Mary Gerrard." "Yes, indeed, and that’s true," agreed the other. She added excitedly, "Wasn’t I after telling you that night of the state she was in, poor dear, and the doctor doing his best to calm her down. Miss Elinor was there holding her auntie’s hand and swearing by God Almighty," said Nurse O’Brien, her Irish imagination suddenly running away with her, "that the lawyer should be sent for and everything done accordingly. "Mary! Mary!" the poor old lady said. "Is it Mary Gerrard you’re meaning?" says Miss Elinor, and straightaway she swore that Mary should have her rights!" Nurse Hopkins said rather doubtfully: "Was it like that?" Nurse O’Brien replied firmly: "That was the way of it, and I’ll tell you this, Nurse Hopkins: In my opinion, if Mrs. Welman had lived to make that will, it’s likely there might have been surprises for all! Who knows she mightn’t have left every penny she possessed to Mary Gerrard!" Nurse Hopkins said dubiously: "I don’t think she’d do that. I don’t hold with leaving your money away from your own flesh and blood." Nurse O’Brien said oracularly: "There’s flesh and blood and flesh and blood." Nurse Hopkins responded instantly: "Now, what might you mean by that?" Nurse O’Brien said with dignity: "I’m not one to gossip! And I wouldn’t be blackening anyone’s name that’s dead." Nurse Hopkins nodded her head slowly and said: "That’s right. I agree with you. Least said soonest mended." She filled up the teapot.
VERA. Is he . . . ? LOMBARD. Yes. Crushed. Head stove in. That great bronze bear holding a clock, from the landing. VERA. A bear? Oh, how ghastly! It’s this awful childishness! LOMBARD. I know. God, what a fool Blore was! VERA. And now there are two. LOMBARD. (To down Left) Yes, and we’ll have to be very careful of ourselves. VERA. We shan’t do it. He’ll get us. We’ll never get away from this island! LOMBARD. Oh, yes, we will. I’ve never been beaten yet. VERA. Don’t you feel—that there’s someone—now—in this room—watching us, watching and waiting? LOMBARD. That’s just nerves. VERA. Then you do feel it? LOMBARD. (Fiercely) No, I don’t. VERA. (Rises, to Centre) Please, Philip, let’s get out of this house—anywhere. Perhaps if that was a boat, they’ll see us. LOMBARD. All right. We’ll go to the top of the island and wait for relief to come. It’s sheer cliff on the far side and we can see if anyone approaches from the house. VERA. Anything is better than staying here. LOMBARD. Won’t you be rather cold in that dress? VERA. I’d be colder if I were dead. LOMBARD. Perhaps you’re right. (Goes to window) A quick reconnaissance. VERA. Be careful, Philip—please! (Follows him to window.) LOMBARD. I’m not Blore. There’s no window directly above. (He goes out on balcony and looks down. He is arrested by what he sees.) Hullo, there’s something washed up on the rocks. VERA. What? (She joins him) It looks like a body. LOMBARD. (In a strange new voice) You’d better wait in there. I’m going to have a look. (He exits to Left on balcony. VERA back into room. Her face is full of conflicting emotions.) VERA. Armstrong—Armstrong’s body— LOMBARD. (Comes in very slowly) It’s Armstrong drowned—Washed up at high-water mark. VERA. So there’s no one on the island—no one at all, except us two. LOMBARD. Yes, Vera. Now we know where we are. VERA. Now we know where we are? LOMBARD. A very pretty trick of yours, with that wire. Quite neat. Old Wargrave always knew you were dangerous. VERA. You— LOMBARD. So you did drown that kid after all. VERA. I didn’t! That’s where you’re wrong. Please believe me. Please listen to me! LOMBARD. (Crossing down Left) I’m listening. You’d better make it a good story. VERA. (Above Right sofa) It isn’t a story. It’s the truth. I didn’t kill that child. It was someone else. LOMBARD. Who? VERA. A man. Peter’s uncle. I was in love with him. LOMBARD. This is getting quite interesting. VERA. Don’t sneer. It was hell. Absolute hell. Peter was born after his father’s death. If he’d been a girl, Hugh would have got everything. LOMBARD. Well-known tale of the wicked uncle. VERA. Yes—he was wicked—and I didn’t know. He said he loved me, but that he was too poor to marry. There was a rock far out that Peter was always wanting to swim to. Of course, I wouldn’t let him. It was dangerous. One day we were on the beach and I had to go back to the house for something I’d forgotten. When I got back to the rock, I looked down and saw Peter swimming out to the rock. I knew he hadn’t a chance, the current had got him already. I flew towards the beach and Hugh tried to stop me. "Don’t be a fool," he said. "I told the little ass he could do it." LOMBARD. Go on. This is interesting. VERA.
"Especially, you understand, when she has brains. To ask someone to do a thing and at the same time to put them against doing it, that is a delicate operation. It requires finesse. She was very adroit—oh, very adroit—but Hercule Poirot, my good George, is of a cleverness quite exceptional." "I have heard you say so, sir." "It is not the secretary she has in mind," mused Poirot. "Lady Astwell’s accusation of him she treats with contempt. Just the same she is anxious that no one should disturb the sleeping dogs. I, my good George, I go to disturb them, I go to make the dog fight! There is a drama there, at Mon Repos. A human drama, and it excites me. She was adroit, the little one, but not adroit enough. I wonder—I wonder what I shall find there?" Into the dramatic pause which succeeded these words George’s voice broke apologetically: "Shall I pack dress clothes, sir?" Poirot looked at him sadly. "Always the concentration, the attention to your own job. You are very good for me, George." When the 4:55 drew up at Abbots Cross station, there descended from it M. Hercule Poirot, very neatly and foppishly attired, his moustaches waxed to a stiff point. He gave up his ticket, passed through the barrier, and was accosted by a tall chauffeur. "M. Poirot?" The little man beamed upon him. "That is my name." "This way, sir, if you please." He held open the door of the big Rolls-Royce. The house was a bare three minutes from the station. The chauffeur descended once more and opened the door of the car, and Poirot stepped out. The butler was already holding the front door open. Poirot gave the outside of the house a swift appraising glance before passing through the open door. It was a big, solidly built red-brick mansion, with no pretensions to beauty, but with an air of solid comfort. Poirot stepped into the hall. The butler relieved him deftly of his hat and overcoat, then murmured with that deferential undertone only to be achieved by the best servants: "Her ladyship is expecting you, sir." Poirot followed the butler up the soft-carpeted stairs. This, without doubt, was Parsons, a very well-trained servant, with a manner suitably devoid of emotion. At the top of the staircase he turned to the right along a corridor. He passed through a door into a little anteroom, from which two more doors led. He threw open the left-hand one of these, and announced: "M. Poirot, m’lady." The room was not a very large one, and it was crowded with furniture and knickknacks. A woman, dressed in black, got up from a sofa and came quickly towards Poirot. "M. Poirot," she said with outstretched hand. Her eye ran rapidly over the dandified figure. She paused a minute, ignoring the little man’s bow over her hand, and his murmured "Madame," and then, releasing his hand after a sudden vigorous pressure, she exclaimed: "I believe in small men! They are the clever ones." "Inspector Miller," murmured Poirot, "is, I think, a tall man?" "He is a bumptious idiot," said Lady Astwell. "Sit down here by me, will you, M. Poirot?" She indicated the sofa and went on: "Lily did her best to put me off sending for you, but I have not come to my time of life without knowing my own mind." "A rare accomplishment," said Poirot, as he followed her to the settee. Lady Astwell settled herself comfortably among the cushions and turned so as to face him. "Lily is a dear girl," said Lady Astwell, "but she thinks she knows everything, and as often as not in my experience those sort of people are wrong. I am not clever, M. Poirot, I never have been, but I am right where many a more stupid person is wrong. I believe in guidance. Now do you want me to tell you who is the murderer, or do you not? A woman knows, M. Poirot." "Does Miss Margrave know?" "What did she tell you?" asked Lady Astwell sharply.
(He puts his brief-case on the armchair and moves down R) Meredith Blake will be here at three o’clock. CARLA. Good! What about Lady Melksham? JUSTIN. She didn’t answer my letter. CARLA. Perhaps she’s away? JUSTIN. (crossing to L of the arch) No, she’s not away. I took steps to ascertain that she’s at home. CARLA. I suppose that means that she’s going to ignore the whole thing. JUSTIN. Oh, I wouldn’t say that. She’ll come all right. CARLA. (moving C) What makes you so sure? JUSTIN. Well, women usually . . . CARLA. (with a touch of mischief) I see—you’re an authority on women. JUSTIN. (stiffly) Only in the legal sense. CARLA. And—strictly in the legal sense . . . ? JUSTIN. Women usually want to satisfy their curiosity. (CARLA sees Justin’s coat on the settee, crosses and picks it up) CARLA. I really do like you—you make me feel much better. (She moves towards the hooks) (The telephone rings) (She thrusts the coat at Justin, crosses and lifts the telephone receiver. Into the telephone) Hello? . . . (JUSTIN hangs his coat in the hall) Oh, ask him to come up, will you? (She replaces the receiver and turns to Justin) It’s Meredith Blake. Is he like his hateful brother? JUSTIN. (moving C) A very different temperament, I should say. Do you need to feel better? CARLA. What? JUSTIN. You said just now I made you feel better. Do you need to feel better? CARLA. Sometimes I do. (She gestures to him to sit on the settee) (JUSTIN sits on the settee) I didn’t realize what I was letting myself in for. JUSTIN. I was afraid of that. CARLA. I could still—give it all up—go back to Canada—forget. Shall I? JUSTIN. (quickly) No! No—er—not now. You’ve got to go on. CARLA. (sitting in the armchair) That’s not what you advised in the first place. JUSTIN. You hadn’t started then. CARLA. You still think—that my mother was guilty, don’t you? JUSTIN. I can’t see any other solution. CARLA. And yet you want me to go on? JUSTIN. I want you to go on until you are satisfied. (There is a knock on the hall door. CARLA and JUSTIN rise. CARLA goes to the hall, opens the door and steps back. JUSTIN crosses to R of the armchair and faces the hall. MEREDITH BLAKE enters the hall from L. He is a pleasant, rather vague man with a thatch of grey hair. He gives the impression of being rather ineffectual and irresolute. He wears country tweeds with hat, coat and muffler) MEREDITH. Carla. My dear Carla. (He takes her hands) How time flies. May I? (He kisses her) It seems incredible that the little girl I knew should have grown up into a young lady. How like your mother you are, my dear. My word! CARLA. (slightly embarrassed; gesturing to Justin) Do you know Mr. Fogg? MEREDITH. My word, my word! (He pulls himself together) What? (To Justin) Ah, yes, I knew your father, didn’t I? (He steps into the room) (CARLA closes the door then moves into the room and stands L of the arch) JUSTIN. (moving to R of Meredith) Yes, sir. (He shakes hands) May I take your coat? MEREDITH. (unbuttoning his coat; to Carla) And now—tell me all about yourself. You’re over from the States— (JUSTIN takes Meredith’s hat) —thank you—no, Canada. For how long? CARLA. I’m not quite sure—yet. (JUSTIN eyes Carla) MEREDITH. But you are definitely making your home overseas? CARLA. Well—I’m thinking of getting married. MEREDITH. (removing his coat) Oh, to a Canadian? CARLA. Yes.
James Pearson at home. The same superior-looking, middle-aged woman opened the door of No. 21. Yes, Mr. Pearson was at home now. It was on the second floor, if the gentleman would walk up. She preceded him, tapped at a door, and in a murmured and apologetic voice said: "The gentleman to see you, sir." Then, standing back, she allowed the Inspector to enter. A young man in evening dress was standing in the middle of the room. He was good-looking, indeed handsome, if you took no account of the rather weak mouth and the irresolute slant of the eye. He had a haggard, worried look and an air of not having had much sleep of late. He looked inquiringly at the Inspector as the latter advanced. "I am Detective Inspector Narracott," he began—but got no further. With a hoarse cry the young man dropped onto a chair, flung his arms out in front of him on the table, bowing his head on them and muttering: "Oh! my God! It’s come." After a minute or two he lifted his head and said, "Well, why don’t you get on with it, man?" Inspector Narracott looked exceedingly stolid and unintelligent. "I am investigating the death of your uncle, Captain Joseph Trevelyan. May I ask you, sir, if you have anything to say?" The young man rose slowly to his feet and said in a low strained voice: "Are you—arresting me?" "No, sir, I am not. If I was arresting you I would give you the customary caution. I am simply asking you to account for your movements yesterday afternoon. You may reply to my questions or not as you see fit." "And if I don’t reply to them—it will tell against me. Oh, yes, I know your little ways. You’ve found out then that I was down there yesterday?" "You signed your name in the hotel register, Mr. Pearson." "Oh, I suppose there’s no use denying it. I was there—why shouldn’t I be?" "Why indeed?" said the Inspector mildly. "I went down there to see my uncle." "By appointment?" "What do you mean, by appointment?" "Did your uncle know you were coming?" "I—no—he didn’t. It—it was a sudden impulse." "No reason for it?" "I—reason? No—no, why should there be? I—I just wanted to see my uncle." "Quite so, sir. And you did see him?" There was a pause—a very long pause. Indecision was written on every feature of the young man’s face. Inspector Narracott felt a kind of pity as he watched him. Couldn’t the boy see that his palpable indecision was as good as an admission of the fact? At last Jim Pearson drew a deep breath. "I—I suppose I had better make a clean breast of it. Yes—I did see him. I asked at the station how I could get to Sittaford. They told me it was out of the question. The roads were impassable for any vehicle. I said it was urgent." "Urgent?" murmured the Inspector. "I—I wanted to see my uncle very much." "So it seems, sir." "The porter continued to shake his head and say that it was impossible. I mentioned my uncle’s name and at once his face cleared up, and he told me my uncle was actually in Exhampton, and gave me full directions as to how to find the house he had rented." "This was at what time, sir?" "About one o’clock, I think. I went to the Inn—the Three Crowns—booked a room and had some lunch there. Then afterwards I—I went out to see my uncle." "Immediately afterwards?" "No, not immediately." "What time was it?" "Well, I couldn’t say for certain." "Half past three? Four o’clock? Half past four?" "I—I—" he stammered worse than ever. "I don’t think it could have been as late as that." "Mrs. Belling, the proprietress, said you went out at half past four." "Did I? I—I think she’s wrong. It couldn’t have been as late as that." "What happened next?" "I found my uncle’s house, had a talk with him and came back to the Inn." "How did you get into your uncle’s house?" "I rang the bell and he opened the door to me himself." "Wasn’t he surprised to see you?" "Yes—yes—he was rather surprised."
They were a Victorian assertion of interesting illness. What with ministering to Grannie, and late hours on duty in the hospital, life was fairly full. In the summer Archie got three days" leave, and I met him in London. It was not a very happy leave. He was on edge, nervy, and full of knowledge of the conditions of the war which must have been causing everyone anxiety. The big casualties were beginning to come in, though it had not yet dawned upon us in England that, far from being over by Christmas, the war would in all probability last for four years. Indeed, when the demand came out for conscription–Lord Derby’s three years or for the duration–it seemed ridiculous to contemplate as much as three years. Archie never mentioned the war or his part in it: his one idea in those days was to forget such things. We had as pleasant meals as we could procure–the rationing system was much fairer in the first war than in the second. Then, whether you dined in a restaurant or at home, you had to produce your meat coupons etc. if you wanted a meat meal. In the second war the position was much more unethical: if you cared, and had the money, you could eat a meat meal every day of the week by going to a restaurant, where no coupons were required at all. Our three days passed in an uneasy flash. We both longed to make plans for the future, but both felt it was better not. The one bright spot for me was that shortly after that leave Archie was no longer flying. His sinus condition not permitting such work, he was instead put in charge of a depot. He was always an excellent organiser and administrator. He had been mentioned several times in despatches, and was finally awarded the C.M.G., as well as the D.S.O. But the one award he was always most proud of was the first issued: being mentioned in despatches by General French, right at the beginning. That, he said, was really worth something. He was also awarded a Russian decoration–the order of St. Stanislaus–which was so beautiful that I would have liked to have worn it myself as a decoration at parties. Later that year I had flu badly, and after it congestion of the lungs which rendered me unable to go back to the hospital for three weeks or a month. When I did go back a new department had been opened–the dispensary–and it was suggested that I might work there. It was to be my home from home for the next two years. The new department was in the charge of Mrs Ellis, wife of Dr Ellis, who had dispensed for her husband for many years, and my friend Eileen Morris. I was to assist them, and study for my Apothecary’s Hall examination, which would enable me to dispense for a medical officer or a chemist. It sounded interesting, and the hours were much better–the dispensary closed down at six o’clock and I would be on duty alternate mornings and afternoons–so it would combine better with my home duties as well. I can’t say I enjoyed dispensing as much as nursing. I think I had a real vocation for nursing, and would have been happy as a hospital nurse. Dispensing was interesting for a time, but became monotonous–I should never have cared to do it as a permanent job. On the other hand, it was fun being with my friends. I had great affection and an enormous respect for Mrs Ellis. She was one of the quietest and calmest women I had ever known, with a gentle, rather sleepy voice and a most unexpected sense of humour which popped out at different moments. She was also a very good teacher, since she understood one’s difficulties–and the fact that she herself, as she confessed, usually did her sums by long division made one feel on comfortable terms with her. Eileen was my instructress in chemistry, and was frankly a great deal too clever for me to begin with. She started not from the practical side but from the theory To be introduced suddenly to the Periodic Table, Atomic Weight, and the ramifications of coal-tar derivatives was apt to result in bewilderment. However, I found my feet, mastered the simpler facts, and after we had blown up our Cona coffee machine in the process of practising Marsh’s test for arsenic our progress was well on the way. We were amateurish, but perhaps being so made us more careful and conscientious. The work was uneven in quality, of course.
I opened the second: "Dear Mr. Clement,—I am so troubled—so excited in my mind—to know what I ought to do. Something has come to my ears that I feel may be important. I have such a horror of being mixed up with the police in any way. I am so disturbed and distressed. Would it be asking too much of you, dear Vicar, to drop in for a few minutes and solve my doubts and perplexities for me in the wonderful way you always do? Forgive my troubling you, Yours very sincerely, Caroline Wetherby." The third, I felt, I could almost have recited beforehand. "Dear Mr. Clement,—Something most important has come to my ears. I feel you should be the first to know about it. Will you call in and see me this afternoon some time? I will wait in for you." This militant epistle was signed "Amanda Hartnell." I opened the fourth missive. It has been my good fortune to be troubled with very few anonymous letters. An anonymous letter is, I think, the meanest and cruellest weapon there is. This one was no exception. It purported to be written by an illiterate person, but several things inclined me to disbelieve that assumption. "Dear Vicar,—I think you ought to know what is Going On. Your lady has been seen coming out of Mr. Redding’s cottage in a surreptitious manner. You know wot i mean. The two are Carrying On together. i think you ought to know. A Friend." I made a faint exclamation of disgust and crumpling up the paper tossed it into the open grate just as Griselda entered the room. "What’s that you’re throwing down so contemptuously?" she asked. "Filth," I said. Taking a match from my pocket, I struck it and bent down. Griselda, however, was too quick for me. She had stooped down and caught up the crumpled ball of paper and smoothed it out before I could stop her. She read it, gave a little exclamation of disgust, and tossed it back to me, turning away as she did so. I lighted it and watched it burn. Griselda had moved away. She was standing by the window looking out into the garden. "Len," she said, without turning round. "Yes, my dear." "I’d like to tell you something. Yes, don’t stop me. I want to, please. When—when Lawrence Redding came here, I let you think that I had only known him slightly before. That wasn’t true. I—had known him rather well. In fact, before I met you, I had been rather in love with him. I think most people are with Lawrence. I was—well, absolutely silly about him at one time. I don’t mean I wrote him compromising letters or anything idiotic like they do in books. But I was rather keen on him once." "Why didn’t you tell me?" I asked. "Oh! Because! I don’t know exactly except that—well, you’re foolish in some ways. Just because you’re so much older than I am, you think that I—well, that I’m likely to like other people. I thought you’d be tiresome, perhaps, about me and Lawrence being friends." "You’re very clever at concealing things," I said, remembering what she had told me in that room less than a week ago, and the ingenuous way she had talked. "Yes, I’ve always been able to hide things. In a way, I like doing it." Her voice held a childlike ring of pleasure to it. "But it’s quite true what I said. I didn’t know about Anne, and I wondered why Lawrence was so different, not—well, really not noticing me. I’m not used to it." There was a pause. "You do understand, Len?" said Griselda anxiously. "Yes," I said, "I understand." But did I? Twenty-five I found it hard to shake off the impression left by the anonymous letter. Pitch soils. However, I gathered up the other three letters, glanced at my watch, and started out. I wondered very much what this might be that had "come to the knowledge" of three ladies simultaneously. I took it to be the same piece of news. In this, I was to realize that my psychology was at fault. I cannot pretend that my calls took me past the police station.
"This is real life, this is," said Edward. "I’ve got to go on the same just like all the other chaps." On the whole, he supposed, he ought to consider himself a lucky young man. He had an excellent berth – a clerkship in a flourishing concern. He had good health, no one dependent upon him, and he was engaged to Maud. But the mere thought of Maud brought a shadow over his face. Though he would never have admitted it, he was afraid of Maud. He loved her – yes – he still remembered the thrill with which he had admired the back of her white neck rising out of the cheap four and elevenpenny blouse on the first occasion they had met. He had sat behind her at the cinema, and the friend he was with had known her and had introduced them. No doubt about it, Maud was very superior. She was good looking and clever and very lady-like, and she was always right about everything. The kind of girl, everyone said, who would make such an excellent wife. Edward wondered whether the Marchesa Bianca would have made an excellent wife. Somehow, he doubted it. He couldn’t picture the voluptuous Bianca, with her red lips and her swaying form, tamely sewing on buttons, say, for the virile Bill. No, Bianca was Romance, and this was real life. He and Maud would be very happy together. She had so much common sense . . . But all the same, he wished that she wasn’t quite so – well, sharp in manner. So prone to "jump upon him". It was, of course, her prudence and her common sense which made her do so. Maud was very sensible. And, as a rule, Edward was very sensible too, but sometimes – He had wanted to get married this Christmas, for instance. Maud had pointed out how much more prudent it would be to wait a while – a year or two, perhaps. His salary was not large. He had wanted to give her an expensive ring – she had been horror stricken, and had forced him to take it back and exchange it for a cheaper one. Her qualities were all excellent qualities, but sometimes Edward wished that she had more faults and less virtues. It was her virtues that drove him to desperate deeds. For instance – A blush of guilt overspread his face. He had got to tell her – and tell her soon. His secret guilt was already making him behave strangely. Tomorrow was the first of three days holiday, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and Boxing Day. She had suggested that he should come round and spend the day with her people, and in a clumsy foolish manner, a manner that could not fail to arouse her suspicions, he had managed to get out of it – had told a long, lying story about a pal of his in the country with whom he had promised to spend the day. And there was no pal in the country. There was only his guilty secret. Three months ago, Edward Robinson, in company with a few hundred thousand other young men, had gone in for a competition in one of the weekly papers. Twelve girls" names had to be arranged in order of popularity. Edward had had a brilliant idea. His own preference was sure to be wrong – he had noticed that in several similar competitions. He wrote down the twelve names arranged in his own order of merit, then he wrote them down again this time placing one from the top and one from the bottom of the list alternately. When the result was announced, Edward had got eight right out of the twelve, and was awarded the first prize of £500. This result, which might easily be ascribed to luck, Edward persisted in regarding as the direct outcome of his "system." He was inordinately proud of himself. The next thing was, what do do with the £500? He knew very well what Maud would say. Invest it. A nice little nest egg for the future. And, of course, Maud would be quite right, he knew that. But to win money as the result of a competition is an entirely different feeling from anything else in the world. Had the money been left to him as a legacy, Edward would have invested it religiously in Conversion Loan or Savings Certificates as a matter of course. But money that one has achieved by a mere stroke of the pen, by a lucky and unbelievable chance, comes under the same heading as a child’s sixpence – "for your very own – to spend as you like’.
"Thank you, sir, it’s awfully decent of you." "Where’s this young lady I’ve been hearing such a lot about?" Tommy introduced Tuppence. "Ha!" said Sir William, eyeing her. "Girls aren’t what they used to be in my young days." "Yes, they are," said Tuppence. "Their clothes are different, perhaps, but they themselves are just the same." "Well, perhaps you’re right. Minxes then—minxes now!" "That’s it," said Tuppence. "I’m a frightful minx myself." "I believe you," said the old gentleman, chuckling, and pinched her ear in high goodhumour. Most young women were terrified of the "old bear," as they termed him. Tuppence’s pertness delighted the old misogynist. Then came the timid archdeacon, a little bewildered by the company in which he found himself, glad that his daughter was considered to have distinguished herself, but unable to help glancing at her from time to time with nervous apprehension. But Tuppence behaved admirably. She forbore to cross her legs, set a guard upon her tongue, and steadfastly refused to smoke. Dr. Hall came next, and he was followed by the American Ambassador. "We might as well sit down," said Julius, when he had introduced all his guests to each other. "Tuppence, will you—" He indicated the place of honour with a wave of his hand. But Tuppence shook her head. "No—that’s Jane’s place! When one thinks of how she’s held out all these years, she ought to be made the queen of the feast tonight." Julius flung her a grateful glance, and Jane came forward shyly to the allotted seat. Beautiful as she had seemed before, it was as nothing to the loveliness that now went fully adorned. Tuppence had performed her part faithfully. The model gown supplied by a famous dressmaker had been entitled "A tiger lily." It was all golds and reds and browns, and out of it rose the pure column of the girl’s white throat, and the bronze masses of hair that crowned her lovely head. There was admiration in every eye, as she took her seat. Soon the supper party was in full swing, and with one accord Tommy was called upon for a full and complete explanation. "You’ve been too darned close about the whole business," Julius accused him. "You let on to me that you were off to the Argentine—though I guess you had your reasons for that. The idea of both you and Tuppence casting me for the part of Mr. Brown just tickles me to death!" "The idea was not original to them," said Mr. Carter gravely. "It was suggested, and the poison very carefully instilled, by a past master in the art. The paragraph in the New York paper suggested the plan to him, and by means of it he wove a web that nearly enmeshed you fatally." "I never liked him," said Julius. "I felt from the first that there was something wrong about him, and I always suspected that it was he who silenced Mrs. Vandemeyer so appositely. But it wasn’t till I heard that the order for Tommy’s execution came right on the heels of our interview with him that Sunday that I began to tumble to the fact that he was the big bug himself." "I never suspected it at all," lamented Tuppence. "I’ve always thought I was so much cleverer than Tommy—but he’s undoubtedly scored over me handsomely." Julius agreed. "Tommy’s been the goods this trip! And, instead of sitting there as dumb as a fish, let him banish his blushes, and tell us all about it." "Hear! hear!" "There’s nothing to tell," said Tommy, acutely uncomfortable. "I was an awful mug—right up to the time I found that photograph of Annette, and realized that she was Jane Finn. Then I remembered how persistently she had shouted out that word "Marguerite’—and I thought of the pictures, and—well, that’s that. Then of course I went over the whole thing to see where I’d made an ass of myself." "Go on," said Mr. Carter, as Tommy showed signs of taking refuge in silence once more. "That business about Mrs. Vandemeyer had worried me when Julius told me about it. On the face of it, it seemed that he or Sir James must have done the trick.
Sir Donald Marvel, M.P., a tired-looking English politician. Doctor Carver, a world-renowned elderly archaeologist. A gallant Frenchman, Colonel Dubosc, on leave from Syria. A Mr Parker Pyne, not perhaps so plainly labelled with his profession, but breathing an atmosphere of British solidity. And lastly, there was Miss Carol Blundell–pretty, spoiled, and extremely sure of herself as the only woman among half a dozen men. They dined in the big tent, having selected their tents or caves for sleeping in. They talked of politics in the Near East–the Englishman cautiously, the Frenchman discreetly, the American somewhat fatuously, and the archaeologist and Mr Parker Pyne not at all. Both of them, it seemed, preferred the rôle of listeners. So also did Jim Hurst. Then they talked of the city they had come to visit. "It’s just too romantic for words," said Carol. "To think of those–what do you call ’em–Nabataeans living here all that while ago, almost before time began!" "Hardly that," said Mr Parker Pyne mildly. "Eh, Doctor Carver?" "Oh, that’s an affair of a mere two thousand years back, and if racketeers are romantic, then I suppose the Nabataeans are too. They were a pack of wealthy blackguards, I should say, who compelled travellers to use their own caravan routes, and saw to it that all other routes were unsafe. Petra was the storehouse of their racketeering profits." "You think they were just robbers?" asked Carol. "Just common thieves?" "Thieves is a less romantic word, Miss Blundell. A thief suggests a pretty pilferer. A robber suggests a larger canvas." "What about a modern financier?" suggested Mr Parker Pyne with a twinkle. "That’s one for you, Pop!" said Carol. "A man who makes money benefits mankind," said Mr Blundell sententiously. "Mankind," murmured Mr Parker Pyne, "is so ungrateful." "What is honesty?" demanded the Frenchman. "It is a nuance, a convention. In different countries it means different things. An Arab is not ashamed of stealing. He is not ashamed of lying. With him it is from whom he steals or to whom he lies that matters." "That is the point of view–yes," agreed Carver. "Which shows the superiority of the West over the East," said Blundell. "When these poor creatures get education–" Sir Donald entered languidly into the conversation. "Education is rather rot, you know. Teaches fellows a lot of useless things. And what I mean is, nothing alters what you are." "You mean?" "Well, what I mean to say is, for instance, once a thief, always a thief." There was a dead silence for a moment. Then Carol began talking feverishly about mosquitoes, and her father backed her up. Sir Donald, a little puzzled, murmured to his neighbour, Mr Parker Pyne: "Seems I dropped a brick, what?" "Curious," said Mr Parker Pyne. Whatever momentary embarrassment had been caused, one person had quite failed to notice it. The archaeologist had sat silent, his eyes dreamy and abstracted. When a pause came, he spoke suddenly and abruptly. "You know," he said, "I agree with that–at any rate, from the opposite point of view. A man’s fundamentally honest, or he isn’t. You can’t get away from it." "You don’t believe that sudden temptation, for instance, will turn an honest man into a criminal?" asked Mr Parker Pyne. "Impossible!" said Carver. Mr Parker Pyne shook his head gently. "I wouldn’t say impossible. You see, there are so many factors to take into account. There’s the breaking point, for instance." "What do you call the breaking point?" asked young Hurst, speaking for the first time. He had a deep, rather attractive voice. "The brain is adjusted to carry so much weight. The thing that precipitates the crisis–that turns an honest man into a dishonest one–may be a mere trifle. That is why most crimes are absurd. The cause, nine times out of ten, is that trifle of overweight–the straw that breaks the camel’s back." "It is the psychology you talk there, my friend," said the Frenchman. "If a criminal were a psychologist, what a criminal he could be!" said Mr Parker Pyne.
Strangulation it does not improve the appearance. Still, that cannot be helped. I go now to study the latest reports of my agents on this matter. There will be, perhaps, something. Au revoir, mon cher." As Craddock reiterated the farewell politely, a slip of paper was placed before him on the desk. It read: Miss Emma Crackenthorpe. To see Detective-Inspector Craddock. Rutherford Hall case. He replaced the receiver and said to the police constable: "Bring Miss Crackenthorpe up." As he waited, he leaned back in his chair, thinking. So he had not been mistaken—there was something that Emma Crackenthorpe knew—not much, perhaps, but something. And she had decided to tell him. He rose to his feet as she was shown in, shook hands, settled her in a chair and offered her a cigarette which she refused. Then there was a momentary pause. She was trying, he decided, to find just the words she wanted. He leaned forward. "You have come to tell me something, Miss Crackenthorpe? Can I help you? You’ve been worried about something, haven’t you? Some little thing, perhaps, that you feel probably has nothing to do with the case, but on the other hand, just might be related to it. You’ve come here to tell me about it, haven’t you? It’s to do, perhaps, with the identity of the dead woman. You think you know who she was?" "No, no, not quite that. I think really it’s most unlikely. But—" "But there is some possibility that worries you. You’d better tell me about it—because we may be able to set your mind at rest." Emma took a moment or two before speaking. Then she said: "You have seen three of my brothers. I had another brother, Edmund, who was killed in the war. Shortly before he was killed, he wrote to me from France." She opened her handbag and took out a worn and faded letter. She read from it: "I hope this won’t be a shock to you, Emmie, but I’m getting married—to a French girl. It’s all been very sudden—but I know you’ll be fond of Martine—and look after her if anything happens to me. Will write you all the details in my next—by which time I shall be a married man. Break it gently to the old man, won’t you? He’ll probably go up in smoke." Inspector Craddock held out a hand. Emma hesitated, then put the letter into it. She went on, speaking rapidly. "Two days after receiving this letter, we had a telegram saying Edmund was Missing, believed killed. Later he was definitely reported killed. It was just before Dunkirk—and a time of great confusion. There was no Army record, as far as I could find out, of his having been married—but as I say, it was a confused time. I never heard anything from the girl. I tried, after the war, to make some inquiries, but I only knew her Christian name and that part of France had been occupied by the Germans and it was difficult to find out anything, without knowing the girl’s surname and more about her. In the end I assumed that the marriage had never taken place and that the girl had probably married someone else before the end of the war, or might possibly herself have been killed." Inspector Craddock nodded. Emma went on. "Imagine my surprise to receive a letter just about a month ago, signed Martine Crackenthorpe." "You have it?" Emma took it from her bag and handed it to him. Craddock read it with interest. It was written in a slanting French hand—an educated hand. Dear Mademoiselle, I hope it will not be a shock to you to get this letter. I do not even know if your brother Edmund told you that we were married. He said he was going to do so. He was killed only a few days after our marriage and at the same time the Germans occupied our village. After the war ended, I decided that I would not write to you or approach you, though Edmund had told me to do so. But by then I had made a new life for myself, and it was not necessary. But now things have changed. For my son’s sake I write this letter. He is your brother’s son, you see, and I— I can no longer give him the advantages he ought to have. I am coming to England early next week.
"Oh no!" cried Tuppence. "We’ve got to find Tommy." "I sure forgot Beresford," said Julius contritely. "That’s so. We must find him. But after—well, I’ve been daydreaming ever since I started on this trip—and these dreams are rotten poor business. I’m quit of them. Say, Miss Tuppence, there’s something I’d like to ask you." "Yes." "You and Beresford. What about it?" "I don’t understand you," replied Tuppence with dignity, adding rather inconsequently: "And, anyway, you’re wrong!" "Not got a sort of kindly feeling for one another?" "Certainly not," said Tuppence with warmth. "Tommy and I are friends—nothing more." "I guess every pair of lovers has said that some time or another," observed Julius. "Nonsense!" snapped Tuppence. "Do I look the sort of girl that’s always falling in love with every man she meets?" "You do not. You look the sort of girl that’s mighty often getting fallen in love with!" "Oh!" said Tuppence, rather taken aback. "That’s a compliment, I suppose?" "Sure. Now let’s get down to this. Supposing we never find Beresford and—and—" "All right—say it! I can face facts. Supposing he’s—dead! Well?" "And all this business fiddles out. What are you going to do?" "I don’t know," said Tuppence forlornly. "You’ll be darned lonesome, you poor kid." "I shall be all right," snapped Tuppence with her usual resentment of any kind of pity. "What about marriage?" inquired Julius. "Got any views on the subject?" "I intend to marry, of course," replied Tuppence. "That is, if"—she paused, knew a momentary longing to draw back, and then stuck to her guns bravely—"I can find someone rich enough to make it worth my while. That’s frank, isn’t it? I daresay you despise me for it." "I never despise business instinct," said Julius. "What particular figure have you in mind?" "Figure?" asked Tuppence, puzzled. "Do you mean tall or short?" "No. Sum—income." "Oh, I—haven’t quite worked that out." "What about me?" "You?" "Sure thing." "Oh, I couldn’t!" "Why not?" "I tell you I couldn’t." "Again, why not?" "It would seem so unfair." "I don’t see anything unfair about it. I call your bluff, that’s all. I admire you immensely, Miss Tuppence, more than any girl I’ve ever met. You’re so darned plucky. I’d just love to give you a real, rattling good time. Say the word, and we’ll run round right away to some high-class jeweller, and fix up the ring business." "I can’t," gasped Tuppence. "Because of Beresford?" "No, no, no!" "Well then?" Tuppence merely continued to shake her head violently. "You can’t reasonably expect more dollars than I’ve got." "Oh, it isn’t that," gasped Tuppence with an almost hysterical laugh. "But thanking you very much, and all that, I think I’d better say no." "I’d be obliged if you’d do me the favour to think it over until tomorrow." "It’s no use." "Still, I guess we’ll leave it like that." "Very well," said Tuppence meekly. Neither of them spoke again until they reached the Ritz. Tuppence went upstairs to her room. She felt morally battered to the ground after her conflict with Julius’s vigorous personality. Sitting down in front of the glass, she stared at her own reflection for some minutes. "Fool," murmured Tuppence at length, making a grimace. "Little fool. Everything you want—everything you’ve ever hoped for, and you go and bleat out "no" like an idiotic little sheep. It’s your one chance. Why don’t you take it? Grab it? Snatch at it? What more do you want?" As if in answer to her own question, her eyes fell on a small snapshot of Tommy that stood on her dressing table in a shabby frame. For a moment she struggled for self-control, and then abandoning all pretence, she held it to her lips and burst into a fit of sobbing.
"I hope you’ll enjoy yourself at the fête." "I reckon to," said George simply. "It’s a fine thing to be able to eat your fill and know all the time as it’s not you as is paying for it. Squire allus has a proper sit-down tea for ’is tenants. Then I thought too, ma’am, as I might as well see you before you goes away so as to learn your wishes for the borders. You have no idea when you’ll be back, ma’am, I suppose?" "But I’m not going away." George stared. "Bain’t you going to Lunnon tomorrow?" "No. What put such an idea into your head?" George jerked his head over his shoulder. "Met Maister down to village yesterday. He told me you was both going away to Lunnon tomorrow, and it was uncertain when you’d be back again." "Nonsense," said Alix, laughing. "You must have misunderstood him." All the same, she wondered exactly what it could have been that Gerald had said to lead the old man into such a curious mistake. Going to London? She never wanted to go to London again. "I hate London," she said suddenly and harshly. "Ah!" said George placidly. "I must have been mistook somehow, and yet he said it plain enough, it seemed to me. I’m glad you’re stopping on here. I don’t hold with all this gallivanting about, and I don’t think nothing of Lunnon. I’ve never needed to go there. Too many moty cars – that’s the trouble nowadays. Once people have got a moty car, blessed if they can stay still anywheres. Mr Ames, wot used to have this house – nice peaceful sort of gentleman he was until he bought one of them things. Hadn’t had it a month before he put up this cottage for sale. A tidy lot he’d spent on it too, with taps in all the bedrooms, and the electric light and all. "You’ll never see your money back," I sez to him. "But," he sez to me, "I’ll get every penny of two thousand pounds for this house." And, sure enough, he did." "He got three thousand," said Alix, smiling. "Two thousand," repeated George. "The sum he was asking was talked of at the time." "It really was three thousand," said Alix. "Ladies never understand figures," said George, unconvinced. "You’ll not tell me that Mr Ames had the face to stand up to you and say three thousand brazen- like in a loud voice?" "He didn’t say it to me," said Alix; "he said it to my husband." George stooped again to his flower-bed. "The price was two thousand," he said obstinately. Alix did not trouble to argue with him. Moving to one of the farther beds, she began to pick an armful of flowers. As she moved with her fragrant posy towards the house, Alix noticed a small dark-green object peeping from between some leaves in one of the beds. She stooped and picked it up, recognizing it for her husband’s pocket diary. She opened it, scanning the entries with some amusement. Almost from the beginning of their married life she had realized that the impulsive and emotional Gerald had the uncharacteristic virtues of neatness and method. He was extremely fussy about meals being punctual, and always planned his day ahead with the accuracy of a timetable. Looking through the diary, she was amused to notice the entry on the date of May 14th: "Marry Alix St Peter’s 2.30." "The big silly," murmured Alix to herself, turning the pages. Suddenly she stopped. ""Wednesday, June 18th" – why, that’s today." In the space for that day was written in Gerald’s neat, precise hand: "9 p.m." Nothing else. What had Gerald planned to do at 9 p.m.? Alix wondered. She smiled to herself as she realized that had this been a story, like those she had so often read, the diary would doubtless have furnished her with some sensational revelation. It would have had in it for certain the name of another woman. She fluttered the back pages idly. There were dates, appointments, cryptic references to business deals, but only one woman’s name – her own. Yet as she slipped the book into her pocket and went on with her flowers to the house, she was aware of a vague uneasiness.
she hurried along the passage and into her own sitting room. But there was to be no peace for Mrs. Hubbard as yet. A tall figure rose to her feet as Mrs. Hubbard entered and said: "I should be glad to speak to you for a few minutes, please." "Of course, Elizabeth." Mrs. Hubbard was rather surprised. Elizabeth Johnston was a girl from the West Indies who was studying law. She was a hard worker, ambitious, who kept very much to herself. She had always seemed particularly well balanced and competent, and Mrs. Hubbard had always regarded her as one of the most satisfactory students in the hostel. She was perfectly controlled now, but Mrs. Hubbard caught the slight tremor in her voice although the dark features were quite impassive. "Is something the matter?" "Yes. Will you come with me to my room, please?" "Just a moment." Mrs. Hubbard threw off her coat and gloves and then followed the girl out of the room and up the next flight of stairs. The girl had a room on the top floor. She opened the door and went across to a table near the window. "Here are the notes of my work," she said. "This represents several months of hard study. You see what has been done?" Mrs. Hubbard caught her breath with a slight gasp. Ink had been spilled on the table. It had run all over the papers, soaking them through. Mrs. Hubbard touched it with her fingertip. It was still wet. She said, knowing the question to be foolish as she asked it: "You didn’t spill the ink yourself?" "No. It was done whilst I was out." "Mrs. Biggs, do you think—" Mrs. Biggs was the cleaning woman who looked after the top-floor bedrooms. "It was not Mrs. Biggs. It was not even my own ink. That is here on the shelf by my bed. It has not been touched. It was done by someone who brought ink here and did it deliberately." Mrs. Hubbard was shocked. "What a very wicked—and cruel thing to do." "Yes, it is a bad thing." The girl spoke quietly, but Mrs. Hubbard did not make the mistake of underrating her feelings. "Well, Elizabeth, I hardly know what to say. I am shocked, badly shocked, and I shall do my utmost to find out who did this wicked malicious thing. You’ve no ideas yourself as to that?" The girl replied at once. "This is green ink, you saw that." "Yes, I noticed that." "It is not very common, this green ink. I know one person here who uses it. Nigel Chapman." "Nigel? Do you think Nigel would do a thing like that?" "I should not have thought so—no. But he writes his letters and his notes with green ink." "I shall have to ask a lot of questions. I’m very sorry, Elizabeth, that such a thing should happen in this house and I can only tell you that I shall do my best to get to the bottom of it." "Thank you, Mrs. Hubbard. There have been—other things, have there not?" "Yes—er—yes." Mrs. Hubbard left the room and started towards the stairs. But she stopped suddenly before proceeding down and instead went along the passage to a door at the end of the corridor. She knocked and the voice of Miss Sally Finch bade her enter. The room was a pleasant one and Sally Finch herself, a cheerful redhead, was a pleasant person. She was writing on a pad and looked up with a bulging cheek. She held out an open box of sweets and said indistinctly: "Candy from home. Have some." "Thank you, Sally. Not just now. I’m rather upset." She paused. "Have you heard what’s happened to Elizabeth Johnston?" "What’s happened to Black Bess?" The nickname was an affectionate one and had been accepted as such by the girl herself. Mrs. Hubbard described what had happened. Sally showed every sign of sympathetic anger. "I’ll say that’s a mean thing to do. I wouldn’t believe anyone would do a thing like that to our Bess. Everybody likes her. She’s quiet and doesn’t get around much, or join in, but I’m sure there’s no one who dislikes her." "That’s what I should have said." "Well, it’s all of a piece, isn’t it, with the other things?
And so -" She leaned forward and made a curious gesture. "And so I loosed the Hound of Death on them..." She lay back on her chair shivering all over, her eyes closed. The doctor rose, fetched a glass from a cupboard, half filled it with water, added a drop or two from a little bottle which he produced from his pocket, then took the glass to her. "Drink this," he said authoritatively. She obeyed - mechanically as it seemed. Her eyes looked far away as though they contemplated some inner vision of her own. "But then it is all true," she said. "Everything. The City of the Circles, the People of the Crystal - everything. It is all true." "It would seem so," said Rose. His voice was low and soothing, clearly designed to encourage and not to disturb her train of thought. "Tell me about the City," he said. "The City of Circles, I think you said?" She answered absently and mechanically. "Yes - there were three circles. The first circle for the chosen, the second for the priestesses, and the outer circle for the priests." "And in the center?" She drew her breath sharply and her voice sank to a tone of indescribable awe. "The House of the Crystal..." As she breathed the words, her right hand went to her forehead and her finger traced some figure there. Her figure seemed to grow more rigid, her eyes closed, she swayed a little - then suddenly she sat upright with a jerk, as though she had suddenly awakened. "What is it?" she said confusedly. "What have I been saying?" "It is nothing," said Rose. "You are tired. You want to rest. We will leave you." She seemed a little dazed as we took our departure. "Well," said Rose when we were outside. "What do you think of it?" He shot a sharp glance sideways at me. "I suppose her mind must be totally unhinged," I said slowly. "It struck you like that?" "No - as a matter of fact, she was - well, curiously convincing. When listening to her I had the impression that she actually had done what she claimed to do - worked a kind of gigantic miracle. Her belief that she did so seems genuine enough. That is why -" "That is why you say her mind must be unhinged. Quite so. But now approach the matter from another angle. Supposing that she did actually work that miracle - supposing that she did, personally, destroy a building and several hundred human beings." "By the mere exercise of will?" I said with a smile. "I should not put it quite like that. You will agree that one person could destroy a multitude by touching a switch which controlled a system of mines." "Yes, but that is mechanical." "True, that is mechanical, but it is, in essence, the harnessing and controlling of natural forces. The thunderstorm and the powerhouse are, fundamentally, the same thing." "Yes, but to control the thunderstorm we have to use mechanical means." Rose smiled. "I am going off at a tangent now. There is a substance called wintergreen. It occurs in nature in vegetable form. It can also be built up by man synthetically and chemically in the laboratory." "Well?" "My point is that there are often two ways of arriving at the same result. Ours is, admittedly, the synthetic way. There might be another. The extraordinary results arrived at by Indian fakirs, for instance, cannot be explained away in any easy fashion. The things we call supernatural are not necessarily supernatural at all. An electric flashlight would be supernatural to a savage. The supernatural is only the natural of which the laws are not yet understood." "You mean?" I asked, fascinated. "That I cannot entirely dismiss the possibility that a human being might be able to tap some vast destructive force and use it to further his or her ends. The means by which this was accomplished might seem to us supernatural - but would not be so in reality." I stared at him. He laughed. "It's a speculation, that's all," he said lightly. "Tell me. Did you notice a gesture she made when she mentioned the House of the Crystal?" "She put her hand to her forehead." "Exactly. And traced a circle there. Very much as a Catholic makes the sign of the cross. Now, I will tell you something rather interesting, Mr Anstruther. The word crystal having occurred so often in my patient's rambling, I tried an experiment.
I was a subaltern just off to India. We were at a moonlight picnic on the beach . . . She and I wandered away together and sat on a rock looking at the sea." Tommy looked at him with great interest. At his double chins, his bald head, his bushy eyebrows and his enormous paunch. He thought of Aunt Ada, of her incipient moustache, her grim smile, her iron-grey hair, her malicious glance. Time, he thought. What Time does to one! He tried to visualize a handsome young subaltern and a pretty girl in the moonlight. He failed. "Romantic," said Sir Josiah Penn with a deep sigh. "Ah yes, romantic. I would have liked to propose to her that night, but you couldn’t propose if you were a subaltern. Not on your pay. We’d have had to wait five years before we could be married. That was too long an engagement to ask any girl to agree to. Ah well! you know how things happen. I went out to India and it was a long time before I came home on leave. We wrote to one another for a bit, then things slacked off. As it usually happens. I never saw her again. And yet, you know, I never quite forgot her. Often thought of her. I remember I nearly wrote to her once, years later. I’d heard she was in the neighbourhood where I was staying with some people. I thought I’d go and see her, ask if I could call. Then I thought to myself "Don’t be a damn" fool. She probably looks quite different by now." "I heard a chap mention her some years later. Said she was one of the ugliest women he’d ever seen. I could hardly believe it when I heard him say that, but I think now perhaps I was lucky I never did see her again. What’s she doing now? Alive still?" "No. She died about two or three weeks ago, as a matter of fact," said Tommy. "Did she really, did she really? Yes, I suppose she’d be—what now, she’d be seventy-five or seventy-six? Bit older than that perhaps." "She was eighty," said Tommy. "Fancy now. Dark-haired lively Ada. Where did she die? Was she in a nursing home or did she live with a companion or—she never married, did she?" "No," said Tommy, "she never married. She was in an old ladies" home. Rather a nice one, as a matter of fact. Sunny Ridge, it’s called." "Yes, I’ve heard of that. Sunny Ridge. Someone my sister knew was there, I believe. A Mrs.—now what was the name—a Mrs. Carstairs? D’you ever come across her?" "No. I didn’t come across anyone much there. One just used to go and visit one’s own particular relative." "Difficult business, too, I think. I mean, one never knows what to say to them." "Aunt Ada was particularly difficult," said Tommy. "She was a tartar, you know." "She would be." The General chuckled. "She could be a regular little devil when she liked when she was a girl." He sighed. "Devilish business, getting old. One of my sister’s friends used to get fancies, poor old thing. Used to say she’d killed somebody." "Good Lord," said Tommy. "Had she?" "Oh, I don’t suppose so. Nobody seems to think she had. I suppose," said the General, considering the idea thoughtfully, "I suppose she might have, you know. If you go about saying things like that quite cheerfully, nobody would believe you, would they? Entertaining thought that, isn’t it?" "Who did she think she’d killed?" "Blessed if I know. Husband perhaps? Don’t know who he was or what he was like. She was a widow when we first came to know her. Well," he added with a sigh, "sorry to hear about Ada. Didn’t see it in the paper. If I had I’d have sent flowers or something. Bunch of rosebuds or something of that kind. That’s what girls used to wear on their evening dresses. A bunch of rosebuds on the shoulder of an evening dress. Very pretty it was.
And after that," said Mrs Oliver, "I don’t think I shall want anything more today." Miss Livingstone departed. "I wonder," said Mrs Oliver to herself, releasing a deep sigh as she sat down. She looked through the pages of the birthday book. "Who’s better pleased? She to go or I to see her go? After Celia has come and gone, I shall have to have a busy evening." Taking a new exercise book from the pile she kept on a small table by her desk, she entered various dates, possible addresses and names, looked up one or two more things in the telephone book and then proceeded to ring up Monsieur Hercule Poirot. "Ah, is that you, Monsieur Poirot?" "Yes, madame, it is I myself." "Have you done anything?" said Mrs Oliver. "I beg your pardon – have I done what?" "Anything," said Mrs Oliver. "What I asked you about yesterday." "Yes, certainly. I have put things in motion. I have arranged to make certain enquiries." "But you haven’t made them yet," said Mrs Oliver, who had a poor view of what the male view was of doing something. "And you, chère madame?" "I have been very busy," said Mrs Oliver. "Ah! And what have you been doing, madame?" "Assembling elephants," said Mrs Oliver, "if that means anything to you." "I think I can understand what you mean, yes." "It’s not very easy, looking into the past," said Mrs Oliver. "It is astonishing, really, how many people one does remember when one comes to look up names. My word, the silly things they write in birthday books sometimes, too. I can’t think why when I was about sixteen or seventeen or even thirty, I wanted people to write in my birthday book. There’s a sort of quotation from a poet for every particular day in the year. Some of them are terribly silly." "You are encouraged in your search?" "Not quite encouraged," said Mrs Oliver. "But I still think I’m on the right lines. I’ve rung up my goddaughter –" "Ah. And you are going to see her?" "Yes, she is coming to see me. Tonight between seven and eight, if she doesn’t run out on me. One never knows. Young people are very unreliable." "She appeared pleased that you had rung her up?" "I don’t know," said Mrs Oliver, "not particularly pleased. She’s got a very incisive voice and – I remember now, the last time I saw her, that must be about six years ago, I thought then that she was rather frightening." "Frightening? In what way?" "What I mean is that she was more likely to bully me than I would be to bully her." "That may be a good thing and not a bad thing." "Oh, do you think so?" "If people have made up their minds that they do not wish to like you, that they are quite sure they do not like you, they will get more pleasure out of making you aware of the fact and in that way will release more information to you than they would have done if they were trying to be amiable and agreeable." "Sucking up to me, you mean? Yes, you have something there. You mean then they tell you things that they thought would please you. And the other way they’d be annoyed with you and they’d say things that they’d hope would annoy you. I wonder if Celia’s like that? I really remember her much better when she was five years old than at any other age. She had a nursery governess and she used to throw her boots at her." "The governess at the child, or the child at the governess?" "The child at the governess, of course!" said Mrs Oliver. She replaced the receiver and went over to the sofa to examine the various piled-up memories of the past. She murmured names under her breath. "Mariana Josephine Pontarlier – of course, yes, I haven’t thought of her for years – I thought she was dead. Anna Braceby – yes, yes, she lived in that part of the world – I wonder now –" Continuing all this, time passed – she was quite surprised when the bell rang. She went out herself to open the door. Chapter 4 Celia A tall girl was standing on the mat outside. Just for a moment Mrs Oliver was startled looking at her. So this was Celia. The impression of vitality and of life was really very strong. Mrs Oliver had the feeling which one does not often get.
Catherine departed and Victoria surrendered her mop of hair into Miss Ankoumian’s deft hands. Soon her hair was a mass of creamy lather. "And now if you please…." Victoria bent forward over the basin. Water streamed over her hair and gurgled down the waste pipe. Suddenly her nose was assailed by a sweet rather sickly smell that she associated vaguely with hospitals. A wet saturated pad was clasped firmly over her nose and mouth. She struggled wildly, twisting and turning, but an iron grip kept the pad in place. She began to suffocate, her head reeled dizzily, a roaring sound came in her ears…. And after that blackness, deep and profound. Eighteen When Victoria regained consciousness, it was with a sense of an immense passage of time. Confused memories stirred in her—jolting in a car—high jabbering and quarrelling in Arabic—lights that flashed into her eyes—a horrible attack of nausea—then vaguely she remembered lying on a bed and someone lifting her arm—the sharp agonizing prick of a needle—then more confused dreams and darkness and behind it a mounting sense of urgency…. Now at last, dimly, she was herself—Victoria Jones…And something had happened to Victoria Jones—a long time ago—months—perhaps years…after all, perhaps only days. Babylon—sunshine—dust—hair—Catherine. Catherine, of course, smiling, her eyes sly under the sausage curls—Catherine had taken her to have her hair shampooed and then—what had happened? That horrible smell—she could still smell it—nauseating—chloroform, of course. They had chloroformed her and taken her—where? Cautiously Victoria tried to sit up. She seemed to be lying on a bed—a very hard bed—her head ached and felt dizzy—she was still drowsy, horribly drowsy…that prick, the prick of a hypodermic, they had been drugging her…she was still half-drugged. Well, anyway they hadn’t killed her. (Why not?) So that was all right. The best thing, thought the still half-drugged Victoria, is to go to sleep. And promptly did so. When next she awakened she felt much more clearheaded. It was daylight now and she could see more clearly where she was. She was in a small but very high room, distempered a depressing pale bluish grey. The floor was of beaten earth. The only furniture in the room seemed to be the bed on which she was lying with a dirty rug thrown over her and a rickety table with a cracked enamel basin on it and a zinc bucket underneath it. There was a window with a kind of wooden latticework outside it. Victoria got gingerly off the bed, feeling distinctly headachy and queer, and approached the window. She could see through the latticework quite plainly and what she saw was a garden with palm trees beyond it. The garden was quite a pleasant one by Eastern standards though it would have been looked down on by an English suburban householder. It had a lot of bright orange marigolds in it, and some dusty eucalyptus trees and some rather wispy tamarisks. A small child with a face tattooed in blue, and a lot of bangles on, was tumbling about with a ball and singing in a high nasal whine rather like distant bagpipes. Victoria next turned her attention to the door, which was large and massive. Without much hope she went to it and tried it. The door was locked. Victoria went back and sat on the side of the bed. Where was she? Not in Baghdad, that was certain. And what was she going to do next? It struck her after a minute or two that the last question did not really apply. What was more to the point was what was someone else going to do to her? With an uneasy feeling in the pit of the stomach she remembered Mr. Dakin’s admonition to tell all she knew. But perhaps they had already got all that out of her whilst she was under the drug. Still—Victoria returned to this one point with determined cheerfulness—she was alive. If she could manage to keep alive until Edward found her—what would Edward do when he found she had vanished? Would he go to Mr. Dakin? Would he play a lone hand?
Then, having moved on the hands of the clock to 8:47, he smashes it and stops it. The one thing he does not do is to draw the curtains. But if there had been a real dinner party the curtains would have been drawn as soon as the light began to fail. Then he hurries out, mentioning the guests to the lift man in passing. He hurries to a telephone box, and as near as possible to 8:47 rings up the doctor with his master’s dying cry. So successful is his idea that no one ever inquires if a call was put through from Flat 11 at that time." "Except Hercule Poirot, I suppose?" I said sarcastically. "Not even Hercule Poirot," said my friend, with a smile. "I am about to inquire now. I had to prove my point to you first. But you will see, I shall be right; and then Japp, to whom I have already given a hint, will be able to arrest the respectable Graves. I wonder how much of the money he has spent." Poirot was right. He always is, confound him! Eleven THE CASE OF THE MISSING WILL The problem presented to us by Miss Violet Marsh made rather a pleasant change from our usual routine work. Poirot had received a brisk and businesslike note from the lady asking for an appointment, and had replied asking her to call upon him at eleven o’clock the following day. She arrived punctually—a tall, handsome young woman, plainly but neatly dressed, with an assured and businesslike manner. Clearly a young woman who meant to get on in the world. I am not a great admirer of the so-called New Woman myself, and, in spite of her good looks, I was not particularly prepossessed in her favour. "My business is of a somewhat unusual nature, Monsieur Poirot," she began, after she had accepted a chair. "I had better begin at the beginning and tell you the whole story." "If you please, mademoiselle." "I am an orphan. My father was one of two brothers, sons of a small yeoman farmer in Devonshire. The farm was a poor one, and the elder brother, Andrew, emigrated to Australia, where he did very well indeed, and by means of successful speculation in land became a very rich man. The younger brother, Roger (my father), had no leanings towards the agricultural life. He managed to educate himself a little, and obtained a post as clerk with a small firm. He married slightly above him; my mother was the daughter of a poor artist. My father died when I was six years old. When I was fourteen, my mother followed him to the grave. My only living relation then was my uncle Andrew, who had recently returned from Australia and bought a small place, Crabtree Manor, in his native county. He was exceedingly kind to his brother’s orphan child, took me to live with him, and treated me in every way as though I was his own daughter. "Crabtree Manor, in spite of its name, is really only an old farmhouse. Farming was in my uncle’s blood, and he was intensely interested in various modern farming experiments. Although kindness itself to me, he had certain peculiar and deeply-rooted ideas as to the upbringing of women. Himself a man of little or no education, though possessing remarkable shrewdness, he placed little value on what he called "book knowledge." He was especially opposed to the education of women. In his opinion, girls should learn practical housework and dairy work, be useful about the home, and have as little to do with book learning as possible. He proposed to bring me up on these lines, to my bitter disappointment and annoyance. I rebelled frankly. I knew that I possessed a good brain, and had absolutely no talent for domestic duties. My uncle and I had many bitter arguments on the subject, for, though much attached to each other, we were both self-willed. I was lucky enough to win a scholarship, and up to a certain point was successful in getting my own way. The crisis arose when I resolved to go to Girton. I had a little money of my own, left me by my mother, and I was quite determined to make the best use of the gifts God had given me. I had one long, final argument with my uncle. He put the facts plainly before me.
Finally Anthony dismissed him with a nod, but all the while he was eating the excellent meal which Giuseppe served to him, he was thinking rapidly. Had he been mistaken? Was Giuseppe’s interest in the parcel just ordinary curiosity? It might be so, but remembering the feverish intensity of the man’s excitement, Anthony decided against that theory. All the same, he was puzzled. "Dash it all," said Anthony to himself, "everyone can’t be after the blasted manuscript. Perhaps I’m fancying things." Dinner concluded and cleared away, he applied himself to the perusal of the memoirs. Owing to the illegibility of the late Count’s handwriting, the business was a slow one. Anthony’s yawns succeeded one another with suspicious rapidity. At the end of the fourth chapter, he gave it up. So far, he had found the memoirs insufferably dull, with no hint of scandal of any kind. He gathered up the letters and the wrapping of the manuscript which were lying in a heap together on the table and locked them up in the suitcase. Then he locked the door, and as an additional precaution put a chair against it. On the chair he placed the water bottle from the bathroom. Surveying these preparations with some pride, he undressed and got into bed. He had one more shot at the Count’s memoirs, but felt his eyelids drooping, and stuffing the manuscript under his pillow, he switched out the light and fell asleep almost immediately. It must have been some four hours later that he awoke with a start. What had awakened him he did not know—perhaps a sound, perhaps only the consciousness of danger which in men who have led an adventurous life is very fully developed. For a moment he lay quite still, trying to focus his impressions. He could hear a very stealthy rustle, and then he became aware of a denser blackness somewhere between him and the window—on the floor by the suitcase. With a sudden spring, Anthony jumped out of bed, switching the light on as he did so. A figure sprang up from where it had been kneeling by the suitcase. It was the waiter, Giuseppe. In his right hand gleamed a long thin knife. He hurled himself straight upon Anthony, who was by now fully conscious of his own danger. He was unarmed and Giuseppe was evidently thoroughly at home with his own weapon. Anthony sprang to one side, and Giuseppe missed him with the knife. The next minute the two men were rolling on the floor together, locked in a close embrace. The whole of Anthony’s faculties were centred on keeping a close grip of Giuseppe’s right arm so that he would be unable to use the knife. He bent it slowly back. At the same time he felt the Italian’s other hand clutching at his windpipe, stifling him, choking. And still, desperately, he bent the right arm back. There was a sharp tinkle as the knife fell on the floor. At the same time, the Italian extricated himself with a swift twist from Anthony’s grasp. Anthony sprang up too, but made the mistake of moving towards the door to cut off the other’s retreat. He saw, too late, that the chair and the water bottle were just as he had arranged them. Giuseppe had entered by the window, and it was the window he made for now. In the instant’s respite given him by Anthony’s move towards the door, he had sprung out on the balcony, leaped over to the adjoining balcony and had disappeared through the adjoining window. Anthony knew well enough that it was of no use to pursue him. His way of retreat was doubtless fully assured. Anthony would merely get himself into trouble. He walked over to the bed, thrusting his hand beneath the pillow and drawing out the memoirs. Lucky that they had been there and not in the suitcase. He crossed over to the suitcase and looked inside, meaning to take out the letters. Then he swore softly under his breath. The letters were gone. Six THE GENTLE ART OF BLACKMAIL It was exactly five minutes to four when Virginia Revel, rendered punctual by a healthy curiosity, returned to the house in Pont Street. She opened the door with her latchkey, and stepped into the hall to be immediately confronted by the impassive Chilvers.
Miss Lavinia nodded. "Wednesday week. Broke things, you know. Can’t have that." Miss Marple sighed and said we all had to put up with things nowadays. It was so difficult to get girls to come to the country. Did Miss Skinner really think it was wise to part with Gladys? "Know it’s difficult to get servants," admitted Miss Lavinia. "The Devereuxs haven’t got anybody—but then, I don’t wonder—always quarrelling, jazz on all night—meals anytime—that girl knows nothing of housekeeping. I pity her husband! Then the Larkins have just lost their maid. Of course, what with the judge’s Indian temper and his wanting chota hazri, as he calls it, at six in the morning and Mrs. Larkin always fussing, I don’t wonder at that, either. Mrs. Carmichael’s Janet is a fixture of course—though in my opinion she’s the most disagreeable woman, and absolutely bullies the old lady." "Then don’t you think you might reconsider your decision about Gladys? She really is a nice girl. I know all her family; very honest and superior." Miss Lavinia shook her head. "I’ve got my reasons," she said importantly. Miss Marple murmured, "You missed a brooch, I understand—" "Now, who has been talking? I suppose the girl has. Quite frankly, I’m almost certain she took it. And then got frightened and put it back—but, of course, one can’t say anything unless one is sure." She changed the subject. "Do come and see Emily, Miss Marple. I’m sure it would do her good." Miss Marple followed meekly to where Miss Lavinia knocked on a door, was bidden enter, and ushered her guest into the best room in the flat, most of the light of which was excluded by half-drawn blinds. Miss Emily was lying in bed, apparently enjoying the half gloom and her own indefinite sufferings. The dim light showed her to be a thin, indecisive-looking creature, with a good deal of greyish-yellow hair untidily wound around her head and erupting into curls, the whole thing looking like a bird’s nest of which no self- respecting bird could be proud. There was a smell in the room of Eau de Cologne, stale biscuits, and camphor. With half-closed eyes and a thin, weak voice, Emily Skinner explained that this was "one of her bad days." "The worst of ill health is," said Miss Emily in a melancholy tone, "that one knows what a burden one is to everyone around one. "Lavinia is very good to me. Lavvie dear, I do so hate giving trouble but if my hot-water bottle could only be filled in the way I like it—too full it weighs on me so—on the other hand, if it is not sufficiently filled, it gets cold immediately!" "I’m sorry, dear. Give it to me. I will empty a little out." "Perhaps, if you’re doing that, it might be refilled. There are no rusks in the house, I suppose—no, no, it doesn’t matter. I can do without. Some weak tea and a slice of lemon—no lemons? No, really, I couldn’t drink tea without lemon. I think the milk was slightly turned this morning. It has put me against milk in my tea. It doesn’t matter. I can do without my tea. Only I do feel so weak. Oysters, they say, are nourishing. I wonder if I could fancy a few? No, no, too much bother to get hold of them so late in the day. I can fast until tomorrow." Lavinia left the room murmuring something incoherent about bicycling down to the village. Miss Emily smiled feebly at her guest and remarked that she did hate giving anyone any trouble. Miss Marple told Edna that evening that she was afraid her embassy had met with no success. She was rather troubled to find that rumours as to Gladys’s dishonesty were already going around the village. In the post office, Miss Wetherby tackled her. "My dear Jane, they gave her a written reference saying she was willing and sober and respectable, but saying nothing about honesty. That seems to me most significant! I hear there was some trouble about a brooch.
He, Burgoyne, had not mentioned Mr. Clayton, as he assumed that his master had found Mr. Clayton there and let him out himself. His master’s manner had been precisely the same as usual. He had taken his bath, changed, and shortly after, Mr. and Mrs. Spence had arrived, to be followed by Major Curtiss and Mrs. Clayton. It had not occurred to him, Burgoyne explained, that Mr. Clayton might have left before his master’s return. To do so, Mr. Clayton would have had to bang the front door behind him and that the valet was sure he would have heard. Still in the same impersonal manner, Burgoyne proceeded to his finding of the body. For the first time my attention was directed to the fatal chest. It was a good-sized piece of furniture standing against the wall next to the phonograph cabinet. It was made of some dark wood and plentifully studded with brass nails. The lid opened simply enough. I looked in and shivered. Though well scrubbed, ominous stains remained. Suddenly Poirot uttered an exclamation. "Those holes there—they are curious. One would say that they had been newly made." The holes in question were at the back of the chest against the wall. There were three or four of them. They were about a quarter of an inch in diameter and certainly had the effect of having been freshly made. Poirot bent down to examine them, looking inquiringly at the valet. "It’s certainly curious, sir. I don’t remember ever seeing those holes in the past, though maybe I wouldn’t notice them." "It makes no matter," said Poirot. Closing the lid of the chest, he stepped back into the room until he was standing with his back against the window. Then he suddenly asked a question. "Tell me," he said. "When you brought the cigarettes into your master that night, was there not something out of place in the room?" Burgoyne hesitated for a minute, then with some slight reluctance he replied, "It’s odd your saying that, sir. Now you come to mention it, there was. That screen there that cuts off the draught from the bedroom door—it was moved a bit more to the left." "Like this?" Poirot darted nimbly forward and pulled at the screen. It was a handsome affair of painted leather. It already slightly obscured the view of the chest, and as Poirot adjusted it, it hid the chest altogether. "That’s right, sir," said the valet. "It was like that." "And the next morning?" "It was still like that. I remember. I moved it away and it was then I saw the stain. The carpet’s gone to be cleaned, sir. That’s why the boards are bare." Poirot nodded. "I see," he said. "I thank you." He placed a crisp piece of paper in the valet’s palm. "Thank you, sir." "Poirot," I said when we were out in the street, "that point about the screen—is that a point helpful to Rich?" "It is a further point against him," said Poirot ruefully. "The screen hid the chest from the room. It also hid the stain on the carpet. Sooner or later the blood was bound to soak through the wood and stain the carpet. The screen would prevent discovery for the moment. Yes—but there is something there that I do not understand. The valet, Hastings, the valet." "What about the valet? He seemed a most intelligent fellow." "As you say, most intelligent. Is it credible, then, that Major Rich failed to realize that the valet would certainly discover the body in the morning? Immediately after the deed he had no time for anything—granted. He shoves the body into the chest, pulls the screen in front of it and goes through the evening hoping for the best. But after the guests are gone? Surely, then is the time to dispose of the body." "Perhaps he hoped the valet wouldn’t notice the stain?" "That, mon ami, is absurd. A stained carpet is the first thing a good servant would be bound to notice. "And Major Rich, he goes to bed and snores there comfortably and does nothing at all about the matter. Very remarkable and interesting, that." "Curtiss might have seen the stains when he was changing the records the night before?" I suggested. "That is unlikely.
"Oh no, that is quite true. One must go further – further back, further forward, further sideways to find out if there is some financial motive somewhere that is – well, shall we say, significant." "Well, don’t ask me to do that sort of thing," said Mrs Oliver, "I’ve no real qualifications for that. I mean, that’s come up, I suppose, fairly reasonable in the – well, in the elephants that I’ve talked to." "No. I think the best thing for you to do would be to, shall we say, take on the subject of the wigs." "Wigs?" "There had been a note made in the careful police report at the time of the suppliers of the wigs, who were a very expensive firm of hairdressers and wig- makers in London, in Bond Street. Later, that particular shop closed and the business was transferred somewhere else. Two of the original partners continued to run it and I understand it has now been given up, but I have here an address of one of the principal fitters and hairdressers, and I thought perhaps that it would come more easily if enquiries were made by a woman." "Ah," said Mrs Oliver, "me?" "Yes, you." "All right. What do you want me to do?" "Pay a visit to Cheltenham to an address I shall give you and there you will find a Madame Rosentelle. A woman no longer young but who was a very fashionable maker of ladies" hair adornments of all kinds, and who was married, I understand, to another in the same profession, a hairdresser who specialized in surmounting the problems of gentlemen’s baldness. Toupees and other things." "Oh dear," said Mrs Oliver, "the jobs you do give me to do. Do you think they’ll remember anything about it?" "Elephants remember," said Hercule Poirot. "Oh, and who are you going to ask questions of ? This doctor you talked about?" "For one, yes." "And what do you think he’ll remember?" "Not very much," said Poirot, "but it seems to me possible that he might have heard about a certain accident. It must have been an interesting case, you know. There must be records of the case history." "You mean of the twin sister?" "Yes. There were two accidents as far as I can hear connected with her. One when she was a young mother living in the country, at Hatters Green I think the address was, and again later when she was in Malaya. Each time an accident which resulted in the death of a child. I might learn something about –" "You mean that as they were twin sisters, that Molly – my Molly I mean – might also have had mental disability of some kind? I don’t believe it for a minute. She wasn’t like that. She was affectionate, loving, very good-looking, emotional and – oh, she was a terribly nice person." "Yes. Yes, so it would seem. And a very happy person on the whole, would you say?" "Yes. She was a happy person. A very happy person. Oh, I know I never saw anything of her later in life, of course; she was living abroad. But it always seemed to me on the very rare occasions when I got a letter or went to see her that she was a happy person." "And the twin sister you did not really know?" "No. Well, I think she was . . . well, quite frankly she was in an institution of some kind, I think, on the rare occasions that I saw Molly. She wasn’t at Molly’s wedding, not as a bridesmaid even." "That is odd in itself." "I still don’t see what you’re going to find out from that." "Just information," said Poirot. Chapter 14 Dr Willoughby Hercule Poirot got out of the taxi, paid the fare and a tip, verified the fact that the address he had come to was the address corresponding to that written down in his little notebook, took carefully a letter from his pocket addressed to Dr Willoughby, mounted the steps to the house and pressed the bell. The door was opened by a manservant. On reception of Poirot’s name he was told that Dr Willoughby was expecting him. He was shown into a small, comfortable room with bookshelves up the side of it, there were two armchairs drawn to the fire and a tray with glasses on it and two decanters. Dr Willoughby rose to greet him.
As he went over towards the big four-poster bed he noticed an envelope lying on his pillow. He opened it and drew out a piece of paper. On it was a shakily printed message in capital letters. DON’T EAT NONE OF THE PLUM PUDDING. ONE AS WISHES YOU WELL. Hercule Poirot stared at it. His eyebrows rose. "Cryptic," he murmured, "and most unexpected." IV Christmas dinner took place at 2 p.m. and was a feast indeed. Enormous logs crackled merrily in the wide fireplace and above their crackling rose the babel of many tongues talking together. Oyster soup had been consumed, two enormous turkeys had come and gone, mere carcasses of their former selves. Now, the supreme moment, the Christmas pudding was brought in, in state! Old Peverell, his hands and his knees shaking with the weakness of eighty years, permitted no one but himself to bear it in. Mrs Lacey sat, her hands pressed together in nervous apprehension. One Christmas, she felt sure, Peverell would fall down dead. Having either to take the risk of letting him fall down dead or of hurting his feelings to such an extent that he would probably prefer to be dead than alive, she had so far chosen the former alternative. On a silver dish the Christmas pudding reposed in its glory. A large football of a pudding, a piece of holly stuck in it like a triumphant flag and glorious flames of blue and red rising round it. There was a cheer and cries of "Ooh- ah." One thing Mrs Lacey had done: prevailed upon Peverell to place the pudding in front of her so that she could help it rather than hand it in turn round the table. She breathed a sigh of relief as it was deposited safely in front of her. Rapidly the plates were passed round, flames still licking the portions. "Wish, M. Poirot," cried Bridget. "Wish before the flame goes. Quick, Gran darling, quick." Mrs Lacey leant back with a sigh of satisfaction. Operation Pudding had been a success. In front of everyone was a helping with flames still licking it. There was a momentary silence all round the table as everyone wished hard. There was nobody to notice the rather curious expression on thefaceof M.Poirot as he surveyed the portion of pudding on his plate. " Don’t eat none of the plum pudding." What on earth did that sinister warning mean? There could be nothing different about his portion of plum pudding from that of everyone else! Sighing as he admitted himself baffled – and Hercule Poirot never liked to admit himself baffled – he picked up his spoon and fork. "Hard sauce, M. Poirot?" Poirot helped himself appreciatively to hard sauce. "Swiped my best brandy again, eh Em?" said the colonel good-humouredly from the other end of the table. Mrs Lacey twinkled at him. "Mrs Ross insists on having the best brandy, dear," she said. "She says it makes all the difference." "Well, well," said Colonel Lacey, "Christmas comes but once a year and Mrs Ross is a great woman. A great woman and a great cook." "She is indeed," said Colin. "Smashing plum pudding, this. Mmmm." He filled an appreciative mouth. Gently, almost gingerly, Hercule Poirot attacked his portion of pudding. He ate a mouthful. It was delicious! He ate another. Something tinkled faintly on his plate. He investigated with a fork. Bridget, on his left, came to his aid. "You’ve got something, M. Poirot," she said. "I wonder what it is" Poirot detached a little silver object from the surrounding raisins that clung to it. "Oooh," said Bridget, "it’s the bachelor’s button! M. Poirot’s got the bachelor’s button!" Hercule Poirot dipped the small silver button into the finger-glass of water that stood by his plate, and washed it clear of pudding crumbs. "It is very pretty," he observed. "That means you’re going to be a bachelor, M. Poirot," explained Colin helpfully. "That is to be expected," said Poirot gravely.
"So we went up and, would you believe it, the flat wasn’t let at all. We were shown over it by the maid, and then we saw the mistress, and the thing was settled then and there. Immediate possession and fifty pounds for the furniture. We signed the agreement next day, and we are to move in tomorrow!" Mrs. Robinson paused triumphantly. "And what about Mrs. Ferguson?" asked Parker. "Let’s have your deductions, Hastings." " "Obvious, my dear Watson," " I quoted lightly. "She went to the wrong flat." "Oh, Captain Hastings, how clever of you!" cried Mrs. Robinson admiringly. I rather wished Poirot had been there. Sometimes I have the feeling that he rather underestimates my capabilities. II The whole thing was rather amusing, and I propounded the thing as a mock problem to Poirot on the following morning. He seemed interested, and questioned me rather narrowly as to the rents of flats in various localities. "A curious story," he said thoughtfully. "Excuse me, Hastings, I must take a short stroll." When he returned, about an hour later, his eyes were gleaming with a peculiar excitement. He laid his stick on the table, and brushed the nap of his hat with his usual tender care before he spoke. "It is as well, mon ami, that we have no affairs of moment on hand. We can devote ourselves wholly to the present investigation." "What investigation are you talking about?" "The remarkable cheapness of your friend, Mrs. Robinson’s, new flat." "Poirot, you are not serious!" "I am most serious. Figure to yourself, my friend, that the real rent of those flats is £350. I have just ascertained that from the landlord’s agents. And yet this particular flat is being sublet at eighty pounds! Why?" "There must be something wrong with it. Perhaps it is haunted, as Mrs. Robinson suggested." Poirot shook his head in a dissatisfied manner. "Then again how curious it is that her friend tells her the flat is let, and, when she goes up, behold, it is not so at all!" "But surely you agree with me that the other woman must have gone to the wrong flat. That is the only possible solution." "You may or may not be right on that point, Hastings. The fact still remains that numerous other applicants were sent to see it, and yet, in spite of its remarkable cheapness, it was still in the market when Mrs. Robinson arrived." "That shows that there must be something wrong about it." "Mrs. Robinson did not seem to notice anything amiss. Very curious, is it not? Did she impress you as being a truthful woman, Hastings?" "She was a delightful creature!" "Evidemment! since she renders you incapable of replying to my question. Describe her to me, then." "Well, she’s tall and fair; her hair’s really a beautiful shade of auburn—" "Always you have had a penchant for auburn hair!" murmured Poirot. "But continue." "Blue eyes and a very nice complexion and—well, that’s all, I think," I concluded lamely. "And her husband?" "Oh, he’s quite a nice fellow—nothing startling." "Dark or fair?" "I don’t know—betwixt and between, and just an ordinary sort of face." Poirot nodded. "Yes, there are hundreds of these average men—and anyway, you bring more sympathy and appreciation to your description of women. Do you know anything about these people? Does Parker know them well?" "They are just recent acquaintances, I believe. But surely, Poirot, you don’t think for an instant—" Poirot raised his hand. "Tout doucement, mon ami. Have I said that I think anything? All I say is—it is a curious story. And there is nothing to throw light upon it; except perhaps the lady’s name, eh, Hastings?" "Her name is Stella," I said stiffly, "but I don’t see—" Poirot interrupted me with a tremendous chuckle. Something seemed to be amusing him vastly. "And Stella means a star, does it not? Famous!" "What on earth—?" "And stars give light! Voilà! Calm yourself, Hastings. Do not put on that air of injured dignity. Come, we will go to Montagu Mansions and make a few inquiries." I accompanied him, nothing loath.
The others are self-evident. Therefore, that possibility eliminated, we draw very near to the truth, which is, as always, very curious and interesting." "Poirot," I cried, "what more do you know?" "Mon ami, you must make your own deductions. You have "access to the facts." Concentrate your grey cells. Reason—not like Giraud—but like Hercule Poirot!" "But are you sure?" "My friend, in many ways I have been an imbecile. But at last I see clearly." "You know everything?" "I have discovered what Monsieur Renauld sent for me to discover." "And you know the murderer?" "I know one murderer." "What do you mean?" "We talk a little at cross-purposes. There are here not one crime, but two. The first I have solved, the second—eh bien, I will confess, I am not sure!" "But, Poirot, I thought you said the man in the shed had died a natural death?" "Ta-ta-ta!" Poirot made his favourite ejaculation of impatience. "Still you do not understand. One may have a crime without a murderer, but for two crimes it is essential to have two bodies." His remark struck me as so peculiarly lacking in lucidity that I looked at him in some anxiety. But he appeared perfectly normal. Suddenly he rose and strolled to the window. "Here he is," he observed. "Who?" "Monsieur Jack Renauld. I sent a note up to the Villa to ask him to come here." That changed the course of my ideas, and I asked Poirot if he knew that Jack Renauld had been in Merlinville on the night of the crime. I had hoped to catch my astute little friend napping, but as usual he was omniscient. He, too, had inquired at the station. "And without doubt we are not original in the idea, Hastings. The excellent Giraud, he also has probably made his inquiries." "You don’t think—" I said, and then stopped. "Ah, no, it would be too horrible!" Poirot looked inquiringly at me, but I said no more. It had just occurred to me that though there were seven women, directly and indirectly connected with the case—Mrs. Renauld, Madame Daubreuil and her daughter, the mysterious visitor, and the three servants—there was, with the exception of old Auguste, who could hardly count, only one man—Jack Renauld. And a man must have dug the grave. I had no time to develop farther the appalling idea that had occurred to me, for Jack Renauld was ushered into the room. Poirot greeted him in businesslike manner. "Take a seat, monsieur. I regret infinitely to derange you, but you will perhaps understand that the atmosphere of the villa is not too congenial to me. Monsieur Giraud and I do not see eye to eye about everything. His politeness to me has not been striking, and you will comprehend that I do not intend any little discoveries I may make to benefit him in any way." "Exactly, Monsieur Poirot," said the lad. "That fellow Giraud is an ill- conditioned brute, and I’d be delighted to see someone score at his expense." "Then I may ask a little favour of you?" "Certainly." "I will ask you to go to the railway station and take a train to the next station along the line, Abbalac. Ask at the cloakroom whether two foreigners deposited a valise there on the night of the murder. It is a small station, and they are almost certain to remember. Will you do this?" "Of course I will," said the boy, mystified, though ready for the task. "I and my friend, you comprehend, have business elsewhere," explained Poirot. "There is a train in a quarter of an hour, and I will ask you not to return to the villa, as I have no wish for Giraud to get an inkling of your errand." "Very well, I will go straight to the station." He rose to his feet. Poirot’s voice stopped him: "One moment, Monsieur Renauld, there is one little matter that puzzles me. Why did you not mention to Monsieur Hautet this morning that you were in Merlinville on the night of the crime?" Jack Renauld’s face went crimson. With an effort he controlled himself. "You have made a mistake. I was in Cherbourg as I told the examining magistrate this morning."
"You are very clever," said Pauline appreciatively. "I could not imitate anyone else to save my life." Jane believed her. It had already struck her that Pauline was a young woman who was very much herself. "Anna will arrange details with you," said the Grand Duchess. "Take her into my bedroom, Anna, and try some of my clothes on her." She nodded a gracious farewell, and Jane was convoyed away by the Princess Poporensky. "This is what Her Highness will wear to open the bazaar," explained the old lady, holding up a daring creation of white and black. "That is in three days" time. It may be necessary for you to take her place there. We do not know. We have not yet received information." At Anna’s bidding, Jane slipped off her own shabby garments and tried on the frock. It fitted her perfectly. The other nodded approvingly. "It is almost perfect - just a shade long on you, because you are an inch or so shorter than Her Highness." "That is easily remedied," said Jane quickly. The Grand Duchess wears low- heeled shoes, I noticed. If I wear the same kind of shoes, but with high heels, it will adjust things nicely." Anna Michaelovna showed her the shoes that the Grand Duchess usually wore with the dress - lizard skin with a strap across. Jane memorized them, and arranged to get a pair just like them, but with different heels. "I would be well," said Anna Michaelovna, "for you to have a dress of distinctive colour and material quite unlike Her Highness’s. Then in case it becomes necessary for you to change places at a moment’s notice, the substitution is less likely to be noticed." Jane thought a minute. "What about flame-red marocain? And I might, perhaps, have plain glass pince- nez. That alters the appearance very much." Both suggestions were approved, and they went into further details. Jane left the hotel with bank-notes for a hundred pounds in her purse and instructions to purchase the necessary outfit and engage rooms at the Blitz Hotel as Miss Montresor of New York. On the second day after this, Count Streptitch called upon her there. "A transformation indeed," he said as he bowed. Jane made him a mock bow in return. She was enjoying the new clothes and the luxury of her life very much. "All this is very nice," she sighed. "But I suppose thal your visit means I must get busy and earn my money." "That is so. We have received information. It seems possible that an attempt will be made to kidnap Her Highness on the way home from the bazaar. That is to take place, as you know, at Orion House, which is about ten miles out of London. Her Highness will be forced to attend the bazaar in person, as the Countess of Anchester, who is promoting it, knows her personally. But the following is the plan have concocted." Jane listened attentively as he outlined it to her. She asked a few questions and finally declared that she understood perfectly the part that she had to play. The next day dawned bright and clear - a perfect day for one of the great events of the London Season, the bazaar at Orion House, promoted by the Countess of Anchester in aid of Ostrovian refugees in this country. Having regard to the uncertainty of the English climate, the bazaar itself took place within the spacious rooms of Orion House l which has been for five hundred years in the possession of the Earls of Anchester. Various collections had been loaned, and a charming idea was the gift by a hundred society women of one pearl each taken from their own necklaces, each pearl to be sold by auction on the second day. There were also numerous side shows and attractions in the grounds. Jane was there early in the r鬺e of Miss Montresor. She wore a dress of flame- coloured marocain, and a small red cloche hat. On her feet were high-heeled lizard-skin shoes. The arrival of the Grand Duchess Pauline was a great event. She was escorted to the platform and duly presented with a bouquet of roses by a small child. She made a short but charming speech and declared the bazaar open. Count Streptitch and Princess Poporensky were in attendance upon her.
"Not my brown velvet. That’s my brown velvet. Madame Bonserot made it for me in Paris. So Frenchy! Everyone admired me in it." "But it’s all worn, dear, the nap has gone. It’s in holes." "It would do up. I’m sure it would do up." Poor Grannie – old, defenceless, at the mercy of these younger folk – so scornful, so full of their "That’s no good, throw it away." She had been brought up never to throw away anything. It might come in some day. They didn’t know that, these young folk. They tried to be kind. They yielded so far to her wishes as to fill a dozen old-fashioned trunks with bits and pieces of stuffs and old moth-eaten furs – all things that could never be used, but why upset the old lady more than need be? Grannie herself insisted on packing various faded pictures of old-fashioned gentlemen. "That’s dear Mr Harty – and Mr Lord – such a handsome couple as we made dancing together! Everyone remarked on it." Alas, for Grannie’s packing! Mr Harty and Mr Lord arrived with the glass shattered in the frames. And yet, once Grannie’s packing had been celebrated. Nothing she packed was ever broken. Sometimes, when she thought no one was looking, Grannie would surreptitiously retrieve little bits of trimming, a jet ornament, a little piece of net ruching, a crochet motif. She would stuff them into that capacious pocket of hers, and would secretly transfer them to one of the great ark-like trunks that stood in her bedroom ready for her personal packing. Poor Grannie. Moving nearly killed her, but it didn’t quite. She had the will to live. It was the will to live that was driving her out of the home she had lived in so long. The Germans were not going to starve her out – and they were not going to get her in an air raid, either. Grannie meant to live and enjoy life. When you had reached ninety years you knew how extraordinarily enjoyable life was. That was what the young people didn’t understand. They spoke as though anyone old were half dead and sure to be miserable. Young people, thought Grannie, remembering an aphorism of her youth, thought the old people fools, but old people knew that young people were fools! Her aunt Caroline had said that at the age of eighty-five and her aunt Caroline had been right. Anyway, Grannie didn’t think much of young people nowadays. They had no stamina. Look at the furniture removers – four strapping young men – and they actually asked her to empty the drawers of her big mahogany chest of drawers. "It was carried up with every drawer locked," said Grannie. "You see, ma’am, it’s solid mahogany. And there’s heavy stuff in the drawers." "So there was when it came up! There were men in those days. You’re all weaklings nowadays. Making a fuss about a little weight." The young men grinned, and with some difficulty the chest was got down the stairs and out to the van. "That’s better," said Grannie approvingly. "You see, you don’t know what you can do until you try." Among the various things removed from the house were thirty demijohns of Grannie’s home-made liqueurs. Only twenty-eight were unloaded the other end … Was this, perhaps, the revenge of the grinning young men? "Rogues," said Grannie. "That’s what they are – rogues. And call themselves teetotallers too. The impudence of it." But she tipped them handsomely and was not really displeased. It was, after all, a subtle compliment to her home-made liqueur … 10 When Grannie was installed, a cook was found to replace Rouncy. This was a girl of twenty-eight called Mary. She was good-natured and pleasant to elderly people, and chattered to Grannie about her young man and her relations who suffered from an agreeable number of complaints. Grannie delighted ghoulishly in the bad legs, varicose veins, and other ailments of Mary’s relations. She gave her bottles of patent medicines and shawls for them. Celia began to think once more about taking up war work, though Grannie combated the idea vigorously, prophesying the most dire disasters if Celia "over-strained" herself. Grannie loved Celia.
They passed each other. Instead of going on down the rocks, however, Linda skirted round the hotel to the left until she came to the path down to the causeway connecting the hotel with the mainland. The tide was high and the causeway under water, but the boat that took hotel guests across was tied to a little jetty. The man in charge of it was absent at the moment. Linda got in, untied it and rowed herself across. She tied up the boat on the other side, walked up the slope, past the hotel garage and along until she reached the general shop. The woman had just taken down the shutters and was engaged in sweeping out the floor. She looked amazed at the sight of Linda. "Well, Miss, you are up early." Linda put her hand in the pocket of her bath wrap and brought out some money. She proceeded to make her purchases. II Christine Redfern was standing in Linda’s room when the girl returned. "Oh, there you are," Christine exclaimed. "I thought you couldn’t be really up yet." Linda said: "No, I’ve been bathing." Noticing the parcel in her hand, Christine said with surprise: "The post has come early today." Linda flushed. With her habitual nervous clumsiness the parcel slipped from her hand. The flimsy string broke and some of the contents rolled over the floor. Christine exclaimed: "What have you been buying candles for?" But to Linda’s relief she did not wait for an answer, but went on, as she helped to pick the things up from the floor. "I came in to ask whether you would like to come with me to Gull Cove this morning. I want to sketch there." Linda accepted with alacrity. In the last few days she had accompanied Christine Redfern more than once on sketching expeditions. Christine was a most indifferent artist, but it is possible that she found the excuse of painting a help to her pride since her husband now spent most of his time with Arlena Marshall. Linda Marshall had been increasingly morose and bad tempered. She liked being with Christine who, intent on her work, spoke very little. It was, Linda felt, nearly as good as being by oneself, and in a curious way she craved for company of some kind. There was a subtle kind of sympathy between her and the elder woman, probably based on the fact of their mutual dislike of the same person. Christine said: "I’m playing tennis at twelve, so we’d better start fairly early. Half past ten?" "Right. I’ll be ready. Meet you in the hall." III Rosamund Darnley, strolling out of the dining room after a very late breakfast, was cannoned into by Linda as the latter came tearing down the stairs. "Oh! sorry, Miss Darnley." Rosamund said: "Lovely morning, isn’t it? One can hardly believe it after yesterday." "I know. I’m going with Mrs. Redfern to Gull Cove. I said I’d meet her at half past ten. I thought I was late." "No, it’s only twenty-five past." "Oh! good." She was panting a little and Rosamund looked at her curiously. "You’re not feverish, are you, Linda?" The girls" eyes were very bright and she had a vivid patch of colour in each cheek. "Oh! no. I’m never feverish." Rosamund smiled and said: "It’s such a lovely day I got up for breakfast. Usually I have it in bed. But today I came down and faced eggs and bacon like a man." "I know—it’s heavenly after yesterday. Gull Cove is nice in the morning. I shall put a lot of oil on and get really brown." Rosamund said: "Yes, Gull Cove is nice in the morning. And it’s more peaceful than the beach here." Linda said, rather shyly: "Come too." Rosamund shook her head. She said: "Not this morning. I’ve other fish to fry." Christine Redfern came down the stairs. She was wearing beach pyjamas of a loose floppy pattern with long sleeves and wide legs. They were made of some green material with a yellow design. Rosamund’s tongue itched to tell her that yellow and green were the most unbecoming colours possible for her fair, slightly anaemic complexion. It always annoyed Rosamund when people had no clothes sense. She thought: "If I dressed that girl, I’d soon make her husband sit up and take notice.
Chapter 13 Mrs Oliver, glass in hand, approached Hercule Poirot towards the end of the Carpenters" party. Up till that moment they had each of them been the centre of an admiring circle. Now that a good deal of gin had been consumed, and the party was going well, there was a tendency for old friends to get together and retail local scandal, and the two outsiders were able to talk to each other. "Come out on the terrace," said Mrs Oliver, in a conspirator’s whisper. At the same time she pressed into his hand a small piece of paper. Together they stepped out through the French windows and walked along the terrace. Poirot unfolded the piece of paper. "Dr Rendell," he read. He looked questioningly at Mrs Oliver. Mrs Oliver nodded vigorously, a large plume of grey hair falling across her face as she did so. "He’s the murderer," said Mrs Oliver. "You think so? Why?" "I just know it," said Mrs Oliver. "He’s the type. Hearty and genial, and all that." "Perhaps." Poirot sounded unconvinced. "But what would you say was his motive?" "Unprofessional conduct," said Mrs Oliver. "And Mrs McGinty knew about it. But whatever the reason was, you can be quite sure it was him. I’ve looked at all the others, and he’s the one." In reply, Poirot remarked conversationally: "Last night somebody tried to push me on to the railway line at Kilchester station." "Good gracious. To kill you, do you mean?" "I have no doubt that was the idea." "And Dr Rendell was out on a case, I know he was." "I understand—yes—that Dr Rendell was out on a case." "Then that settles it," said Mrs Oliver with satisfaction. "Not quite," said Poirot. "Both Mr and Mrs Carpenter were in Kilchester last night and came home separately. Mrs Rendell may have sat at home all the evening listening to her wireless or she may not—no one can say. Miss Henderson often goes to the pictures in Kilchester." "She didn’t last night. She was at home. She told me so." "You cannot believe all you are told," said Poirot reprovingly. "Families hang together. The foreign maid, Frieda, on the other hand, was at the pictures last night, so she cannot tell us who was or was not at home at Hunter’s Close! You see, it is not so easy to narrow things down." "I can probably vouch for our lot," said Mrs Oliver. "What time did you say this happened?" "At nine thirty-five exactly." "Then at any rate Laburnums has got a clean bill of health. From eight o’clock to half-past ten, Robin, his mother, and I were playing poker patience." "I thought possibly that you and he were closeted together doing the collaboration?" "Leaving Mamma to leap on a motor bicycle concealed in the shrubbery?" Mrs Oliver laughed. "No, Mamma was under our eye." She sighed as sadder thoughts came to her. "Collaboration," she said bitterly. "The whole thing’s a nightmare! How would you like to see a big black moustache stuck on to Superintendent Battle and be told it was you." Poirot blinked a little. "But it is a nightmare, that suggestion!" "Now you know what I suffer." "I, too, suffer," said Poirot. "The cooking of Madame Summerhayes, it is beyond description. It is not cooking at all. And the draughts, the cold winds, the upset stomachs of the cats, the long hairs of the dogs, the broken legs of the chairs, the terrible, terrible bed in which I sleep’—he shut his eyes in remembrance of agonies—"the tepid water in the bathroom, the holes in the stair carpet, and the coffee—words cannot describe to you the fluid which they serve to you as coffee. It is an affront to the stomach." "Dear me," said Mrs Oliver. "And yet, you know, she’s awfully nice." "Mrs Summerhayes? She is charming. She is quite charming. That makes it much more difficult." "Here she comes now," said Mrs Oliver. Maureen Summerhayes was approaching them. There was an ecstatic look on her freckled face. She carried a glass in her hand. She smiled at them both with affection.
I remember noticing there were only seven—not eight." He gave a sudden shiver and explained himself apologetically. "Sorry, but somehow those clocks have always given me the shivers. I dream of them sometimes. I’d hate to go into that room in the dark and see them there in a row." "You wouldn’t be able to see them if it was dark," said Bundle practically. "Not unless they had luminous dials—Oh!" She gave a sudden gasp and the colour rushed into her cheeks. "Don’t you see! Seven Dials!" The others looked at her doubtfully, but she insisted with increasing vehemence. "It must be. It can’t be a coincidence." There was a pause. "You may be right," said Jimmy Thesiger at last. "It’s—it’s dashed odd." Bundle started questioning him eagerly. "Who bought the clocks?" "All of us." "Who thought of them?" "All of us." "Nonsense, somebody must have thought of them first." "It didn’t happen that way. We were discussing what we could do to get Gerry up, and Pongo said an alarum clock, and somebody said one would be no good, and somebody else—Bill Eversleigh, I think—said why not get a dozen. And we all said good egg and hoofed off to get them. We got one each and an extra one for Pongo and one for Lady Coote—just out of the generosity of our hearts. There was nothing premeditated about it—it just happened." Bundle was silenced, but not convinced. Jimmy proceeded to sum up methodically. "I think we can say we’re sure of certain facts. There’s a secret society, with points of resemblance to the Mafia, in existence. Gerry Wade came to know about it. At first he treated it as rather a joke—as an absurdity, shall we say. He couldn’t believe in its being really dangerous. But later something happened to convince him, and then he got the wind up in earnest. I rather fancy he must have said something to Ronny Devereux about it. Anyway, when he was put out of the way, Ronny suspected, and he must have known enough to get on the same track himself. The unfortunate thing is that we’ve got to start quite from the outer darkness. We haven’t got the knowledge the other two had." "Perhaps that’s an advantage," said Loraine coolly. "They won’t suspect us and therefore they won’t be trying to put us out of the way." "I wish I felt sure about that," said Jimmy in a worried voice. "You know, Loraine, old Gerry himself wanted you to keep out of it. Don’t you think you could—" "No, I couldn’t," said Loraine. "Don’t let’s start discussing that again. It’s only a waste of time." At the mention of the word time, Jimmy’s eyes rose to the clock and he uttered an exclamation of astonishment. He rose and opened the door. "Stevens." "Yes, sir?" "What about a spot of lunch, Stevens? Could it be managed?" "I anticipated that it would be required, sir. Mrs. Stevens has made preparations accordingly." "That’s a wonderful man," said Jimmy, as he returned, heaving a sigh of relief. "Brain, you know. Sheer brain. He takes correspondence courses. I sometimes wonder if they’d be any good to me." "Don’t be silly," said Loraine. Stevens opened the door and proceeded to bring in a most recherché meal. An omelette was followed by quails and the very lightest thing in soufflés. "Why are men so happy when they’re single," said Loraine tragically. "Why are they so much better looked after by other people than by us?" "Oh! but that’s rot, you know," said Jimmy. "I mean, they’re not. How could they be? I often think—" He stammered and stopped. Loraine blushed again. Suddenly Bundle let out a whoop and both the others started violently. "Idiot," said Bundle. "Imbecile. Me, I mean. I knew there was something I’d forgotten." "What?" "You know Codders—George Lomax, I mean?" "I’ve heard of him a good deal," said Jimmy. "From Bill and Ronny, you know." "Well, Codders is giving some sort of a dry party next week—and he’s had a warning letter from Seven Dials." "What?"
Clement?" I gave him the verdict. "Oh! So that’s what happened. I rather thought that would be the verdict. Where’s Dr. Stone off to?" I repeated what he had told me. "Lucky not to miss the train. Not that you ever know on this line. I tell you, Mr. Clement, it’s a crying shame. Disgraceful, that’s what I call it. Train I came down by was ten minutes late. And that on a Saturday with no traffic to speak of. And on Wednesday—no, Thursday—yes, Thursday it was—I remember it was the day of the murder because I meant to write a strongly-worded complaint to the company—and the murder put it out of my head—yes, last Thursday. I had been to a meeting of the Pharmaceutical Society. How late do you think the 6:50 was? Half an hour. Half an hour exactly! What do you think of that? Ten minutes I don’t mind. But if the train doesn’t get in till twenty past seven, well, you can’t get home before half past. What I say is, why call it the 6:50?" "Quite so," I said, and wishing to escape from the monologue I broke away with the excuse that I had something to say to Lawrence Redding whom I saw approaching us on the other side of the road. Nineteen "Very glad to have met you," said Lawrence. "Come to my place." We turned in at the little rustic gate, went up the path, and he drew a key from his pocket and inserted it in the lock. "You keep the door locked now," I observed. "Yes." He laughed rather bitterly. "Case of stable door when the steed is gone, eh? It is rather like that. You know, padre," he held the door open and I passed inside, "there’s something about all this business that I don’t like. It’s too much of—how shall I put it—an inside job. Someone knew about that pistol of mine. That means that the murderer, whoever he was, must have actually been in this house—perhaps even had a drink with me." "Not necessarily," I objected. "The whole village of St. Mary Mead probably knows exactly where you keep your toothbrush and what kind of tooth powder you use." "But why should it interest them?" "I don’t know," I said, "but it does. If you change your shaving cream it will be a topic of conversation." "They must be very hard up for news." "They are. Nothing exciting ever happens here." "Well, it has now—with a vengeance." I agreed. "And who tells them all these things anyway? Shaving cream and things like that?" "Probably old Mrs. Archer." "That old crone? She’s practically a half-wit, as far as I can make out." "That’s merely the camouflage of the poor," I explained. "They take refuge behind a mask of stupidity. You’ll probably find that the old lady has all her wits about her. By the way, she seems very certain now that the pistol was in its proper place midday Thursday. What’s made her so positive all of a sudden?" "I haven’t the least idea." "Do you think she’s right?" "There again I haven’t the least idea. I don’t go round taking an inventory of my possessions every day." I looked round the small living room. Every shelf and table was littered with miscellaneous articles. Lawrence lived in the midst of an artistic disarray that would have driven me quite mad. "It’s a bit of a job finding things sometimes," he said, observing my glance. "On the other hand, everything is handy—not tucked away." "Nothing is tucked away, certainly," I agreed. "It might perhaps have been better if the pistol had been." "Do you know I rather expected the coroner to say something of the sort. Coroners are such asses. I expected to be censured or whatever they call it." "By the way," I asked, "was it loaded?" Lawrence shook his head. "I’m not quite so careless as that. It was unloaded, but there was a box of cartridges beside it." "It was apparently loaded in all six chambers and one shot had been fired." Lawrence nodded. "And whose hand fired it? It’s all very well, sir, but unless the real murderer is discovered I shall be suspected of the crime to the day of my death." "Don’t say that, my boy." "But I do say it."
"You see, she wrote a great many of Mrs. Llewellyn- Smythe’s letters for her and it seems Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe had a great dislike of typed letters being sent to friends or anything like that. If it wasn’t a business letter, she’d always say "write it in handwriting and make it as much like mine as you can and sign it with my name." Mrs. Minden, the cleaning woman, heard her say that one day, and I suppose the girl got used to doing it and copying her employer’s handwriting and then it came to her suddenly that she could do this and get away with it. And that’s how it all came about. But as I say, the lawyers were too sharp and spotted it." "Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe’s own lawyers?" "Yes. Fullerton, Harrison and Leadbetter. Very respectable firm in Medchester. They’d always done all her legal business for her. Anyway, they got experts on to it and questions were asked and the girl was asked questions and got the wind up. Just walked out one day leaving half her things behind her. They were preparing to take proceedings against her, but she didn’t wait for that. She just got out. It’s not so difficult, really, to get out of this country, if you do it in time. Why, you can go on day trips on the Continent without a passport, and if you’ve got a little arrangement with someone on the other side, things can be arranged long before there is any real hue and cry. She’s probably gone back to her own country or changed her name or gone to friends." "But everyone thought that Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe died a natural death?" asked Poirot. "Yes, I don’t think there was ever any question of that. I only say it’s possible because, as I say, these things have happened before where the doctor has no suspicion. Supposing that girl Joyce had heard something, had heard the au pair girl giving medicines to Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe, and the old lady saying "this medicine tastes different to the usual one." Or "this has got a bitter taste" or "it’s peculiar.’" "Anyone would think you’d been there listening to things yourself, Elspeth," said Superintendent Spence. "This is all your imagination." "When did she die?" said Poirot. "Morning, evening, indoors, out of doors, at home or away from home?" "Oh, at home. She’d come up from doing things in the garden one day, breathing rather heavily. She said she was very tired and she went to lie down on her bed. And to put it in one sentence, she never woke up. Which is all very natural, it seems, medically speaking." Poirot took out a little notebook. The page was already headed "Victims." Under, he wrote, "No. 1. suggested, Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe." On the next pages of his book he wrote down the other names that Spence had given him. He said, inquiringly: "Charlotte Benfield?" Spence replied promptly. "Sixteen-year-old shop assistant. Multiple head injuries. Found on a footpath near the Quarry Wood. Two young men came under suspicion. Both had walked out with her from time to time. No evidence." "They assisted the police in their inquiries?" asked Poirot. "As you say. It’s the usual phrase. They didn’t assist much. They were frightened. Told a few lies, contradicted themselves. They didn’t carry conviction as likely murderers. But either of them might have been." "What were they like?" "Peter Gordon, twenty-one. Unemployed. Had had one or two jobs but never kept them. Lazy. Quite good-looking. Had been on probation once or twice for minor pilferings, things of that kind. No record before of violence. Was in with a rather nasty lot of likely young criminals, but usually managed to keep out of serious trouble." "And the other one?" "Thomas Hudd. Twenty. Stammered. Shy. Neurotic. Wanted to be a teacher, but couldn’t make the grade. Mother a widow. The doting mother type. Didn’t encourage girlfriends. Kept him as close to her apron strings as she could.
I said yes, I was extremely fond of beefsteak. "That is good too; that is the best food for a singer. You cannot eat large meals, or eat often, but I say to my opera singers you will have at three o’clock in the afternoon a large steak and a glass of stout; after that nothing till you sing at nine o’clock." We then proceeded to the singing lesson proper. The voix de tête, he said, was very good, it was perfect, properly produced and natural, and my chest notes were not too bad; but the médium, the médium was extremely weak. So to begin with I was to sing mezzo-soprano songs to develop le médium. At intervals he would get exasperated with what he called my English face. "English faces," he said, "have no expression! They are not mobile. The skin round the mouth, it does not move; and the voice, the words, everything, they come from the back of the throat. That is very bad. The French language has got to come from the palate, from the roof of the mouth. The roof of the mouth, the bridge of the nose, that is where the voice of the medium comes from. You speak French very well, very fluently, though it is unfortunate you have not the English accent but the accent of the Midi. Why do you have the accent of the Midi?" I thought for a minute, and then I said perhaps because I had learnt French from a French maid who had come from Pau. "Ah, that explains it," he said. "Yes, that is it. It is the accent meridional that you have. As I say, you speak French fluently, but you speak it as though it were English because you speak it from the back of your throat. You must move your lips. Keep your teeth close together, but move your lips. Ah, I know what we shall do." He would then tell me to stick a pencil in the corner of my mouth and articulate as well as possible while I was singing, without letting the pencil drop out. It was extraordinarily difficult at first, but in the end I managed it. My teeth clamped the pencil and my lips then had to move a great deal to make the words come out at all. Boué’s fury was great one day when I brought in the air from Samson et Delilah, "Mon coeur s’ouvre à to voix’, and asked him if I could possibly learn it, as I had enjoyed the opera so much. "But what is this you have here?" he said, looking at the piece of music. What is this? What key is it in? It is in a transposed key." I said I had bought the version for a soprano voice. He shouted with rage: "But Delilah is not a soprano part. It is a mezzo part. Do you not know that if you sing an air from an opera, it must always be sung in the key it was written in? You cannot transpose for a soprano voice what has been written for a mezzo voice–it puts the whole emphasis wrong. Take it away. If you bring it in the proper mezzo key, yes, you shall learn it." I never dared sing a transposed song again. I learned large quantities of French songs, and a lovely Ave Maria of Cherubini’s. We debated for some time how I was to pronounce the Latin of that. "The English pronounce Latin in the Italian way, the French have their own way of pronouncing Latin. I think, since you are English, you had better sing it in the Italian pronunciation." I also sang a good many of Schubert’s songs in German. In spite of not knowing German this was not too difficult; and I sang songs in Italian, of course. On the whole I was not allowed to be too ambitious, but after about six months or so of study I was allowed to sing the famous aria from La Bohème "Te Gelida Manina" and also the aria from Tosca, "Vissi d’arte’. It was indeed a happy time. Sometimes, after a visit to the Louvre, we were taken to have tea at Rumpelmayer’s. There could be no delight in life for a greedy girl like tea at Rumpelmayer’s. My favourites were those glorious cakes with cream and marron piping of a sickliness which was incomparable.
Harbottle left her quite dumbfounded by saying that he thought she had kept house for him long enough and that he was making other arrangements. "Such a scandal as it created in the village, but poor Miss Harbottle had to go and live most uncomfortably in rooms in Eastbourne. People said things, of course, but I believe there was no familiarity of any kind—it was simply that the old man found it much pleasanter to have a young, cheerful girl telling him how clever and amusing he was than to have his sister continually pointing out his faults to him, even if she was a good economical manager." There was a moment’s pause, and then Miss Marple resumed. "And there was Mr. Badger who had the chemist’s shop. Made a lot of fuss over the young lady who worked in his toilet section. Told his wife they must look on her as a daughter and have her to live in the house. Mrs. Badger didn’t see it that way at all." Sir Henry said: "If she’d only been a girl in his own rank of life—a friend’s child—" Miss Marple interrupted him. "Oh! but that wouldn’t have been nearly as satisfactory from his point of view. It’s like King Cophetua and the beggar maid. If you’re really rather a lonely, tired old man, and if, perhaps, your own family have been neglecting you"—she paused for a second—"well, to befriend someone who will be overwhelmed with your magnificence—(to put it rather melodramatically, but I hope you see what I mean)—well, that’s much more interesting. It makes you feel a much greater person—a beneficent monarch! The recipient is more likely to be dazzled, and that, of course, is a pleasant feeling for you." She paused and said: "Mr. Badger, you know, bought the girl in his shop some really fantastic presents, a diamond bracelet and a most expensive radio-gramophone. Took out a lot of his savings to do so. However, Mrs. Badger, who was a much more astute woman than poor Miss Harbottle (marriage, of course, helps), took the trouble to find out a few things. And when Mr. Badger discovered that the girl was carrying on with a very undesirable young man connected with the racecourses, and had actually pawned the bracelet to give him the money—well, he was completely disgusted and the affair passed over quite safely. And he gave Mrs. Badger a diamond ring the following Christmas." Her pleasant, shrewd eyes met Sir Henry’s. He wondered if what she had been saying was intended as a hint. He said: "Are you suggesting that if there had been a young man in Ruby Keene’s life, my friend’s attitude towards her might have altered?" "It probably would, you know. I dare say, in a year or two, he might have liked to arrange for her marriage himself—though more likely he wouldn’t—gentlemen are usually rather selfish. But I certainly think that if Ruby Keene had had a young man she’d have been careful to keep very quiet about it." "And the young man might have resented that?" "I suppose that is the most plausible solution. It struck me, you know, that her cousin, the young woman who was at Gossington this morning, looked definitely angry with the dead girl. What you’ve told me explains why. No doubt she was looking forward to doing very well out of the business." "Rather a cold-blooded character, in fact?" "That’s too harsh a judgment, perhaps. The poor thing has had to earn her living, and you can’t expect her to sentimentalize because a well-to-do man and woman—as you have described Mr. Gaskell and Mrs. Jefferson—are going to be done out of a further large sum of money to which they have really no particular moral right. I should say Miss Turner was a hard-headed, ambitious young woman, with a good temper and considerable joie de vivre. A little," added Miss Marple, "like Jessie Golden, the baker’s daughter." "What happened to her?" asked Sir Henry. "She trained as a nursery governess and married the son of the house, who was home on leave from India. Made him a very good wife, I believe." Sir Henry pulled himself clear of these fascinating side issues.
Tommy, who was busy over a speech he was drafting for a Conference he was shortly to attend, and murmuring under his breath—"the proper policy if such a contingency should arise"—said: "How do you spell contingency, Tuppence?" "Did you hear what I was saying?" "Yes, very good idea—splendid—excellent—you do that—" Tuppence went out—stuck her head in again and said: "C-o-n-s-i-s-t-e-n-c-y." "Can’t be—you’ve got the wrong word." "What are you writing about?" "The Paper I’m reading next at the I.U.A.S. and I do wish you’d let me do it in peace." "Sorry." Tuppence removed herself. Tommy continued to write sentences and then scratch them out. His face was just brightening, as the pace of his writing increased—when once more the door opened. "Here it is," said Tuppence. "Partingdale, Harris, Lockeridge and Partingdale, 32 Lincoln Terrace, W.C.2. Tel. Holborn 051386. The operative member of the firm is Mr. Eccles." She placed a sheet of paper by Tommy’s elbow. "Now you take on." "No!" said Tommy firmly. "Yes! She’s your Aunt Ada." "Where does Aunt Ada come in? Mrs. Lancaster is no aunt of mine." "But it’s lawyers," Tuppence insisted. "It’s a man’s job always to deal with lawyers. They just think women are silly and don’t pay attention—" "A very sensible point of view," said Tommy. "Oh! Tommy—do help. You go and telephone and I’ll find the dictionary and look how to spell contingency." Tommy gave her a look, but departed. He returned at last and spoke firmly—"This matter is now closed, Tuppence." "You got Mr. Eccles?" "Strictly speaking I got a Mr. Wills who is doubtless the dogsbody of the firm of Partingford, Lockjaw and Harrison. But he was fully informed and glib. All letters and communications go via the Southern Counties Bank, Hammersmith branch, who will forward all communications. And there, Tuppence, let me tell you, the trail stops. Banks will forward things—but they won’t yield any addresses to you or anyone else who asks. They have their code of rules and they’ll stick to them—Their lips are sealed like our more pompous Prime Ministers." "All right, I’ll send a letter care of the Bank." "Do that—and for goodness" sake, leave me alone—or I shall never get my speech done." "Thank you, darling," said Tuppence. "I don’t know what I’d do without you." She kissed the top of his head. "It’s the best butter," said Tommy. II It was not until the following Thursday evening that Tommy asked suddenly, "By the way, did you ever get any answer to the letter you sent care of the Bank to Mrs. Johnson—" "It’s nice of you to ask," said Tuppence sarcastically. "No, I didn’t." She added meditatively, "I don’t think I shall, either." "Why not?" "You’re not really interested," said Tuppence coldly. "Look here, Tuppence—I know I’ve been rather preoccupied—It’s all this I.U.A.S.—It’s only once a year, thank goodness." "It starts on Monday, doesn’t it? For five days—" "Four days." "And you all go down to a Hush Hush, top secret house in the country somewhere, and make speeches and read Papers and vet young men for Super Secret assignments in Europe and beyond. I’ve forgotten what I.U.A.S. stands for. All these initials they have nowadays—" "International Union of Associated Security." "What a mouthful! Quite ridiculous. And I expect the whole place is bugged, and everybody knows everybody else’s most secret conversations." "Highly likely," said Tommy with a grin. "And I suppose you enjoy it?" "Well, I do in a way. One sees a lot of old friends." "All quite gaga by now, I expect. Does any of it do any good?" "Heavens, what a question! Can one ever let oneself believe that you can answer that by a plain Yes or No—" "And are any of the people any good?" "I’d answer Yes to that. Some of them are very good indeed." "Will old Josh be there?" "Yes, he’ll be there."
On a sudden impulse he walked up some crumbling stone steps and laid a hand on one of the faded green shutters. To his surprise it swung back at his touch. He hesitated a moment, then pushed it boldly open. The next minute he stepped back with a little exclamation of dismay. A woman stood in the window facing him. She wore black and had a black lace mantilla draped over her head. Mr Satterthwaite floundered wildly in Italian interspersed with German–the nearest he could get in the hurry of the moment to Spanish. He was desolated and ashamed, he explained haltingly. The Signora must forgive. He thereupon retreated hastily, the woman not having spoken one word. He was halfway across the courtyard when she spoke–two sharp words like a pistol crack. "Come back!" It was a barked-out command such as might have been addressed to a dog, yet so absolute was the authority it conveyed, that Mr Satterthwaite had swung round hurriedly and trotted back to the window almost automatically before it occurred to him to feel any resentment. He obeyed like a dog. The woman was still standing motionless at the window. She looked him up and down appraising him with perfect calmness. "You are English," she said. "I thought so." Mr Satterthwaite started off on a second apology. "If I had known you were English," he said, "I could have expressed myself better just now. I offer my most sincere apologies for my rudeness in trying the shutter. I am afraid I can plead no excuse save curiosity. I had a great wish to see what the inside of this charming house was like." She laughed suddenly, a deep, rich laugh. "If you really want to see it," she said, "you had better come in." She stood aside, and Mr Satterthwaite, feeling pleasurably excited, stepped into the room. It was dark, since the shutters of the other windows were closed, but he could see that it was scantily and rather shabbily furnished and that the dust lay thick everywhere. "Not here," she said. "I do not use this room." She led the way and he followed her, out of the room across a passage and into a room the other side. Here the windows gave on the sea and the sun streamed in. The furniture, like that of the other room, was poor in quality, but there were some worn rugs that had been good in their time, a large screen of Spanish leather and bowls of fresh flowers. "You will have tea with me," said Mr Satterthwaite’s hostess. She added reassuringly: "It is perfectly good tea and will be made with boiling water." She went out of the door and called out something in Spanish, then she returned and sat down on a sofa opposite her guest. For the first time, Mr Satterthwaite was able to study her appearance. The first effect she had upon him was to make him feel even more grey and shrivelled and elderly than usual by contrast with her own forceful personality. She was a tall woman, very sunburnt, dark and handsome though no longer young. When she was in the room the sun seemed to be shining twice as brightly as when she was out of it, and presently a curious feeling of warmth and aliveness began to steal over Mr Satterthwaite. It was as though he stretched out thin, shrivelled hands to a reassuring flame. He thought, "She’s so much vitality herself that she’s got a lot left over for other people." He recalled the command in her voice when she had stopped him, and wished that his protégée, Olga, could be imbued with a little of that force. He thought: "What an Isolde she’d make! And yet she probably hasn’t got the ghost of a singing voice. Life is badly arranged." He was, all the same, a little afraid of her. He did not like domineering women. She had clearly been considering him as she sat with her chin in her hands, making no pretence about it. At last she nodded as though she had made up her mind. "I am glad you came," she said at last. "I needed someone very badly to talk to this afternoon. And you are used to that, aren’t you?" "I don’t quite understand." "I meant people tell you things. You knew what I meant! Why pretend?"
"Oh yes, I know. Saw in yesterday’s paper, I did, some woman left her baby outside a supermarket and then someone else comes along and wheels it away. And all for no reason as far as one can see. The police found her all right. They all seem to say the same things, whether they steal from a supermarket or take away a baby. Don’t know what came over them, they say." "Perhaps they really don’t," suggested Miss Marple. Mrs. Vinegar looked even more like vinegar. "Take me a lot to believe that, it would." Miss Marple looked round—the post office was still empty. She advanced to the window. "If you are not too busy, I wonder if you could answer a question of mine," said Miss Marple. "I have done something extremely stupid. Of late years I make so many mistakes. This was a parcel addressed to a charity. I send them clothes—pullovers and children’s woollies, and I did it up and addressed it and it was sent off—and only this morning it came to me suddenly that I’d made a mistake and written the wrong address. I don’t suppose any list is kept of the address of parcels—but I thought someone might have just happened to remember it. The address I meant to put was The Dockyard and Thames Side Welfare Association." Mrs. Vinegar was looking quite kindly now, touched by Miss Marple’s patent incapacity and general state of senility and dither. "Did you bring it yourself?" "No, I didn’t—I’m staying at The Old Manor House—and one of them, Mrs. Glynne, I think—said she or her sister would post it. Very kind of her—" "Let me see now. It would have been on Tuesday, would it? It wasn’t Mrs. Glynne who brought it in, it was the youngest one, Miss Anthea." "Yes, yes, I think that was the day—" "I remember it quite well. In a good sized dress box—and moderately heavy, I think. But not what you said, Dockyard Association—I can’t recall anything like that. It was the Reverend Matthews—The East Ham Women and Children’s Woollen Clothing Appeal." "Oh yes." Miss Marple clasped her hands in an ecstasy of relief. "How clever of you—I see now how I came to do it. At Christmas I did send things to the East Ham Society in answer to a special appeal for knitted things, so I must have copied down the wrong address. Can you just repeat it?" She entered it carefully in a small notebook. "I’m afraid the parcel’s gone off, though—" "Oh yes, but I can write, explaining the mistake and ask them to forward the parcel to the Dockyard Association instead. Thank you so much." Miss Marple trotted out. Mrs. Vinegar produced stamps for her next customer, remarking in an aside to a colleague—"Scatty as they make them, poor old creature. Expect she’s always doing that sort of thing." Miss Marple went out of the post office and ran into Emlyn Price and Joanna Crawford. Joanna, she noticed, was very pale and looked upset. "I’ve got to give evidence," she said. "I don’t know—what will they ask me? I’m so afraid. I—I don’t like it. I told the police sergeant, I told him what I thought we saw." "Don’t you worry, Joanna," said Emlyn Price. "This is just a coroner’s inquest, you know. He’s a nice man, a doctor, I believe. He’ll just ask you a few questions and you’ll say what you saw." "You saw it too," said Joanna. "Yes, I did," said Emlyn. "At least I saw there was someone up there. Near the boulders and things. Now come on, Joanna." "They came and searched our rooms in the hotel," said Joanna. "They asked our permission but they had a search warrant. They looked in our rooms and among the things in our luggage." "I think they wanted to find that check pullover you described. Anyway, there’s nothing for you to worry about. If you’d had a black and scarlet pullover yourself you wouldn’t have talked about it, would you. It was black and scarlet, wasn’t it?" "I don’t know," said Emlyn Price. "I don’t really know the colours of things very well. I think it was a sort of bright colour. That’s all I know."
The service is not as good as it used to be in the luncheon room. You've had lunch, of course?" Joyce hesitated a minute or two, then she said quietly: "Yes, thank you." "I always have mine at half-past twelve," said Aunt Mary, settling herself comfortably with her parcels. "Less rush and a clearer atmosphere. The curried eggs here are excellent." "Are they?" said Joyce faintly. She felt that she could hardly bear to think of curried eggs - the hot steam rising from them - the delicious smell! She wrenched her thoughts resolutely aside. "You look peaky, child," said Aunt Mary, who was herself of a comfortable figure. "Don't go in for this modern fad of eating no meat. All fal-de-lal. A good slice off the joint never did anyone any harm." Joyce stopped herself from saying "It wouldn't do me any harm now." If only Aunt Mary would stop talking about food. To raise your hopes by asking you to meet her at half past one and then to talk of curried eggs and slices of roast meat - oh! cruel - cruel. "Well, my dear," said Aunt Mary. "I got your letter - and it was very nice of you to take me at my word. I said I'd be pleased to see you anytime and so I should have been - but as it happens, I've just had an extremely good offer to let the house. Quite too good to be missed, and bringing their own plate and linen. Five months. They come in on Thursday and I go to Harrogate. My rheumatism's been troubling me lately." "I see," said Joyce. "I'm so sorry." "So it'll have to be for another time. Always pleased to see you, my dear." "Thank you, Aunt Mary." "You know, you do look peaky," said Aunt Mary, considering her attentively. "You're thin, too; no flesh on your bones, and what's happened to your pretty colour? You always had a nice healthy colour. Mind you take plenty of exercise." "I'm taking plenty of exercise today," said Joyce grimly. She rose. "Well, Aunt Mary, I must be getting along." Back again - through St. James's Park this time, and so on through Berkeley Square and across Oxford Street and up Edgware Road, past Praed Street to the point where the Edgware Road begins to think of becoming something else. Then aside, through a series of dirty little streets till one particular dingy house was reached. Joyce inserted her latchkey and entered a small frowsy hall. She ran up the stairs till she reached the top landing. A door faced her and from the bottom of this door a snuffling noise proceeded succeeded in a second by a series of joyful whines and yelps. "Yes, Terry darling - it's Missus come home." As the door opened, a white body precipitated itself upon the girl - an aged wire-haired terrier very shaggy as to coat and suspiciously bleary as to eyes. Joyce gathered him up in her arms and sat down on the floor. "Terry darling! Darling, darling Terry. Love your Missus, Terry; love your Missus a lot!" And Terry obeyed, his eager tongue worked busily, he licked her face, her ears, her neck and all the time his stump of a tail wagged furiously. "Terry darling, what are we going to do? What's going to become of us? Oh! Terry darling, I'm so tired." "Now then, miss," said a tart voice behind her. "If you'll give over hugging and kissing that dog, here's a cup of nice hot tea for you." "Oh! Mrs. Barnes, how good of you." Joyce scrambled to her feet. Mrs. Barnes was a big, formidable-looking woman. Beneath the exterior of a dragon she concealed an unexpectedly warm heart. "A cup of hot tea never did anyone any harm," enunciated Mrs. Barnes, voicing the universal sentiment of her class. Joyce sipped gratefully. Her landlady eyed her covertly. "Any luck, miss - ma'am, I should say?" Joyce shook her head, her face clouded over. "Ah!" said Mrs. Barnes with a sigh. "Well, it doesn't seem to be what you might call a lucky day." Joyce looked up sharply. "Oh, Mrs.
And, of course, I’ve seen her driving about in her car, but I’ve never seen her before close to, so to speak. Not a bit haughty, is she?" "Oh, no!" said Bobby. "I should never call Frankie haughty." "I said to Sister, I said, she’s as natural as anything. Not a bit stuck up. I said to Sister, she’s just like you or me, I said." Silently dissenting violently from this view, Bobby returned no reply. The nurse, disappointed by his lack of response, left the room. Bobby was left to his own thoughts. He finished his tea. Then he went over in his mind the possibilities of Frankie’s amazing theory, and ended by deciding reluctantly against it. He then cast about for other distractions. His eye was caught by the vases of lilies. Frightfully sweet of Frankie to bring him all these flowers, and of course they were lovely, but he wished it had occurred to her to bring him a few detective stories instead. He cast his eye over the table beside him. There was a novel of Ouida’s and a copy of John Halifax, Gentleman and last week’s Marchbolt Weekly Times. He picked up John Halifax, Gentleman. After five minutes he put it down. To a mind nourished on The Third Bloodstain, The Case of the Murdered Archduke and The Strange Adventure of the Florentine Dagger, John Halifax, Gentleman, lacked pep. With a sigh he picked up last week’s Marchbolt Weekly Times. A moment or two later he was pressing the bell beneath his pillow with a vigour which brought a nurse into the room at a run. "Whatever’s the matter, Mr. Jones? Are you taken bad?" "Ring up the Castle," cried Bobby. "Tell Lady Frances she must come back here at once." "Oh, Mr. Jones. You can’t send a message like that." "Can’t I?" said Bobby. "If I were allowed to get up from this blasted bed you’d soon see whether I could or couldn’t. As it is, you’ve got to do it for me." "But she’ll hardly be back." "You don’t know that Bentley." "She won’t have had her tea." "Now look here, my dear girl," said Bobby, "don’t stand there arguing with me. Ring up as I tell you. Tell her she’s got to come here at once because I’ve got something very important to say to her." Overborne, but unwilling, the nurse went. She took some liberties with Bobby’s message. If it was no inconvenience to Lady Frances, Mr. Jones wondered if she would mind coming as he had something he would like to say to her, but, of course, Lady Frances was not to put herself out in any way. Lady Frances replied curtly that she would come at once. "Depend upon it," said the nurse to her colleagues, "she’s sweet on him! That’s what it is." Frankie arrived all agog. "What’s this desperate summons?" she demanded. Bobby was sitting up in bed, a bright red spot in each cheek. In his hand he waved the copy of the Marchbolt Weekly Times. "Look at this, Frankie." Frankie looked. "Well," she demanded. "This is the picture you meant when you said it was touched up but quite like the Cayman woman." Bobby’s finger pointed to a somewhat blurred reproduction of a photograph. Underneath it were the words: "PORTRAIT FOUND ON THE DEAD MAN AND BY WHICH HE WAS IDENTIFIED. MRS. AMELIA CAYMAN, THE DEAD MAN’S SISTER." "That’s what I said, and it’s true, too. I can’t see anything to rave over in it." "No more than I." "But you said—" "I know I said. But you see, Frankie"—Bobby’s voice became very impressive—"this isn’t the photograph that I put back in the dead man’s pocket. . . ." They looked at each other. "Then in that case," began Frankie slowly. "Either there must have been two photographs—" "—Which isn’t likely—" "Or else—" They paused. "That man—what’s his name?" said Frankie. "Bassington-ffrench!" said Bobby. "I’m quite sure!" Eight RIDDLE OF A PHOTOGRAPH They stared at each other as they tried to adjust themselves to the altered situation. "It couldn’t be anyone else," said Bobby. "He was the only person who had the chance."
"He’d not seemed worried in any way or depressed?" "He wasn’t worried or depressed about anything!" With shaking fingers she opened her bag and took out her handkerchief. "It’s all so awful." Her voice shook. "I can’t believe it. He’d never have gone off without a word to me. Something’s happened to him. He’s been kidnapped or he’s been attacked perhaps. I try not to think it but sometimes I feel that that must be the solution. He must be dead." "Now please, Mrs. Betterton, please—there’s no need to entertain that supposition yet. If he’s dead, his body would have been discovered by now." "It might not. Awful things happen. He might have been drowned or pushed down a sewer. I’m sure anything could happen in Paris." "Paris, I can assure you, Mrs. Betterton, is a very well-policed city." She took the handkerchief away from her eyes and stared at him with sharp anger. "I know what you think, but it isn’t so! Tom wouldn’t sell secrets or betray secrets. He wasn’t a communist. His whole life is an open book." "What were his political beliefs, Mrs. Betterton?" "In America he was a Democrat, I believe. Here he voted Labour. He wasn’t interested in politics. He was a scientist, first and last." She added defiantly, "He was a brilliant scientist." "Yes," said Jessop, "he was a brilliant scientist. That’s really the crux of the whole matter. He might have been offered, you know, very considerable inducements to leave this country and go elsewhere." "It’s not true." Anger leaped out again. "That’s what the papers try to make out. That’s what you all think when you come questioning me. It’s not true. He’d never go without telling me, without giving me some idea." "And he told you—nothing?" Again he was watching her keenly. "Nothing. I don’t know where he is. I think he was kidnapped, or else, as I say, dead. But if he’s dead, I must know. I must know soon. I can’t go on like this, waiting and wondering. I can’t eat or sleep. I’m sick and ill with worry. Can’t you help me? Can’t you help me at all?" He got up then and moved round his desk. He murmured: "I’m so very sorry, Mrs. Betterton, so very sorry. Let me assure you that we are trying our very best to find out what has happened to your husband. We get reports in every day from various places." "Reports from where?" she asked sharply. "What do they say?" He shook his head. "They all have to be followed up, sifted and tested. But as a rule, I am afraid, they’re vague in the extreme." "I must know," she murmured brokenly again. "I can’t go on like this." "Do you care for your husband very much, Mrs. Betterton?" "Of course I care for him. Why, we’ve only been married six months. Only six months." "Yes, I know. There was—forgive me for asking—no quarrel of any kind between you?" "Oh, no!" "No trouble over any other woman?" "Of course not. I’ve told you. We were only married last April." "Please believe that I’m not suggesting such a thing is likely, but one has to take every possibility into account that might allow for his going off in this way. You say he had not been upset lately, or worried—not on edge—not nervy in any way?" "No, no, no!" "People do get nervy, you know, Mrs. Betterton, in such a job as your husband had. Living under exacting security conditions. In fact"—he smiled—"it’s almost normal to be nervy." She did not smile back. "He was just as usual," she said stolidly. "Happy about his work? Did he discuss it at all with you?" "No, it was all so technical." "You don’t think he had any qualms over its—destructive possibilities, shall I say? Scientists do feel that sometimes." "He never said anything of the kind." "You see, Mrs. Betterton," he leaned forward over the desk, dropping some of his impassiveness, "what I am trying to do is to get a picture of your husband.
"Then you consider it more likely that the drug was administered in the coffee, but that for some unknown reason its action was delayed?" "Yes, but, the cup being completely smashed, there is no possibility of analysing its contents." This concluded Dr Bauerstein’s evidence. Dr Wilkins corroborated it on all points. Sounded as to the possibility of suicide, he repudiated it utterly. The deceased, he said, suffered from a weak heart, but otherwise enjoyed perfect health, and was of a cheerful and well-balanced disposition. She would be one of the last people to take her own life. Lawrence Cavendish was next called. His evidence was quite unimportant, being a mere repetition of that of his brother. Just as he was about to step down, he paused, and said rather hestitatingly: "I should like to make a suggestion if I may?" He glanced deprecatingly at the Coroner, who replied briskly: "Certainly, Mr Cavendish, we are here to arrive at the truth of this matter, and welcome anything that may lead to further elucidation." "It is just an idea of mine," explained Lawrence. "Of course I may be quite wrong, but it still seems to me that my mother’s death might be accounted for by natural means." "How do you make that out, Mr Cavendish?" "My mother, at the time of her death, and for some time before it, was taking a tonic containing strychnine." "Ah!" said the Coroner. The jury looked up, interested. "I believe," continued Lawrence, "that there have been cases where the cumulative effect of the drug, administered for some time, has ended by causing death. Also, is it not possible that she may have taken an overdose of her medicine by accident?" "This is the first we have heard of the deceased taking strychnine at the time of her death. We are much obliged to you, Mr Cavendish." Dr Wilkins was recalled and ridiculed the idea. "What Mr Cavendish suggests is quite impossible. Any doctor would tell you the same. Strychnine is, in a certain sense, a cumulative poison, but it would be quite impossible for it to result in sudden death in this way. There would have to be a long period of chronic symptoms which would at once have attracted my attention. The whole thing is absurd." "And the second suggestion? That Mrs Inglethorp may have inadvertently taken an overdose?" "Three, or even four doses, would not have resulted in death. Mrs Inglethorp always had an extra large amount of medicine made up at a time, as she dealt with Coot’s, the Cash Chemists in Tadminster. She would have had to take very nearly the whole bottle to account for the amount of strychnine found at the post-mortem." "Then you consider that we may dismiss the tonic as not being in any way instrumental in causing her death?" "Certainly. The supposition is ridiculous." The same juryman who had interrupted before here suggested that the chemist who made up the medicine might have committed an error. "That, of course, is always possible," replied the doctor. But Dorcas, who was the next witness called, dispelled even that possibility. The medicine had not been newly made up. On the contrary, Mrs Inglethorp had taken the last dose on the day of her death. So the question of the tonic was finally abandoned, and the Coroner proceeded with his task. Having elicited from Dorcas how she had been awakened by the violent ringing of her mistress’s bell, and had subsequently roused the household, he passed to the subject of the quarrel on the preceding afternoon. Dorcas’s evidence on this point was substantially what Poirot and I had already heard, so I will not repeat it here. The next witness was Mary Cavendish. She stood very upright, and spoke in a low, clear, and perfectly composed voice. In answer to the Coroner’s question, she told how, her alarm clock having aroused her at four-thirty as usual, she was dressing, when she was startled by the sound of something heavy falling. "That would have been the table by the bed?" commented the Coroner. "I opened my door," continued Mary, "and listened. In a few minutes a bell rang violently, Dorcas came running down and woke my husband, and we all went to my mother-in-law’s room, but it was locked –" The Coroner interrupted her. "I really do not think we need trouble you further on that point.
Miss Marple murmured modestly that she had been mixed-up in murders once or twice. "I heard there have been murders here, in this village. They were talking about it the other night at the Bingo Club. There was one at Gossington Hall. I wouldn’t buy a place where there’d been a murder. I’d be sure it was haunted." "The murder wasn’t committed in Gossington Hall. A dead body was brought there." "Found in the library on the hearthrug, that’s what they said?" Miss Marple nodded. "Did you ever? Perhaps they’re going to make a film of it. Perhaps that’s why Marina Gregg has bought Gossington Hall." "Marina Gregg?" "Yes. She and her husband. I forget his name—he’s a producer, I think, or a director—Jason something. But Marina Gregg, she’s lovely, isn’t she? Of course she hasn’t been in so many pictures of late years—she was ill for a long time. But I still think there’s never anybody like her. Did you see her in Carmenella. And The Price of Love, and Mary of Scotland? She’s not so young anymore, but she’ll always be a wonderful actress. I’ve always been a terrific fan of hers. When I was a teenager I used to dream about her. The big thrill of my life was when there was a big show in aid of the St. John Ambulance in Bermuda, and Marina Gregg came to open it. I was mad with excitement, and then on the very day I went down with a temperature and the doctor said I couldn’t go. But I wasn’t going to be beaten. I didn’t actually feel too bad. So I got up and put a lot of makeup on my face and went along. I was introduced to her and she talked to me for quite three minutes and gave me her autograph. It was wonderful. I’ve never forgotten that day." Miss Marple stared at her. "I hope there were no—unfortunate aftereffects?" she said anxiously. Heather Badcock laughed. "None at all. Never felt better. What I say is, if you want a thing you’ve got to take risks. I always do." She laughed again, a happy strident laugh. Arthur Badcock said admiringly. "There’s never any holding Heather. She always gets away with things." "Alison Wilde," murmured Miss Marple, with a nod of satisfaction. "Pardon?" said Mr. Badcock. "Nothing. Just someone I used to know." Heather looked at her inquiringly. "You reminded me of her, that is all." "Did I? I hope she was nice." "She was very nice indeed," said Miss Marple slowly. "Kind, healthy, full of life." "But she had her faults, I suppose?" laughed Heather. "I have." "Well, Alison always saw her own point of view so clearly that she didn’t always see how things might appear to, or affect, other people." "Like the time you took in that evacuated family from a condemned cottage and they went off with all our teaspoons," Arthur said. "But Arthur!—I couldn’t have turned them away. It wouldn’t have been kind." "They were family spoons," said Mr. Badcock sadly. "Georgian. Belonged to my mother’s grandmother." "Oh, do forget those old spoons, Arthur. You do harp so." "I’m not very good at forgetting, I’m afraid." Miss Marple looked at him thoughtfully. "What’s your friend doing now?" asked Heather of Miss Marple with kindly interest. Miss Marple paused a moment before answering. "Alison Wilde? Oh—she died." Three I "I’m glad to be back," said Mrs. Bantry. "Although, of course, I’ve had a wonderful time." Miss Marple nodded appreciatively, and accepted a cup of tea from her friend’s hand. When her husband, Colonel Bantry, had died some years ago, Mrs. Bantry had sold Gossington Hall and the considerable amount of land attached to it, retaining for herself what had been the East Lodge, a charming porticoed little building replete with inconvenience, where even a gardener had refused to live. Mrs. Bantry had added to it the essentials of modern life, a built-on kitchen of the latest type, a new water supply from the main, electricity, and a bathroom.
Was it the sight of one of those people that upset you, Miss Gregg?" "I tell you I wasn’t upset." She almost barked the words. "And yet your attention wavered from greeting Mrs. Badcock. She had said something to you which you left unanswered because you were staring past her at something else." Marina Gregg took hold on herself. She spoke quickly and convincingly. "I can explain, I really can. If you knew anything about acting you’d be able to understand quite easily. There comes a moment, even when you know a part well—in fact it usually happens when you do know a part well—when you go on with it mechanically. Smiling, making the proper movements and gestures, saying the words with the usual inflexions. But your mind isn’t on it. And quite suddenly there’s a horrible blank moment when you don’t know where you are, where you’ve got to in the play, what your next lines are! Drying up, that’s what we call it. Well, that’s what happened to me. I’m not terribly strong, as my husband will tell you. I’ve had rather a strenuous time, and a good deal of nervous apprehension about this film. I wanted to make a success of this fête and to be nice and pleasant and welcoming to everybody. But one does say the same things over and over again, mechanically, to the people who are always saying the same things to you. You know, how they’ve always wanted to meet you. How they once saw you outside a theatre in San Francisco—or travelled in a plane with you. Something silly really, but one has to be nice about it and say things. Well, as I’m telling you, one does that automatically. One doesn’t need to think what to say because one’s said it so often before. Suddenly, I think, a wave of tiredness came over me. My brain went blank. Then I realized that Mrs. Badcock had been telling me a long story which I hadn’t really heard at all, and was now looking at me in an eager sort of way and that I hadn’t answered her or said any of the proper things. It was just tiredness." "Just tiredness," said Dermot Craddock slowly. "You insist on that, Miss Gregg?" "Yes, I do. I can’t see why you don’t believe me." Dermot Craddock turned towards Jason Rudd. "Mr. Rudd," he said, "I think you’re more likely to understand my meaning than your wife is. I am concerned, very much concerned, for your wife’s safety. There has been an attempt on her life, there have been threatening letters. That means, doesn’t it, that there is someone who was here on the day of the fête and possibly is still here, someone in very close touch with this house and what goes on in it. That person, whoever it is, may be slightly insane. It’s not just a question of threats. Threatened men live long, as they say. The same goes for women. But whoever it was didn’t stop at threats. A deliberate attempt was made to poison Miss Gregg. Don’t you see in the whole nature of things, that the attempt is bound to be repeated? There’s only one way to achieve safety. That is to give me all the clues you possibly can. I don’t say that you know who that person is, but I think that you must be able to give a guess or to have a vague idea. Won’t you tell me the truth? Or if, which is possible, you yourself do not know the truth, won’t you urge your wife to do so. It’s in the interests of her own safety that I’m asking you." Jason Rudd turned his head slowly. "You hear what Inspector Craddock says, Marina," he said. "It’s possible, as he says, that you may know something that I do not. If so, for God’s sake, don’t be foolish about it. If you’ve the least suspicion of anyone, tell it to us now." "But I haven’t." Her voice rose in a wail. "You must believe me." "Who were you afraid of that day?" asked Dermot. "I wasn’t afraid of anyone."
"They both had a motive." "I’m not considering Mrs. Jefferson." "No, sir, I know you’re not. And, anyway, the alibi holds for both of them. They couldn’t have done it. Just that." "You’ve got a detailed statement of their movements that evening?" "Yes, I have. Take Mr. Gaskell first. He dined with his father-in-law and Mrs. Jefferson, had coffee with them afterwards when Ruby Keene joined them. Then he said he had to write letters and left them. Actually he took his car and went for a spin down to the front. He told me quite frankly he couldn’t stick playing bridge for a whole evening. The old boy’s mad on it. So he made letters an excuse. Ruby Keene remained with the others. Mark Gaskell returned when she was dancing with Raymond. After the dance Ruby came and had a drink with them, then she went off with young Bartlett, and Gaskell and the others cut for partners and started their bridge. That was at twenty minutes to eleven—and he didn’t leave the table until after midnight. That’s quite certain, sir. Everyone says so. The family, the waiters, everyone. Therefore he couldn’t have done it. And Mrs. Jefferson’s alibi is the same. She, too, didn’t leave the table. They’re out, both of them—out." Colonel Melchett leaned back, tapping the table with a paper cutter. Superintendent Harper said: "That is, assuming the girl was killed before midnight." "Haydock said she was. He’s a very sound fellow in police work. If he says a thing, it’s so." "There might be reasons—health, physical idiosyncrasy, or something." "I’ll put it to him." Melchett glanced at his watch, picked up the telephone receiver and asked for a number. He said: "Haydock ought to be at home at this time. Now, assuming that she was killed after midnight?" Harper said: "Then there might be a chance. There was some coming and going afterwards. Let’s assume that Gaskell had asked the girl to meet him outside somewhere—say at twenty past twelve. He slips away for a minute or two, strangles her, comes back and disposes of the body later—in the early hours of the morning." Melchett said: "Takes her by car thirty-odd miles to put her in Bantry’s library? Dash it all, it’s not a likely story." "No, it isn’t," the Superintendent admitted at once. The telephone rang. Melchett picked up the receiver. "Hallo, Haydock, is that you? Ruby Keene. Would it be possible for her to have been killed after midnight?" "I told you she was killed between ten and midnight." "Yes, I know, but one could stretch it a bit—what?" "No, you couldn’t stretch it. When I say she was killed before midnight I mean before midnight, and don’t try to tamper with the medical evidence." "Yes, but couldn’t there be some physiological what-not? You know what I mean." "I know that you don’t know what you’re talking about. The girl was perfectly healthy and not abnormal in any way—and I’m not going to say she was just to help you fit a rope round the neck of some wretched fellow whom you police wallahs have got your knife into. Now don’t protest. I know your ways. And, by the way, the girl wasn’t strangled willingly—that is to say, she was drugged first. Powerful narcotic. She died of strangulation but she was drugged first." Haydock rang off. Melchett said gloomily: "Well, that’s that." Harper said: "Thought I’d found another likely starter—but it petered out." "What’s that? Who?" "Strictly speaking, he’s your pigeon, sir. Name of Basil Blake. Lives near Gossington Hall." "Impudent young jackanapes!" The Colonel’s brow darkened as he remembered Basil Blake’s outrageous rudeness. "How’s he mixed up in it?" "Seems he knew Ruby Keene. Dined over at the Majestic quite often—danced with the girl. Do you remember what Josie said to Raymond when Ruby was discovered to be missing? "She’s not with that film fellow, is she?" I’ve found out it was Blake, she meant. He’s employed with the Lemville Studios, you know.
No one took much notice of that at the inquest—but now it has a very different significance. We must find out who did take that coffee to Mrs Inglethorp eventually, or who passed through the hall whilst it was standing there. From your account, there are only two people whom we can positively say did not go near the coffee—Mrs Cavendish, and Mademoiselle Cynthia." "Yes, that is so." I felt an inexpressible lightening of the heart. Mary Cavendish could certainly not rest under suspicion. "In clearing Alfred Inglethorp," continued Poirot, "I have been obliged to show my hand sooner than I intended. As long as I might be thought to be pursuing him, the criminal would be off his guard. Now, he will be doubly careful. Yes—doubly careful." He turned to me abruptly. "Tell me, Hastings, you yourself—have you no suspicions of anybody?" I hesitated. To tell the truth, an idea, wild and extravagant in itself, had once or twice that morning flashed through my brain. I had rejected it as absurd, nevertheless it persisted. "You couldn’t call it a suspicion," I murmured. "It’s so utterly foolish." "Come now," urged Poirot encouragingly. "Do not fear. Speak your mind. You should always pay attention to your instincts." "Well then," I blurted out, "it’s absurd—but I suspect Miss Howard of not telling all she knows!" "Miss Howard?" "Yes—you’ll laugh at me –" "Not at all. Why should I?" "I can’t help feeling," I continued blunderingly, "that we’ve rather left her out of the possible suspects, simply on the strength of her having been away from the place. But, after all, she was only fifteen miles away. A car would do it in half an hour. Can we say positively that she was away from Styles on the night of the murder?" "Yes, my friend," said Poirot unexpectedly, "we can. One of my first actions was to ring up the hospital where she was working." "Well?" "Well, I learnt that Miss Howard had been on afternoon duty on Tuesday, and that—a convoy coming in unexpectedly—she had kindly offered to remain on night duty, which offer was gratefully accepted. That disposes of that." "Oh!" I said, rather nonplussed. "Really," I continued, "It’s her extraordinary vehemence against Inglethorp that started me off suspecting her. I can’t help feeling she’d do anything against him. And I had an idea she might know something about the destroying of the will. She might have burnt the new one, mistaking it for the earlier one in his favour. She is so terribly bitter against him." "You consider her vehemence unnatural?" "Y—es. She is so very violent. I wonder really whether she is quite sane on that point." Poirot shook his head energetically. "No, no, you are on a wrong track there. There is nothing weak-minded or degenerate about Miss Howard. She is an excellent specimen of well balanced English beef and brawn. She is sanity itself." "Yet her hatred of Inglethorp seems almost a mania. My idea was—a very ridiculous one, no doubt—that she had intended to poison him—and that, in some way, Mrs Inglethorp got hold of it by mistake. But I don’t at all see how it could have been done. The whole thing is absurd and ridiculous to the last degree." "Still you are right in one thing. It is always wise to suspect everybody until you can prove logically, and to your own satisfaction, that they are innocent. Now, what reasons are there against Miss Howard’s having deliberately poisoned Mrs Inglethorp?" "Why, she was devoted to her!" I exclaimed. "Tcha! Tcha!" cried Poirot irritably. "You argue like a child. If Miss Howard were capable of poisoning the old lady, she would be quite equally capable of simulating devotion. No, we must look elsewhere. You are perfectly correct in your assumption that her vehemence against Alfred Inglethorp is too violent to be natural; but you are quite wrong in the deduction you draw from it. I have drawn my own deductions, which I believe to be correct, but I will not speak of them at present." He paused a minute, then went on.
"Possibly. What part—" She swept on. "Central Africa. The home of voodoo, of the zombie—" "The zombie is in the West Indies." Mrs. Cloade swept on: "—of black magic—of strange and secret practices—a country where a man could disappear and never be heard of again." "Possibly, possibly," said Poirot. "But the same is true of Piccadilly Circus." Mrs. Cloade waved away Piccadilly Circus. "Twice lately, M. Poirot, a communication has come through from a spirit who gives his name as Robert. The message was the same each time. Not dead…We were puzzled, we knew no Robert. Asking for further guidance we got this. "R.U. R.U. R.U.—then Tell R. Tell R." "Tell Robert?" we asked. "No, from Robert. R.U." "What does the U. stand for?" Then, M. Poirot, the most significant answer came. "Little Boy Blue. Little Boy Blue. Ha ha ha!" You see?" "No," said Poirot, "I do not." She looked at him pityingly. "The nursery rhyme Little Boy Blue. "Under the Haycock fast asleep’—Underhay—you see?" Poirot nodded. He forbore to ask why, if the name Robert could be spelt out, the name Underhay could not have been treated the same way, and why it had been necessary to resort to a kind of cheap Secret service spy jargon. "And my sister-in-law’s name is Rosaleen," finished Mrs. Cloade triumphantly. "You see? Confusing all these Rs. But the meaning is quite plain. "Tell Rosaleen that Robert Underhay is not dead.’" "Aha, and did you tell her?" Mrs. Cloade looked slightly taken aback. "Er—well—no. You see, I mean—well, people are so sceptical. Rosaleen, I am sure, would be so. And then, poor child, it might upset her—wondering, you know, where he was—and what he was doing." "Besides projecting his voice through the ether? Quite so. A curious method, surely, of announcing his safety?" "Ah, M. Poirot, you are not an initiate. And how do we know what the circumstances are? Poor Captain Underhay (or is it Major Underhay) may be a prisoner somewhere in the dark interior of Africa. But if he could be found, M. Poirot. If he could be restored to his dear young Rosaleen. Think of her happiness! Oh, M. Poirot, I have been sent to you—surely, surely you will not refuse the behest of the spiritual world." Poirot looked at her reflectively. "My fees," he said softly, "are very expensive. I may say enormously expensive! And the task you suggest would not be easy." "Oh dear—but surely—it is most unfortunate. I and my husband are very badly off—very badly off indeed. Actually my own plight is worse than my dear husband knows. I bought some shares—under spirit guidance—and so far they have proved very disappointing—in fact, quite alarming. They have gone right down and are now, I gather, practically unsaleable." She looked at him with dismayed blue eyes. "I have not dared to tell my husband. I simply tell you in order to explain how I am situated. But surely, dear M. Poirot, to reunite a young husband and wife—it is such a noble mission—" "Nobility, chère Madame, will not pay steamer and railway and air travel fares. Nor will it cover the cost of long telegrams and cables, and the interrogations of witnesses." "But if he is found—if Captain Underhay is found alive and well—then—well, I think I may safely say that, once that was accomplished, there—there would be no difficulty about—er—reimbursing you." "Ah, he is rich, then, this Captain Underhay?" "No. Well, no…But I can assure you—I can give you my word—that—that the money situation will not present difficulties." Slowly Poirot shook his head. "I am sorry, Madame. The answer is No." He had a little difficulty in getting her to accept that answer. When she had finally gone away, he stood lost in thought, frowning to himself.
It seemed too marvellous to be true. I thought then, and indeed have thought ever since, what a wonderful person Max is. He is so quiet, so sparing with words of commiseration. He does things. He does just the things you want done and that consoles you more than anything else could. He didn’t condole with me over Rosalind or say she would be all right and that I mustn’t worry. He just accepted that I was in for a bad time. There were no sulpha drugs then, and pneumonia was a real menace. Max and I left the next evening. On our journey he talked to me a great deal about his own family, his brothers, his mother, who was French and very artistic and keen on painting, and his father, who sounded a little like my brother Monty–only fortunately more stable financially. At Milan we had an adventure. The train was late. We got out I could limp about now, my ankle supported by elastoplast–and asked the wagon lit conductor how long the wait would be. "Twenty minutes," he said. Max suggested we should go and buy some oranges-so we walked along to a fruit-stall, then walked back to the platform again. I suppose about five minutes had elapsed, but there was no train at the platform. We were told it had left. "Left? I thought it waited here twenty minutes," I said. "Ah yes, Signora, but it was very much in lateness–it waited only a short time." We looked at each other in dismay. A senior railway official then came to our aid. He suggested that we hire a powerful car and race the train. He thought we would have a sporting chance of catching it at Domodossola. A journey rather like one on the cinema then began. First we were ahead of the train, then the train was ahead of us. Now we felt despair, the next moment we felt comfortably superior, as we went through the mountain roads and the train popped in and out of tunnels, either ahead of or behind us. Finally we reached Domodossola about three minutes after the train. All the passengers it seemed, were leaning out of the windows–certainly all in our own wagon lit coach–to see whether we had arrived. "Ah, Madame," said an elderly Frenchman as he helped me into the train. "Que vous avez dû éprouver des émotions?" The French have a wonderful way of putting things. As a result of hiring this excessively expensive car, about which we had no time to bargain, Max and I had practically no money left. Max’s mother was meeting him in Paris, and he suggested hopefully I should be able to borrow money from her. I have often wondered what my future mother-in-law thought of the young woman who jumped out of the train with her son, and after the briefest of greetings borrowed practically every sou she happened to have on her. There was little time to explain because I had to take the train on to England, so with confused apologies I vanished, clutching the money I had extracted from her. It cannot, I think, have prejudiced her in my favour. I remember little of that journey with Max except his extraordinary kindness, tact, and sympathy. He managed to distract me by talking a good deal about his own doings and thoughts. He bandaged my ankle repeatedly, and helped me along to the dining-car, which I do not think I could have reached by myself, especially with the jolting of the Orient Express as it gathered strength and speed. One remark I do remember. We had been running alongside the sea on the Italian Riviera. I had been half asleep, sitting back in my corner, and Max had come into my carriage and sitting opposite me. I woke up and found him studying me, thoughtfully. "I think," he said, "that you really have a noble face." This so astonished me that I woke up a little more. It was a way I should never have thought of describing myself–certainly nobody else had ever done so. A noble face–had I? It seemed unlikely. Then a thought occurred to me. "I suppose," I said, "that is because I have rather a Roman nose." Yes, I thought, a Roman nose. That would give me a slightly noble profile. I was not quite sure that I liked the idea. It was the kind of thing that was difficult to live up to.
There was nothing further to be found out there. Next I went to the scene of the tragedy, the study, and was left alone there at my own request. So far there was nothing to support Mademoiselle Mesnard’s theory. I could not but believe that it was a delusion on her part. Evidently she had entertained a romantic passion for the dead man which had not permitted her to take a normal view of the case. Nevertheless, I searched the study with meticulous care. It was just possible that a hypodermic needle might have been introduced into the dead man’s chair in such a way as to allow of a fatal injection. The minute puncture it would cause was likely to remain unnoticed. But I could discover no sign to support the theory. I flung myself down in the chair with a gesture of despair. "Enfin, I abandon it!" I said aloud. "There is not a clue anywhere! Everything is perfectly normal." As I said the words, my eyes fell on a large box of chocolates standing on a table near by, and my heart gave a leap. It might not be a clue to M. Déroulard’s death, but here at least was something that was not normal. I lifted the lid. The box was full, untouched; not a chocolate was missing—but that only made the peculiarity that had caught my eye more striking. For, see you, Hastings, while the box itself was pink, the lid was blue. Now, one often sees a blue ribbon on a pink box, and vice versa, but a box of one colour, and a lid of another—no, decidedly—ça ne se voit jamais! I did not as yet see that this little incident was of any use to me, yet I determined to investigate it as being out of the ordinary. I rang the bell for François, and asked him if his late master had been fond of sweets. A faint melancholy smile came to his lips. "Passionately fond of them, monsieur. He would always have a box of chocolates in the house. He did not drink wine of any kind, you see." "Yet this box has not been touched?" I lifted the lid to show him. "Pardon, monsieur, but that was a new box purchased on the day of his death, the other being nearly finished." "Then the other box was finished on the day of his death," I said slowly. "Yes, monsieur, I found it empty in the morning and threw it away." "Did M. Déroulard eat sweets at all hours of the day?" "Usually after dinner, monsieur." I began to see light. "François," I said, "you can be discreet?" "If there is need, monsieur." "Bon! Know, then, that I am of the police. Can you find me that other box?" "Without doubt, monsieur. It will be in the dustbin." He departed, and returned in a few minutes with a dust-covered object. It was the duplicate of the box I held, save for the fact that this time the box was blue and the lid was pink. I thanked François, recommended him once more to be discreet, and left the house in the Avenue Louise without more ado. Next I called upon the doctor who had attended M. Déroulard. With him I had a difficult task. He entrenched himself prettily behind a wall of learned phraseology, but I fancied that he was not quite as sure about the case as he would like to be. "There have been many curious occurrences of the kind," he observed, when I had managed to disarm him somewhat. "A sudden fit of anger, a violent emotion—after a heavy dinner, c’est entendu—then, with an access of rage, the blood flies to the head, and pst!—there you are!" "But M. Déroulard had had no violent emotion." "No? I made sure that he had been having a stormy altercation with M. de Saint Alard." "Why should he?" "C’est évident! " The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "Was not M. de Saint Alard a Catholic of the most fanatical? Their friendship was being ruined by this question of church and state. Not a day passed without discussions. To M. de Saint Alard, Déroulard appeared almost as Antichrist." This was unexpected, and gave me food for thought.
"Congratulations," said Inspector Neele pleasantly. "Mr. Wright is staying at the Golf Hotel, you say? How long has he been there?" "I wired him when Father died." "And he came at once. I see," said Inspector Neele. He used this favourite phrase of his in a friendly and reassuring way. "What did Mrs. Fortescue say when you asked her about his coming here?" "Oh, she said, all right, I could have anybody I pleased." "She was nice about it then?" "Not exactly nice. I mean, she said—" "Yes, what else did she say?" Again Elaine flushed. "Oh, something stupid about my being able to do a lot better for myself now. It was the sort of thing Adele would say." "Ah, well," said Inspector Neele soothingly, "relations say these sort of things." "Yes, yes, they do. But people often find it difficult to—to appreciate Gerald properly. He’s an intellectual, you see, and he’s got a lot of unconventional and progressive ideas that people don’t like." "That’s why he didn’t get on with your father?" Elaine flushed hotly. "Father was very prejudiced and unjust. He hurt Gerald’s feelings. In fact, Gerald was so upset by my father’s attitude that he went off and I didn’t hear from him for weeks." And probably wouldn’t have heard from him now if your father hadn’t died and left you a packet of money, Inspector Neele thought. Aloud he said: "Was there any more conversation between you and Mrs. Fortescue?" "No. No, I don’t think so." "And that was about twenty-five past five and Mrs. Fortescue was found dead at five minutes to six. You didn’t return to the room during that half hour?" "No." "What were you doing?" "I—I went out for a short walk." "To the Golf Hotel?" "I—well, yes, but Gerald wasn’t in." Inspector Neele said "I see" again, but this time with a rather dismissive effect. Elaine Fortescue got up and said: "Is that all?" "That’s all, thank you, Miss Fortescue." As she got up to go, Neele said casually: "You can’t tell me anything about blackbirds, can you?" She stared at him. "Blackbirds? You mean the ones in the pie?" They would be in the pie, the inspector thought to himself. He merely said, "When was this?" "Oh! Three or four months ago—and there were some on Father’s desk, too. He was furious—" "Furious, was he? Did he ask a lot of questions?" "Yes—of course—but we couldn’t find out who put them there." "Have you any idea why he was so angry?" "Well—it was rather a horrid thing to do, wasn’t it?" Neele looked thoughtfully at her—but he did not see any signs of evasion in her face. He said: "Oh, just one more thing, Miss Fortescue. Do you know if your stepmother made a will at any time?" "I’ve no idea—I—suppose so. People usually do, don’t they?" "They should do—but it doesn’t always follow. Have you made a will yourself, Miss Fortescue?" "No—no—I haven’t—up to now I haven’t had anything to leave—now, of course—" He saw the realization of the changed position come into her eyes. "Yes," he said. "Fifty thousand pounds is quite a responsibility— it changes a lot of things, Miss Fortescue." II For some minutes after Elaine Fortescue left the room, Inspector Neele sat staring in front of him thoughtfully. He had, indeed, new food for thought. Mary Dove’s statement that she had seen a man in the garden at approximately 4:35 opened up certain new possibilities. That is, of course, if Mary Dove was speaking the truth. It was never Inspector Neele’s habit to assume that anyone was speaking the truth. But, examine her statement as he might, he could see no real reason why she should have lied. He was inclined to think that Mary Dove was speaking the truth when she spoke of having seen a man in the garden. It was quite clear that that man could not have been Lancelot Fortescue, although her reason for assuming that it was he was quite natural under the circumstances.
"When do you leave?" "Ten o’clock tomorrow morning will do." "Do you want to see the girl before you go?" "No. There are strict orders that no one is to see her until the "Colonel" comes. Is she all right?" "I looked in on her when I came in for dinner. She was asleep, I think. What about food?" "A little starvation will do no harm. The "Colonel" will be here some time tomorrow. She will answer questions better if she is hungry. No one had better go near her till then. Is she securely tied up?" The Dutchman laughed. "What do you think?" They both laughed. So did I, under my breath. Then, as the sounds seemed to betoken that they were about to come out of the room, I beat a hasty retreat. I was just in time. As I reached the head of the stairs, I heard the door of the room open, and at the same time the Kafir stirred and moved. My retreat by the way of the hall door was not to be thought of. I retired prudently to the attic, gathered my bonds round me and lay down again on the floor, in case they should take it into their heads to come and look at me. They did not do so, however. After about an hour, I crept down the stairs, but the Kafir by the door was awake and humming softly to himself. I was anxious to get out of the house, but I did not quite see how to manage it. In the end, I was forced to retreat to the attic again. The Kafir was clearly on guard for the night. I remained there patiently all through the sounds of early morning preparation. The men breakfasted in the hall, I could hear their voices distinctly floating up the stairs. I was getting thoroughly unnerved. How on earth was I to get out of the house? I counselled myself to be patient. A rash move might spoil everything. After breakfast came the sounds of Chichester departing. To my intense relief, the Dutchman accompanied him. I waited breathlessly. Breakfast was being cleared away, the work of the house was being done. At last, the various activities seemed to die down. I slipped out from my lair once more. Very carefully I crept down the stairs. The hall was empty. Like a flash I was across it, had unlatched the door, and was outside in the sunshine. I ran down the drive like one possessed. Once outside, I resumed a normal walk. People stared at me curiously, and I do not wonder. My face and clothes must have been covered in dust from rolling about in the attic. At last I came to a garage. I went in. "I have met with an accident," I explained. "I want a car to take me to Cape Town at once. I must catch the boat to Durban." I had not long to wait. Ten minutes later I was speeding along in the direction of Cape Town. I must know if Chichester was on the boat. Whether to sail on her myself or not, I could not determine, but in the end I decided to do so. Chichester would not know that I had seen him in the Villa at Muizenberg. He would doubtless lay further traps for me, but I was forewarned. And he was the man I was after, the man who was seeking the diamonds on behalf of the mysterious "Colonel." Alas, for my plans! As I arrived at the docks, the Kilmorden Castle was steaming out to sea. And I had no means of knowing whether Chichester had sailed on her or not! Twenty I drove to the hotel. There was no one in the lounge that I knew. I ran upstairs and tapped on Suzanne’s door. Her voice bade me "come in." When she saw who it was she literally fell on my neck. "Anne, dear, where have you been? I’ve been worried to death about you. What have you been doing?" "Having adventures," I replied. "Episode III of "The Perils of Pamela." " I told her the whole story. She gave vent to a deep sigh when I finished. "Why do these things always happen to you?" she demanded plaintively. "Why does no one gag me and bind me hand and foot?" "You wouldn’t like it if they did," I assured her.
Lady Astwell stared at him. "What are you driving at? I don’t see what that has to do with it." "I was following out a little idea of my own," said Poirot. "A little idea, not interesting, perhaps, but original, on the effects of service." Lady Astwell still stared. "You are very clever, aren’t you?" she said in rather a doubtful tone. "Everybody says so." Hercule Poirot laughed. "Perhaps you shall pay me that compliment, too, Madame, one of these days. But let us return to the motive. Tell me now of your household, of the people who were here in the house on the day of the tragedy." "There was Charles, of course." "He was your husband’s nephew, I understand, not yours." "Yes, Charies was the only son of Reuben’s sister. She married a comparatively rich man, but one of those crashes came – they do, in the city – and he died, and his wife, too, and Charles came to live with us. He was twenty-three at the time, and going to be a barrister. But when the trouble came, Reuben took him into his office." "He was industrious, M. Charles?" "I like a man who is quick on the uptake," said Lady Astwell with a nod of approval. "No, that’s just the trouble, Charles was not industrious. He was always having rows with his uncle over some muddle or other that he had made. Not that poor Reuben was an easy man to get on with. Many’s the time I’ve told him he had forgotten what it was to be young himself. He was very different in those days, M. Poirot." Lady Astwell heaved a sigh of reminiscence. "Changes must come, Madame," said Poirot. "It is the law." "Still," said Lady Astwell, "he was never really rude to me. At least if he was, he was always sorry afterwards – poor dear Reuben." "He was difficult, eh?" said Poirot. "I could always manage him," said Lady Astwell with the air of a successful lion tamer. "But it was rather awkward sometimes when he would lose his temper with the servants. There are ways of doing that, and Reuben’s was not the right way." "How exactly did Sir Reuben leave his money, Lady Astwell?" "Half to me and half to Charles," replied Lady Astwell promptly. "The lawyers don’t put it simply like that, but that’s what it amounts to." Poirot nodded his head. "I see – I see," he murmured. "Now, Lady Astwell, I will demand of you that you will describe to me the household. There was yourself, and Sir Reuben’s nephew, Mr Charles Leverson, and the secretary, Mr Owen Trefusis, and there was Miss Lily Margrave. Perhaps you will tell me something of that young lady." "You want to know about Lily?" "Yes, she had been with you long?" "About a year. I have had a lot of secretary-companions you know, but somehow or other they all got on my nerves. Lily was different. She was tactful and full of common sense and besides she looks so nice. I do like to have a pretty face about me, M. Poirot. I am a funny kind of person; I take likes and dislikes straight away. As soon as I saw that girl, I said to myself: "She’ll do." " "Did she come to you through friends, Lady Astwell?" "I think she answered an advertisement. Yes – that was it." "You know something of her people, of where she comes from?" "Her father and mother are out in India, I believe. I don’t really know much about them, but you can see at a glance that Lily is a lady, can’t you, M. Poirot?" "Oh, perfectly, perfectly." "Of course," went on Lady Astwell, "I am not a lady myself. I know it, and the servants know it, but there is nothing mean-spirited about me. I can appreciate the real thing when I see it, and no one could be nicer than Lily has been to me. I look upon that girl almost as a daughter M. Poirot, indeed I do." Poirot’s right hand strayed out and straightened one or two of the objects lying on a table near him. "Did Sir Reuben share this feeling?" he asked.
"I enjoyed the work," she explained. "And I had plenty of time to myself." And then came her meeting with Ralph Paton, and the love affair which culminated in a secret marriage. Ralph had persuaded her into that, somewhat against her will. He had declared that his stepfather would not hear of his marrying a penniless girl. Better to be married secretly, and break the news to him at some later and more favourable minute. And so the deed was done, and Ursula Bourne became Ursula Paton. Ralph had declared that he meant to pay off his debts, find a job, and then, when he was in a position to support her, and independent of his adopted father, they would break the news to him. But to people like Ralph Paton, turning over a new leaf is easier in theory than in practice. He hoped that his stepfather, whilst still in ignorance of the marriage, might be persuaded to pay his debts and put him on his feet again. But the revelation of the amount of Ralph’s liabilities merely enraged Roger Ackroyd, and he refused to do anything at all. Some months passed, and then Ralph was bidden once more to Fernly. Roger Ackroyd did not beat about the bush. It was the desire of his heart that Ralph should marry Flora, and he put the matter plainly before the young man. And here it was that the innate weakness of Ralph Paton showed itself. As always, he grasped at the easy, the immediate solution. As far as I could make out, neither Flora nor Ralph made any pretence of love. It was, on both sides, a business arrangement. Roger Ackroyd dictated his wishes—they agreed to them. Flora accepted a chance of liberty, money and an enlarged horizon, Ralph, of course, was playing a different game. But he was in a very awkward hole financially. He seized at the chance. His debts would be paid. He could start again with a clean sheet. His was not a nature to envisage the future, but I gather that he saw vaguely the engagement with Flora being broken off after a decent interval had elapsed. Both Flora and he stipulated that it should be kept a secret for the present. He was anxious to conceal it from Ursula. He felt instinctively that her nature, strong and resolute, with an inherent distaste for duplicity, was not one to welcome such a course. Then came the crucial moment when Roger Ackroyd, always high-handed, decided to announce the engagement. He said no word of his intention to Ralph—only to Flora, and Flora, apathetic, raised no objection. On Ursula, the news fell like a bombshell. Summoned by her, Ralph came hurriedly down from town. They met in the wood, where part of their conversation was overheard by my sister. Ralph implored her to keep silent for a little while longer, Ursula was equally determined to have done with concealments. She would tell Mr. Ackroyd the truth without any further delay. Husband and wife parted acrimoniously. Ursula, steadfast in her purpose, sought an interview with Roger Ackroyd that very afternoon, and revealed the truth to him. Their interview was a stormy one—it might have been even more stormy had not Roger Ackroyd been already obsessed with his own troubles. It was bad enough, however. Ackroyd was not the kind of man to forgive the deceit that had been practised upon him. His rancour was mainly directed to Ralph, but Ursula came in for her share, since he regarded her as a girl who had deliberately tried to "entrap" the adopted son of a very wealthy man. Unforgivable things were said on both sides. That same evening Ursula met Ralph by appointment in the small summerhouse, stealing out from the house by the side door in order to do so. Their interview was made up of reproaches on both sides. Ralph charged Ursula with having irretrievably ruined his prospects by her ill-timed revelation. Ursula reproached Ralph with his duplicity. They parted at last. A little over half an hour later came the discovery of Roger Ackroyd’s body. Since that night Ursula had neither seen nor heard from Ralph. As the story unfolded itself, I realized more and more what a damning series of facts it was.
Robinson thoughtfully. "Quite one of the premier schools of England." "It is a fine school." "Is? Or was?" "I hope the former." "I hope so, too," said Mr. Robinson. "I fear it may be touch and go. Ah well, one must do what one can. A little financial backing to tide over a certain inevitable period of depression. A few carefully chosen new pupils. I am not without influence in European circles." "I, too, have applied persuasion in certain quarters. If, as you say, we can tide things over. Mercifully, memories are short." "That is what one hopes. But one must admit that events have taken place there that might well shake the nerves of fond mammas—and papas also. The Games Mistress, the French Mistress, and yet another mistress—all murdered." "As you say." "I hear," said Mr. Robinson, "(one hears so many things), that the unfortunate young woman responsible has suffered from a phobia about schoolmistresses since her youth. An unhappy childhood at school. Psychiatrists will make a good deal of this. They will try at least for a verdict of diminished responsibility, as they call it nowadays." "That line would seem to be the best choice," said Poirot. "You will pardon me for saying that I hope it will not succeed." "I agree with you entirely. A most cold-blooded killer. But they will make much of her excellent character, her work as secretary to various well-known people, her war record—quite distinguished, I believe—counterespionage—" He let the last words out with a certain significance—a hint of a question in his voice. "She was very good, I believe," he said more briskly. "So young—but quite brilliant, of great use—to both sides. That was her métier—she should have stuck to it. But I can understand the temptation—to play a lone hand, and gain a big prize." He added softly, "A very big prize." Poirot nodded. Mr. Robinson leaned forward. "Where are they, M. Poirot?" "I think you know where they are." "Well, frankly, yes. Banks are such useful institutions are they not?" Poirot smiled. "We needn’t beat about the bush really, need we, my dear fellow? What are you going to do about them?" "I have been waiting." "Waiting for what?" "Shall we say—for suggestions?" "Yes—I see." "You understand they do not belong to me. I would like to hand them over to the person they do belong to. But that, if I appraise the position correctly, is not so simple." "Governments are in such a difficult position," said Mr. Robinson. "Vulnerable, so to speak. What with oil, and steel, and uranium, and cobalt and all the rest of it, foreign relations are a matter of the utmost delicacy. The great thing is to be able to say that Her Majesty’s Government, etc., etc., has absolutely no information on the subject." "But I cannot keep this important deposit at my bank indefinitely." "Exactly. That is why I have come to propose that you should hand it over to me." "Ah," said Poirot. "Why?" "I can give you some excellent reasons. These jewels—mercifully we are not official, we can call things by their right names—were unquestionably the personal property of the late Prince Ali Yusuf." "I understand that is so." "His Highness handed them over to Squadron Leader Robert Rawlinson with certain instructions. They were to be got out of Ramat, and they were to be delivered to me." "Have you proof of that?" "Certainly." Mr. Robinson drew a long envelope from his pocket. Out of it he took several papers. He laid them before Poirot on the desk. Poirot bent over them and studied them carefully. "It seems to be as you say." "Well, then?" "Do you mind if I ask a question?" "Not at all." "What do you, personally, get out of this?" Mr. Robinson looked surprised. "My dear fellow. Money, of course. Quite a lot of money." Poirot looked at him thoughtfully. "It is a very old trade," said Mr. Robinson. "And a lucrative one. There are quite a lot of us, a network all over the globe. We are, how shall I put it, the Arrangers behind the scenes.
With a sigh, her mind came back to the present. She looked at him wistfully. "If I could only make you see—" "But you have, Mademoiselle." "Really?" "Yes. One recognizes authenticity when one hears it." "Thank you. But it won’t be so easy to explain to Inspector Grange." "Probably not. He will concentrate on the personal angle." Henrietta said vehemently: "And that was so unimportant—so completely unimportant." Poirot’s eyebrows rose slowly. She answered his unspoken protest. "But it was! You see—after a while—I got between John and what he was thinking of. I affected him, as a woman. He couldn’t concentrate as he wanted to concentrate—because of me. He began to be afraid that he was beginning to love me—he didn’t want to love anyone. He—he made love to me because he didn’t want to think about me too much. He wanted it to be light, easy, just an affair like other affairs that he had had." "And you—" Poirot was watching her closely. "You were content to have it—like that." Henrietta got up. She said, and once more it was her dry voice: "No, I wasn’t—content. After all, one is human…." Poirot waited a minute then he said: "Then why, Mademoiselle—" "Why?" She whirled round on him. "I wanted John to be satisfied, I wanted John to have what he wanted. I wanted him to be able to go on with the thing he cared about—his work. If he didn’t want to be hurt—to be vulnerable again—why—why, that was all right by me." Poirot rubbed his nose. "Just now, Miss Savernake, you mentioned Veronica Cray. Was she also a friend of John Christow’s?" "Until last Saturday night, he hadn’t seen her for fifteen years." "He knew her fifteen years ago?" "They were engaged to be married." Henrietta came back and sat down. "I see I’ve got to make it all clearer. John loved Veronica desperately. Veronica was, and is, a bitch of the first water. She’s the supreme egoist. Her terms were that John was to chuck everything he cared about and become Miss Veronica Cray’s little tame husband. John broke up the whole thing—quite rightly. But he suffered like hell. His one idea was to marry someone as unlike Veronica as possible. He married Gerda, whom you might describe inelegantly as a first- class chump. That was all very nice and safe, but as anyone could have told him the day came when being married to a chump irritated him. He had various affairs—none of them important. Gerda, of course, never knew about them. But I think, myself, that for fifteen years there has been something wrong with John—something connected with Veronica. He never really got over her. And then, last Saturday, he met her again." After a long pause, Poirot recited dreamily: "He went out with her that night to see her home and returned to The Hollow at 3 a.m." "How do you know?" "A housemaid had the toothache." Henrietta said irrelevantly, "Lucy has far too many servants." "But you yourself knew that, Mademoiselle." "Yes." "How did you know?" Again there was an infinitesimal pause. Then Henrietta replied slowly: "I was looking out of my window and saw him come back to the house." "The toothache, Mademoiselle?" She smiled at him. "Quite another kind of ache, M. Poirot." She got up and moved towards the door, and Poirot said: "I will walk back with you, Mademoiselle." They crossed the lane and went through the gate into the chestnut plantation. Henrietta said: "We need not go past the pool. We can go up to the left and along the top path to the flower walk." A track led steeply uphill towards the woods. After a while they came to a broader path at right angles across the hillside above the chestnut trees. Presently they came to a bench and Henrietta sat down, Poirot beside her. The woods were above and behind them, and below were the closely planted chestnut groves. Just in front of the seat a curving path led downwards, to where just a glimmer of blue water could be seen. Poirot watched Henrietta without speaking.
Yes, he makes good use of his eyes. Not quite the type you would expect to find travelling for pleasure in this part of the world. I wonder what he is doing here." "Mr. Ferguson," read Mrs. Allerton. "I feel that Ferguson must be our anti- capitalist friend. Mrs. Otterbourne, Miss Otterbourne. We know all about them. Mr. Pennington? Alias Uncle Andrew. He’s a good-looking man, I think—" "Now, Mother," said Tim. "I think he’s very good-looking in a dry sort of way," said Mrs. Allerton. "Rather a ruthless jaw. Probably the kind of man one reads about in the paper, who operates on Wall Street—or is it in Wall Street? I’m sure he must be extremely rich. Next—Monsieur Hercule Poirot—whose talents are really being wasted. Can’t you get up a crime for Monsieur Poirot, Tim?" But her well-meant banter only seemed to annoy her son anew. He scowled and Mrs. Allerton hurried on: "Mr. Richetti. Our Italian archaeological friend. Then Miss Robson and last of all Miss Van Schuyler. The last’s easy. The very ugly old American lady who is clearly going to be very exclusive and speak to nobody who doesn’t come up to the most exacting standards! She’s rather marvellous, isn’t she, really? A kind of period piece. The two women with her must be Miss Bowers and Miss Robson—perhaps a secretary, the thin one with pince-nez, and a poor relation, the rather pathetic young woman who is obviously enjoying herself in spite of being treated like a black slave. I think Robson’s the secretary woman and Bowers is the poor relation." "Wrong, Mother," said Tim, grinning. He had suddenly recovered his good humour. "How do you know?" "Because I was in the lounge before dinner and the old bean said to the companion woman: "Where’s Miss Bowers? Fetch her at once, Cornelia." And away trotted Cornelia like an obedient dog." "I shall have to talk to Miss Van Schuyler," mused Mrs. Allerton. Tim grinned again. "She’ll snub you, Mother." "Not at all. I shall pave the way by sitting near her and conversing, in low (but penetrating), well-bred tones, about any titled relations and friends I can remember. I think a casual mention of your second cousin, once removed, the Duke of Glasgow, would probably do the trick." "How unscrupulous you are, Mother!" Events after dinner were not without their amusing side to a student of human nature. The socialistic young man (who turned out to be Mr. Ferguson as deduced) retired to the smoking room, scorning the assemblage of passengers in the observation saloon on the top deck. Miss Van Schuyler duly secured the best and most undraughty position there by advancing firmly on a table at which Mrs. Otterbourne was sitting and saying, "You’ll excuse me, I am sure, but I think my knitting was left here!" Fixed by a hypnotic eye, the turban rose and gave ground. Miss Van Schuyler established herself and her suite. Mrs. Otterbourne sat down nearby and hazarded various remarks, which were met with such chilling politeness that she soon gave up. Miss Van Schuyler then sat in glorious isolation. The Doyles sat with the Allertons. Dr. Bessner retained the quiet Mr. Fanthorp as a companion. Jacqueline de Bellefort sat by herself with a book. Rosalie Otterbourne was restless. Mrs. Allerton spoke to her once or twice and tried to draw her into their group, but the girl responded ungraciously. M. Hercule Poirot spent his evening listening to an account of Mrs. Otterbourne’s mission as a writer. On his way to his cabin that night he encountered Jacqueline de Bellefort. She was leaning over the rail and, as she turned her head, he was struck by the look of acute misery on her face. There was now no insouciance, no malicious defiance, no dark flaming triumph. "Good night, Mademoiselle." "Good night, Monsieur Poirot." She hesitated, then said: "You were surprised to find me here?"
"But haven’t you any idea really what you’d like to do? You must have!" "Of course I have. My idea would be to give work a miss altogether. What I’d like to do is to have plenty of money and go in for motor racing." "You’re absurd!" said Miss Reilly. She sounded quite angry. "Oh, I realize that it’s quite out of the question," said Mr. Coleman cheerfully. "So, if I’ve got to do something, I don’t much care what it is so long as it isn’t mugging in an office all day long. I was quite agreeable to seeing a bit of the world. Here goes, I said, and along I came." "And a fat lot of use you must be, I expect!" "There you’re wrong. I can stand up on the dig and shout "Y’Allah" with anybody! And as a matter of fact I’m not so dusty at drawing. Imitating handwriting used to be my speciality at school. I’d have made a first-class forger. Oh, well, I may come to that yet. If my Rolls-Royce splashes you with mud as you’re waiting for a bus, you’ll know that I’ve taken to crime." Miss Reilly said coldly: "Don’t you think it’s about time you started instead of talking so much?" "Hospitable, aren’t we, nurse?" "I’m sure Nurse Leatheran is anxious to get settled in." "You’re always sure of everything," retorted Mr. Coleman with a grin. That was true enough, I thought. Cocksure little minx. I said dryly: "Perhaps we’d better start, Mr. Coleman." "Right you are, nurse." I shook hands with Miss Reilly and thanked her, and we set off. "Damned attractive girl, Sheila," said Mr. Coleman. "But always ticking a fellow off." We drove out of the town and presently took a kind of track between green crops. It was very bumpy and full of ruts. After about half an hour Mr. Coleman pointed to a big mound by the river bank ahead of us and said: "Tell Yarimjah." I could see little black figures moving about it like ants. As I was looking they suddenly began to run all together down the side of the mound. "Fidos," said Mr. Coleman. "Knocking-off time. We knock off an hour before sunset." The expedition house lay a little way back from the river. !Fig.1.eps The driver rounded a corner, bumped through an extremely narrow arch and there we were. The house was built round a courtyard. Originally it had occupied only the south side of the courtyard with a few unimportant outbuildings on the east. The expedition had continued the building on the other two sides. As the plan of the house was to prove of special interest later, I append a rough sketch of it here. All the rooms opened on to the courtyard, and most of the windows—the exception being in the original south building where there were windows giving on the outside country as well. These windows, however, were barred on the outside. In the south-west corner a staircase ran up to a long flat roof with a parapet running the length of the south side of the building which was higher than the other three sides. Mr. Coleman led me along the east side of the courtyard and round to where a big open verandah occupied the centre of the south side. He pushed open a door at one side of it and we entered a room where several people were sitting round a tea table. "Toodle-oodle-oo!" said Mr. Coleman. "Here’s Sairey Gamp." The lady who was sitting at the head of the table rose and came to greet me. I had my first glimpse of Louise Leidner. Five TELL YARIMJAH I don’t mind admitting that my first impression on seeing Mrs. Leidner was one of downright surprise. One gets into the way of imagining a person when one hears them talked about. I’d got it firmly into my head that Mrs. Leidner was a dark, discontented kind of woman. The nervy kind, all on edge. And then, too, I’d expected her to be—well, to put it frankly—a bit vulgar. She wasn’t a bit like what I’d imagined her! To begin with, she was very fair.
Rather an obvious piece, she thought now. Conventional in its suggestion. Lucky, thought Henrietta, that one outgrew oneself…. And now, sleep! The strong black coffee that she had drunk did not bring wakefulness in its train unless she wished it to do so. Long ago she had taught herself the essential rhythm that could bring oblivion at call. You took thoughts, choosing them out of your store, and then, not dwelling on them, you let them slip through the fingers of your mind, never clutching at them, never dwelling on them, no concentration…just letting them drift gently past. Outside in the Mews a car was being revved up—somewhere there was hoarse shouting and laughing. She took the sounds into the stream of her semiconsciousness. The car, she thought, was a tiger roaring…yellow and black…striped like the striped leaves—leaves and shadows—a hot jungle…and then down the river—a wide tropical river…to the sea and the liner starting…and hoarse voices calling good-bye—and John beside her on the deck…she and John starting—blue sea and down into the dining saloon—smiling at him across the table—like dinner at the Maison Dorée—poor John, so angry!…out into the night air—and the car, the feeling of sliding in the gears—effortless, smooth, racing out of London…up over Shovel Down…the trees…tree worship…The Hollow…Lucy…John…John…Ridgeway’s Disease…dear John…. Passing into unconsciousness now, into a happy beatitude. And then some sharp discomfort, some haunting sense of guilt pulling her back. Something she ought to have done. Something that she had shirked. Nausicaa? Slowly, unwillingly, Henrietta got out of bed. She switched on the lights, went across to the stand and unwrapped the cloths. She took a deep breath. Not Nausicaa—Doris Saunders! A pang went through Henrietta. She was pleading with herself: "I can get it right—I can get it right…." "Stupid," she said to herself. "You know quite well what you’ve got to do." Because if she didn’t do it now, at once—tomorrow she wouldn’t have the courage. It was like destroying your flesh and blood. It hurt—yes, it hurt. Perhaps, thought Henrietta, cats feel like this when one of their kittens has something wrong with it and they kill it. She took a quick, sharp breath, then she seized the clay, twisting it off the armature, carrying it, a large heavy lump, to dump it in the clay bin. She stood there breathing deeply, looking down at her clay-smeared hands, still feeling the wrench to her physical and mental self. She cleaned the clay off her hands slowly. She went back to bed feeling a curious emptiness, yet a sense of peace. Nausicaa, she thought sadly, would not come again. She had been born, had been contaminated and had died. "Queer," thought Henrietta, "how things can seep into you without your knowing it." She hadn’t been listening—not really listening—and yet knowledge of Doris’s cheap, spiteful little mind had seeped into her mind and had, unconsciously, influenced her hands. And now the thing that had been Nausicaa—Doris—was only clay—just the raw material that would, soon, be fashioned into something else. Henrietta thought dreamily: "Is that, then, what death is? Is what we call personality just the shaping of it—the impress of somebody’s thought? Whose thought? God’s?" That was the idea, wasn’t it, of Peer Gynt? Back into the Button Moulder’s ladle. "Where am I myself, the whole man, the true man? Where am I with God’s mark upon my brow?" Did John feel like that? He had been so tired the other night—so disheartened. Ridgeway’s Disease…Not one of those books told you who Ridgeway was! Stupid, she thought, she would like to know…Ridgeway’s Disease. Three John Christow sat in his consulting room, seeing his last patient but one for that morning. His eyes, sympathetic and encouraging, watched her as she described—explained—went into details. Now and then he nodded his head, understandingly. He asked questions, gave directions. A gentle glow pervaded the sufferer.
Dr. Faussett arrived on the scene a quarter of an hour later. He saw at once that Mr. Crale had been dead for some time—he placed the probable time of death at between one and two o’clock. There was nothing to show what had caused death. There was no sign of any wound and Mr. Crale’s attitude was a perfectly natural one. Nevertheless Dr. Faussett, who was well acquainted with Mr. Crale’s state of health, and who knew positively that there was no disease or weakness of any kind, was inclined to take a grave view of the situation. It was at this point that Mr. Philip Blake made a certain statement to Dr. Faussett." Superintendent Hale paused, drew a deep breath and passed, as it were, to Chapter Two. "Subsequently Mr. Blake repeated this statement to Inspector Conway. It was to this effect. He had that morning received a telephone message from his brother, Mr. Meredith Blake (who lived at Handcross Manor, a mile and a half away). Mr. Meredith Blake was an amateur chemist—or perhaps herbalist would describe it best. On entering his laboratory that morning, Mr. Meredith Blake had been startled to note that a bottle containing a preparation of hemlock, which had been quite full the day before, was now nearly empty. Worried and alarmed by this fact he had rung up his brother to ask his advice as to what he should do about it. Mr. Philip Blake had urged his brother to come over to Alderbury at once and they would talk the matter over. He himself walked part way to meet his brother and they had come up to the house together. They had come to no decision as to what course to adopt and had left the matter in order to consult again after lunch. "As a result of further inquiries, Inspector Conway ascertained the following facts: On the preceding afternoon five people had walked over from Alderbury to tea at Handcross Manor. There were Mr. and Mrs. Crale, Miss Angela Warren, Miss Elsa Greer and Mr. Philip Blake. During the time spent there, Mr. Meredith Blake had given quite a dissertation on his hobby and had taken the party into his little laboratory and "shown them round." In the course of this tour, he had mentioned certain specific drugs—one of which was coniine, the active principle of the spotted hemlock. He had explained its properties, had lamented the fact that it had now disappeared from the Pharmacopœia and boasted that he had known small doses of it to be very efficacious in whooping cough and asthma. Later he had mentioned its lethal properties and had actually read to his guests some passage from a Greek author describing its effects." Superintendent Hale paused, refilled his pipe and passed on to Chapter Three. "Colonel Frere, the Chief Constable, put the case into my hands. The result of the autopsy put the matter beyond any doubt. Coniine, I understand, leaves no definite postmortem appearances, but the doctors knew what to look for, and an ample amount of the drug was recovered. The doctor was of the opinion that it had been administered two or three hours before death. In front of Mr. Crale, on the table, there had been an empty glass and an empty beer bottle. The dregs of both were analysed. There was no coniine in the bottle, but there was in the glass. I made inquiries and learned that although a case of beer and glasses were kept in a small summerhouse in the Battery garden in case Mr. Crale should feel thirsty when painting, on this particular morning Mrs. Crale had brought down from the house a bottle of freshly iced beer. Mr. Crale was busy painting when she arrived and Miss Greer was posing for him, sitting on one of the battlements. "Mrs. Crale opened the beer, poured it out and put the glass into her husband’s hand as he was standing before the easel. He tossed it off in one draught—a habit of his, I learned. Then he made a grimace, set down the glass on the table, and said: "Everything tastes foul to me today!" Miss Greer upon that laughed and said, "Liver!" Mr. Crale said: "Well, at any rate it was cold.’" Hale paused. Poirot said: "At what time did this take place?"
Newspaper cuttings! Old letters. All sorts of things!" Mary said, unfolding a document: "Here’s Dad’s and Mum’s marriage certificate. At St. Albans, 1919." Nurse Hopkins said: "Marriage lines, that’s the old-fashioned term. Lots of the people in this village use that term yet." Mary said in a stifled voice: "But, Nurse—" "What’s the matter?" Mary Gerrard said in a shaky voice: "Don’t you see? This is 1939. And I’m twenty-one. In 1919 I was a year old. That means—that means—that my father and mother weren’t married till—till—afterwards." Nurse Hopkins frowned. She said robustly: "Well, after all, what of it? Don’t go worrying about that, at this time of day!" "But, Nurse, I can’t help it." Nurse Hopkins spoke with authority: "There’s many couples that don’t go to church till a bit after they should do so. But so long as they do it in the end, what’s the odds? That’s what I say!" Mary said in a low voice: "Is that why—do you think—my father never liked me? Because, perhaps my mother made him marry her?" Nurse Hopkins hesitated. She bit her lip, then she said: "It wasn’t quite like that, I imagine." She paused. "Oh, well, if you’re going to worry about it, you may as well know the truth: You aren’t Gerrard’s daughter at all." Mary said: "Then that was why!" Nurse Hopkins said: "Maybe." Mary said, a red spot suddenly burning in each cheek: "I suppose it’s wrong of me, but I’m glad! I’ve always felt uncomfortable because I didn’t care for my father, but if he wasn’t my father, well, that makes it all right! How did you know about it?" Nurse Hopkins said: "Gerrard talked about it a good deal before he died. I shut him up pretty sharply, but he didn’t care. Naturally, I shouldn’t have said anything to you about it if this hadn’t cropped up." Mary said slowly: "I wonder who my real father was…." Nurse Hopkins hesitated. She opened her mouth, then shut it again. She appeared to be finding it hard to make up her mind on some point. Then a shadow fell across the room, and the two women looked round to see Elinor Carlisle standing at the window. Elinor said: "Good morning." Nurse Hopkins said: "Good morning, Miss Carlisle. Lovely day, isn’t it?" Mary said: "Oh—good morning, Miss Elinor." Elinor said: "I’ve been making some sandwiches. Won’t you come up and have some? It’s just on one o’clock, and it’s such a bother to have to go home for lunch. I got enough for three on purpose." Nurse Hopkins said in pleased surprise: "Well, I must say, Miss Carlisle, that’s extremely thoughtful of you. It is a nuisance to have to break off what you’re doing and come all the way back from the village. I hoped we might finish this morning. I went round and saw my cases early. But, there, turning out takes you longer than you think." Mary said gratefully: "Thank you, Miss Elinor, it’s very kind of you." The three of them walked up the drive to the house. Elinor had left the front door open. They passed inside into the cool of the hall. Mary shivered a little. Elinor looked at her sharply. She said: "What is it?" Mary said: "Oh, nothing—just a shiver. It was coming in—out of the sun…." Elinor said in a low voice: "That’s queer. That’s what I felt this morning." Nurse Hopkins said in a loud, cheerful voice and with a laugh: "Come, now, you’ll be pretending there are ghosts in the house next. I didn’t feel anything!" Elinor smiled. She led the way into the morning room on the right of the front door. The blinds were up and the windows open. It looked cheerful. Elinor went across the hall and brought back from the pantry a big plate of sandwiches. She handed it to Mary, saying: "Have one?" Mary took one.
And I examined dispassionately the case against Charles Templeton. "I asked myself very much the same questions as Miss Helier has just asked. Why should he, alone of all the house, not be able to produce the letter he had received – a letter, moreover, with a German stamp on it. Why should he have letters from Germany? "The last question was an innocent one, and I actually put it to him. His reply came simply enough. His mother’s sister was married to a German. The letter had been from a German girl cousin. So I learned something I did not know before – that Charles Templeton had relations with people in Germany. And that put him definitely on the list of suspects – very much so. He is my own man – a lad I have always liked and trusted; but in common justice and fairness I must admit that he heads that list. "But there it is – I do not know! I do not know . . . And in all probability I never shall know. It is not a question of punishing a murderer. It is a question that to me seems a hundred times more important. It is the blighting, perhaps, of an honourable man’s whole career . . . because of suspicion – a suspicion that I dare not disregard." Miss Marple coughed and said gently: "Then, Sir Henry, if I understand you rightly, it is this young Mr Templeton only who is so much on your mind?" "Yes, in a sense. It should, in theory, be the same for all four, but that is not actually the case. Dobbs, for instance – suspicion may attach to him in my mind, but it will not actually affect his career. Nobody in the village has ever had any idea that old Dr Rosen’s death was anything but an accident. Gertrud is slightly more affected. It must make, for instance, a difference in Fräulein Rosen’s attitude toward her. But that, possibly, is not of great importance to her. "As for Greta Rosen – well, here we come to the crux of the matter. Greta is a very pretty girl and Charles Templeton is a good-looking young man, and for five months they were thrown together with no outer distractions. The inevitable happened. They fell in love with each other – even if they did not come to the point of admitting the fact in words. "And then the catastrophe happens. It is three months ago now and a day or two after I returned, Greta Rosen came to see me. She had sold the cottage and was returning to Germany, having finally settled up her uncle’s affairs. She came to me personally, although she knew I had retired, because it was really about a personal matter she wanted to see me. She beat about the bush a little, but at last it all came out. What did I think? That letter with the German stamp – she had worried about it and worried about it – the one Charles had torn up. Was it all right? Surely it must be all right. Of course she believed his story, but – oh! if she only knew! If she knew – for certain. "You see? The same feeling: the wish to trust – but the horrible lurking suspicion, thrust resolutely to the back of the mind, but persisting nevertheless. I spoke to her with absolute frankness, and asked her to do the same. I asked her whether she had been on the point of caring for Charles, and he for her. ""I think so," she said. "Oh, yes, I know it was so. We were so happy. Every day passed so contentedly. We knew – we both knew. There was no hurry – there was all the time in the world. Some day he would tell me he loved me, and I should tell him that I too – Ah! But you can guess! And now it is all changed. A black cloud has come between us – we are constrained, when we meet we do not know what to say. It is, perhaps, the same with him as with me . . . We are each saying to ourselves, "If I were sure!" That is why, Sir Henry, I beg of you to say to me, "You may be sure, whoever killed your uncle, it was not Charles Templeton!" Say it to me! Oh, say it to me! I beg – I beg!"
I didn’t mean anything of what I’ve been saying…" Looking up, Esa cut her short. "Go away, Henet. Whether you meant what you said, or did not mean what you said does not really matter. But you have uttered one phrase which has awakened new thoughts in my mind…Go, Henet, and I warn you–Be careful of your words and actions. We want no more deaths in this house. I hope you understand." IV Everything is fear… Renisenb had found those words rising to her lips automatically during the consulation by the lake. It was only afterwards that she began to realize their truth. She set out mechanically to join Kait and the children where they were clustered by the little pavilion, but found that her footsteps lagged and then ceased as if of their own volition. She was afraid, she found, to join Kait, to look into that plain and placid face, in case she might fancy she saw there the face of a poisoner. She watched Henet bustle out on the porch and back again and her usual sense of repulsion was, she found, heightened. Desperately she turned towards the doorway of the courtyard, and a moment later encountered Ipy striding in, his head held high and a gay smile on his impudent face. Renisenb found herself staring at him. Ipy, the spoilt child of the family, the handsome, wilful little boy she remembered when she had gone away with Khay… "Why, Renisenb, what is it? Why are you looking at me so strangely?" "Was I?" Ipy laughed. "You are looking as half-witted as Henet." Renisenb shook her head. "Henet is not half-witted. She is very astute." "She has plenty of malice, that I know. In fact she’s a nuisance about the house. I mean to get rid of her." Renisenb’s lips opened and closed. She whispered, "Get rid of her?" "My dear sister, what is the matter with you? Have you, too, been seeing evil spirits like that miserable, half-witted black child?" "You think everyone is half-witted!" "That child certainly was. Well, it’s true I’m inclined to be impatient of stupidity. I’ve had too much of it. It’s no fun, I can tell you, being plagued with two slow-going elder brothers who can’t see beyond their own noses! Now that they are out of the way, and there is only my father to deal with, you will soon see the difference. My father will do what I say." Renisenb looked up at him. He looked unusually handsome and arrogant. There was a vitality about him, a sense of triumphant life and vigour, that struck her as above the normal. Some inner consciousness seemed to be affording him this vital sense of well-being. Renisenb said sharply: "My brothers are not both out of the way, as you put it. Yahmose is alive." Ipy looked at her with an air of contemptuous mockery. "And I suppose you think he will get quite well again?" "Why not?" Ipy laughed. "Why not? Well, let us say simply that I disagree with you. Yahmose is finished, done for–he may crawl about for a little and sit and moan in the sun. But he is no longer a man. He has recovered from the first effects of the poison, but you can see, yourself, he makes no further headway." "Then why doesn’t he?" Renisenb demanded. "The physician said it would only take a little time before he was quite strong and himself again." Ipy shrugged his shoulders. "Physicians do not know everything. They talk wisely and use long words. Blame the wicked Nofret if you like–but Yahmose, your dear brother Yahmose, is doomed." "And have you no fear yourself, Ipy?" "Fear? I?" The boy laughed, throwing back his handsome head. "Nofret did not love you overwell, Ipy." "Nothing can harm me, Renisenb, unless I choose to let it! I am young still, but I am one of those people who are born to succeed. As for you, Renisenb, you would do well to be on my side, do you hear? You treat me, often, as an irresponsible boy. But I am more than that now. Every month will show a difference.
I accepted this as fair, since I had been found out, but I considered it unjust that I was not given the chocolate. That had been promised to whoever found the book, and I had found it. My sister had a game which both fascinated and terrified me. This was "The Elder Sister’. The thesis was that in our family was an elder sister, senior to my sister and myself. She was mad and lived in a cave at Corbin’s Head, but sometimes she came to the house. She was indistinguishable in appearance from my sister, except for her voice, which was quite different. It was a frightening voice, a soft oily voice. "You know who I am, don’t you, dear? I’m your sister Madge. You don’t think I’m anyone else, do you? You wouldn’t think that?" I used to feel indescribable terror. Of course I knew really it was only Madge pretending–but was it? Wasn’t it perhaps true? That voice–those crafty sideways glancing eyes. It was the elder sister! My mother used to get angry. "I won’t have you frightening the child with this silly game, Madge." Madge would reply reasonably enough: "But she asks me to do it." I did. I would say to her: "Will the elder sister be coming soon?" "I don’t know. Do you want her to come?" "Yes–yes, I do. Did I really? I suppose so. My demand was never satisfied at once. Perhaps two days later there would be a knock at the nursery door, and the voice: "Can I come in, dear? It’s your elder sister. Many years later, Madge had still only to use the Elder Sister voice and I would feel chills down my spine. Why did I like being frightened? What instinctive need is satisfied by terror? Why, indeed, do children like stories about bears, wolves and witches? Is it because something rebels in one against the life that is too safe? Is a certain amount of danger in life a need of human beings? Is much of the juvenile delinquency nowadays attributable to the fact of too much security? Do you instinctively need something to combat, to overcome–to, as it were, prove yourself to yourself? Take away the wolf from Red Riding Hood and would any child enjoy it? However, like most things in life, you want to be frightened a little–but not too much. My sister must have had a great gift for story-telling. At an early age her brother would urge her on. "Tell it me again." "I don’t want to." "Do, do!" "No, I don’t want to." "Please. I’ll do anything." "Will you let me bite your finger?" "Yes." "I shall bite it hard. Perhaps I shall bite it right off!" "I don’t mind." Madge obligingly launches into the story once more. Then she picks up his finger and bites it. Now Monty yells. Mother arrives. Madge is punished. "But it was a bargain," she says, unrepentant. I remember well my first written story. It was in the nature of a melodrama, very short, since both writing and spelling were a pain to me. It concerned the noble Lady Madge (good) and the bloody Lady Agatha (bad) and a plot that involved the inheritance of a castle. I showed it to my sister and suggested we could act it. My sister said immediately that she would rather be the bloody Lady Madge and I could be the noble Lady Agatha. "But don’t you want to be the good one?" I demanded, shocked. My sister said no, she thought it would be much more fun to be wicked. I was pleased, as it had been solely politeness which had led me to ascribe nobility to Lady Madge. My father, I remember, laughed a good deal at my effort, but in a kindly way, and my mother said that perhaps I had better not use the word bloody as it was not a very nice word. "But she was bloody," I explained. "She killed a lot of people. She was like bloody Mary, who burnt people at the stake." Fairy books played a great part in life. Grannie gave them to me for birthdays and Christmas. The Yellow Fairy Book, The Blue Fairy Book, and so on. I loved them all and read them again and again.
The Grand Duchess clapped her hands. She seemed an extremely cheerful young woman. "Nothing could be better," she declared. "You must congratulate Feodor Alexandrovitch for me, Anna. He has indeed done well." "As yet, madame," murmured the princess, in a low voice, "this young woman does not know what is required of her." "True," said the Grand Duchess, becoming somewhat calmer in manner. "I forgot. Well, I will enlighten her. Leave us together, Anna Michaelovna." "But, madame –" "Leave us alone, I say." She stamped her foot angrily. With considerable reluctance Anna Michaelovna left the room. The Grand Duchess sat down and motioned to Jane to do the same. "They are tiresome, these old women," remarked Pauline. "But one has to have them. Anna Michaelovna is better than most. Now then, Miss – ah, yes, Miss Jane Cleveland. I like the name. I like you too. You are sympathetic. I can tell at once if people are sympathetic." "That’s very clever of you, ma’am," said Jane, speaking for the first time. "I am clever," said Pauline calmly. "Come now, I will explain things to you. Not that there is much to explain. You know the history of Ostrova. Practically all of my family are dead – massacred by the Communists. I am, perhaps, the last of my line. I am a woman, I cannot sit upon the throne. You think they would let me be. But no, wherever I go attempts are made to assassinate me. Absurd, is it not? These vodka-soaked brutes never have any sense of proportion." "I see," said Jane, feeling that something was required of her. "For the most part I live in retirement – where I can take precautions, but now and then I have to take part in public ceremonies. While I am here, for instance, I have to attend several semi-public functions. Also in Paris on my way back. I have an estate in Hungary, you know. The sport there is magnificent." "Is it really?" said Jane. "Superb. I adore sport. Also – I ought not to tell you this, but I shall because your face is so sympathetic – there are plans being made there – very quietly, you understand. Altogether it is very important that I should not be assassinated during the next two weeks." "But surely the police –" began Jane. "The police? Oh, yes, they are very good, I believe. And we too – we have our spies. It is possible that I shall be forewarned when the attempt is to take place. But then, again, I might not." She shrugged her shoulders. "I begin to understand," said Jane slowly. "You want me to take your place?" "Only on certain occasions," said the Grand Duchess eagerly. "You must be somewhere at hand, you understand? I may require you twice, three times, four times in the next fortnight. Each time it will be upon the occasion of some public function. Naturally in intimacy of any kind, you could not represent me." "Of course not," agreed Jane. "You will do very well indeed. It was clever of Feodor Alexandrovitch to think of an advertisement, was it not?" "Supposing," said Jane, "that I get assassinated?" The Grand Duchess shrugged her shoulders. "There is the risk, of course, but according to our own secret information, they want to kidnap me, not kill me outright. But I will be quite honest – it is always possible that they might throw a bomb." "I see," said Jane. She tried to imitate the light-hearted manner of Pauline. She wanted very much to come to the question of money, but did not quite see how best to introduce the subject. But Pauline saved her the trouble. "We will pay you well, of course," she said carelessly. "I cannot remember now exactly how much Feodor Alexandrovitch suggested. We were speaking in francs or kronen." "Colonel Kranin," said Jane, "said something about two thousand pounds." "That was it," said Pauline, brightening. "I remember now. It is enough, I hope? Or would you rather have three thousand?" "Well," said Jane, "if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather have three thousand." "You are business-like, I see," said the Grand Duchess kindly.
What were the feelings of General Ravenscroft towards those two sisters, the twin sisters?" "I know what you mean." For the first time her manner changed slightly. She was no longer on her guard, she leaned forward now and spoke to Poirot almost as though she definitely found a relief in doing so. "They were both beautiful," she said, "as girls. I heard that from many people. General Ravenscroft fell in love with Dolly, the mentally afflicted sister. Although she had a disturbed personality she was exceedingly attractive – sexually attractive. He loved her very dearly, and then I don’t know whether he discovered in her some characteristic, something perhaps that alarmed him or in which he found a repulsion of some kind. He saw perhaps the beginnings of insanity in her, the dangers connected with her. His affections went to her sister. He fell in love with the sister and married her." "He loved them both, you mean. Not at the same time but in each case there was a genuine fact of love." "Oh, yes, he was devoted to Molly, relied on her and she on him. He was a very lovable man." "Forgive me," said Poirot, "you too were in love with him, I think." "You – you dare say that to me?" "Yes. I dare say it to you. I am not suggesting that you and he had a love- affair, nothing of that kind. I’m only saying that you loved him." "Yes," said Zélie Meauhourat. "I loved him. In a sense, I still love him. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. He trusted me and relied on me, but he was never in love with me. You can love and serve and still be happy. I wanted no more than I had. Trust, sympathy, belief in me –" "And you did," said Poirot, "what you could to help him in a terrible crisis in his life. There are things you do not wish to tell me. There are things that I will say to you, things that I have gathered from various information that has come to me, that I know something about. Before I have come to see you I have heard from others, from people who have known not only Lady Ravenscroft, not only Molly, but who have known Dolly. And I know something of Dolly, the tragedy of her life, the sorrow, the unhappiness and also the hatred, the streak perhaps of evil, the love of destruction that can be handed down in families. If she loved the man she was engaged to she must have, when he married her sister, felt hatred perhaps towards that sister. Perhaps she never quite forgave her. But what of Molly Ravenscroft? Did she dislike her sister? Did she hate her?" "Oh no," said Zélie Meauhourat, "she loved her sister. She loved her with a very deep and protective love. That I do know. It was she who always asked that her sister should come and make her home with her. She wanted to save her sister from unhappiness, from danger too, because her sister would often relapse into fits of rather dangerous rages. She was frightened sometimes. Well, you know enough. You have already said that there was a strange dislike of children from which Dolly suffered." "You mean that she disliked Celia?" "No, no, not Celia. The other one, Edward. The younger one. Twice Edward had dangers of an accident. Once, some kind of tinkering with a car and once some outburst of violent annoyance. I know Molly was glad when Edward went back to school. He was very young, remember, much younger than Celia. He was only eight or nine, at preparatory school. He was vulnerable. Molly was frightened about him." "Yes," said Poirot, "I can understand that. Now, if I may I will talk of wigs. Wigs. The wearing of wigs. Four wigs. That is a lot for one woman to possess at one time. I know what they were like, what they looked like. I know that when more were needed, a French lady went to the shop in London and spoke about them and ordered them. There was a dog, too. A dog who went for a walk on the day of the tragedy with General Ravenscroft and his wife. Earlier that dog, some little time earlier, had bitten his mistress, Molly Ravenscroft."
I just thought you might find this inscription interesting." "I don’t think I should find it as interesting as all that," I said, and went back to my seat at the top of the theatre. Max rejoined me about an hour later, very happy, having deciphered one particular obscure Greek phrase which, as far as he was concerned, had made his day. Delphi was the highlight, though. It struck me as so unbelievably beautiful that we went round trying to select a site where we might build a little house one day. We marked out three, I remember. It was a nice dream: I don’t know that we believed in it ourselves even at the time. When I went there a year or two ago and saw the great buses travelling up and down, and the cafes, the souvenirs, and the tourists, how glad I was that we had not built our house there. We were always choosing sites for houses. This was mainly owing to me, houses having always been my passion–there was indeed a moment in my life, not long before the outbreak of the second war, when I was the proud owner of eight houses. I had become addicted to finding broken-down, slummy houses in London and making structural alterations, decorating and furnishing them. When the second war came and I had to pay war damage insurance on all these houses, it was not so funny. However, in the end they all showed a good profit when I sold them. It had been an enjoyable hobby while it lasted–and I am always interested to walk past one of "my" houses, to see how they are being kept up, and to guess the sort of person who is living in them now. On the last day we walked down from Delphi to the sea at Itea below. A Greek came with us to show us the way, and Max talked to him. Max has a very inquiring mind, and always has to ask a lot of questions of any native who is with him. On this occasion he was asking our guide the names of various flowers. Our charming Greek was only too anxious to oblige. Max would point out a flower and he would say the name, then Max would carefully write it down in his notebook. After he had written down about twenty-five specimens he noticed that there was a certain amount of repetition. He repeated the Greek name which was now being given him for a blue flower with spiky thorns on it, and recognised it as the same name as had been used for one of the first flowers, a large yellow marigold. It then dawned upon us that, in his anxiety to please, the Greek was merely telling us the names of as many flowers as he knew. As he did not know many he was beginning to repeat them for each new flower. With some disgust Max realised that his careful list of wild flowers was completely useless. We ended up at Athens, and there, with separation only four or five days ahead of us, disaster struck the happy inhabitants of Eden. I went down with what I took at first to be one of the ordinary tummy complaints that often strike one in the Middle East, known as Gyppy Tummy, Baghdad Tummy, Teheran Tummy, and so on. This I took to be Athens Tummy–but it proved to be worse than that. I got up after a few days, but when driving out on an excursion I felt so ill that I had to be driven straight back again. I found I had quite a high fever, and in the end, after many protests on my part, and when all other remedies had failed, we got hold of a doctor. Only a Greek doctor was obtainable. He spoke French, and I soon learnt that, though my French was socially adequate, I did not know any medical terms. The doctor attributed my downfall to the heads of red mullet, in which, according to him, there lurked great danger, especially for strangers who were not used to dissecting this fish in the proper way. He told me a gruesome tale about a cabinet minister who suffered from this to the point almost of death and only made a last moment recovery. I certainly felt ill enough to die at any minute! I went on having a temperature of 105 and being unable to keep anything down. However, my doctor succeeded in the end. Suddenly I lay there feeling human once more. The thought of eating was horrible, and I did not feel I ever wanted to move again–but I was on the mend and knew it. I assured Max that he would be able to get off the following day.
Verify his statements, go over his movements that night with a toothcomb. In fact, show our hand as plainly as may be." "Quite Machiavellian," said Major Mitchell with a twinkle. "Imitation of a heavy-handed policeman by star actor Battle." The Superintendent smiled. "I always like doing what’s expected of me, sir. This time I mean to be a bit slow about it—take my time. I want to do some nosing about. Being suspicious of Mr. Nevile Strange is a very good excuse for nosing about. I’ve an idea, you know, that something rather odd has been going on in that house." "Looking for the sex angle?" "If you like to put it that way, sir." "Handle it your own way, Battle. You and Leach carry on between you." "Thank you, sir." Battle stood up. "Nothing suggestive from the solicitors?" "No, I rang them up. I know Trelawny fairly well. He’s sending me a copy of Sir Matthew’s will and also of Lady Tressilian’s. She had about five hundred a year of her own—invested in gilt-edged securities. She left a legacy to Barrett and a small one to Hurstall, the rest to Mary Aldin." "That’s three we might keep an eye on," said Battle. Mitchell looked amused. "Suspicious fellow, aren’t you?" "No use letting oneself be hypnotized by fifty thousand pounds," said Battle stolidly. "Many a murder has been done for less than fifty pounds. It depends on how much you want the money. Barrett got a legacy—and maybe she took the precaution to dope herself so as to avert suspicion." "She very nearly passed out. Lazenby hasn’t let us question her yet." "Overdid it out of ignorance, perhaps. Then Hurstall may have been in bad need of cash for all we know. And Miss Aldin, if she’s no money of her own, might have fancied a bit of life on a nice little income before she’s too old to enjoy it." The Chief Constable looked doubtful. "Well," he said, "it’s up to you two. Get on with the job." V Back at Gull’s Point, the two police officers received Williams" and Jones" reports. Nothing of a suspicious nature had been found in any of the bedrooms. The servants were clamouring to be allowed to get on with the housework. Should he give them the word? "Might as well, I suppose," said Battle. "I’ll just have a stroll myself first through the two upper floors. Rooms that haven’t been done very often tell you something about their occupants that’s useful to know." Sergeant Jones put down a small cardboard box on the table. "From Mr. Nevile Strange’s dark blue coat," he announced. "The red hairs were on the cuff, blonde hairs on the inside of the collar and the right shoulder." Battle took out the two long red hairs and the half-dozen blonde ones and looked at them. He said, with a faint twinkle in his eye: "Convenient. One blonde, one red head and one brunette in this house. So we know where we are at once. Red hair on the cuff, blonde on the collar? Mr. Nevile Strange does seem to be a bit of a Bluebeard. His arm round one wife and the other one’s head on his shoulder." "The blood on the sleeve has gone for analysis, sir. They’ll ring us up as soon as they get the result." Leach nodded. "What about the servants?" "I followed your instructions, sir. None of them is under notice to leave, or seems likely to have borne a grudge against the old lady. She was strict, but well liked. In any case the management of the servants lay with Miss Aldin. She seems to have been popular with them." "Thought she was an efficient woman the moment I laid eyes on her," said Battle. "If she’s our murderess, she won’t be easy to hang." Jones looked startled. "But those prints on that niblick, sir, were—" "I know—I know," said Battle. "The singularly obliging Mr. Strange’s. There’s a general belief that athletes aren’t overburdened with brains (not at all true, by the way) but I can’t believe Nevile Strange is a complete moron. What about those senna pods of the maid’s?"
"Delinquent boys—Racial integration?" "No. Just another Home they’re opening for old people." "Well, that’s more sensible anyway," said Tuppence, "but I don’t see why you have to have that worried look about it." "Oh, I wasn’t thinking of that." "Well, what were you thinking of?" "I suppose it put it into my mind," said Mr. Beresford. "What?" said Tuppence. "You know you’ll tell me in the end." "It really wasn’t anything important. I just thought that perhaps—well, it was Aunt Ada." "Oh, I see," said Tuppence, with instant comprehension. "Yes," she added, softly, meditatively. "Aunt Ada." Their eyes met. It is regrettably true that in these days there is in nearly every family, the problem of what might be called an "Aunt Ada." The names are different—Aunt Amelia, Aunt Susan, Aunt Cathy, Aunt Joan. They are varied by grandmothers, aged cousins and even great-aunts. But they exist and present a problem in life which has to be dealt with. Arrangements have to be made. Suitable establishments for looking after the elderly have to be inspected and full questions asked about them. Recommendations are sought from doctors, from friends, who have Aunt Adas of their own who had been "perfectly happy until she had died" at "The Laurels, Bexhill," or "Happy Meadows at Scarborough." The days are past when Aunt Elisabeth, Aunt Ada and the rest of them lived on happily in the homes where they had lived for many years previously, looked after by devoted if sometimes somewhat tyrannical old servants. Both sides were thoroughly satisfied with the arrangement. Or there were the innumerable poor relations, indigent nieces, semi-idiotic spinster cousins, all yearning for a good home with three good meals a day and a nice bedroom. Supply and demand complemented each other and all was well. Nowadays, things are different. For the Aunt Adas of today arrangements have to be made suitable, not merely to an elderly lady who, owing to arthritis or other rheumatic difficulties, is liable to fall downstairs if she is left alone in a house, or who suffers from chronic bronchitis, or who quarrels with her neighbours and insults the tradespeople. Unfortunately, the Aunt Adas are far more trouble than the opposite end of the age scale. Children can be provided with foster homes, foisted off on relations, or sent to suitable schools where they stay for the holidays, or arrangements can be made for pony treks or camps and on the whole very little objection is made by the children to the arrangements so made for them. The Aunt Adas are very different. Tuppence Beresford’s own aunt—Great-aunt Primrose—had been a notable troublemaker. Impossible to satisfy her. No sooner did she enter an establishment guaranteed to provide a good home and all comforts for elderly ladies than after writing a few highly complimentary letters to her niece praising this particular establishment, the next news would be that she had indignantly walked out of it without notice. "Impossible. I couldn’t stay there another minute!" Within the space of a year Aunt Primrose had been in and out of eleven such establishments, finally writing to say that she had now met a very charming young man. "Really a very devoted boy. He lost his mother at a young age and he badly needs looking after. I have rented a flat and he is coming to live with me. This arrangement will suit us both perfectly. We are natural affinities. You need have no more anxieties, dear Prudence. My future is settled. I am seeing my lawyer tomorrow as it is necessary that I should make some provision for Mervyn if I should predecease him which is, of course, the natural course of events, though I assure you at the moment I feel in the pink of health." Tuppence had hurried north (the incident had taken place in Aberdeen). But as it happened, the police had arrived there first and had removed the glamorous Mervyn, for whom they had been seeking for some time, on a charge of obtaining money under false pretences. Aunt Primrose had been highly indignant, and had called it persecution—but after attending the Court proceedings (where twenty- five other cases were taken into account)—had been forced to change her views of her protégé.
"I haven’t got any ready money." Papa looked thoroughly exasperated. "My child, I really cannot be bothered with these vulgar money details. The bank—I had something from the Manager yesterday, saying I had twenty-seven pounds." "That’s your overdraft, I fancy." "Ah, I have it! Write to my publishers." I acquiesced doubtfully, Papa’s books bringing in more glory than money. I liked the idea of going to Rhodesia immensely. "Stern silent men," I murmured to myself in an ecstasy. Then something in my parent’s appearance struck me as unusual. "You have odd boots on, Papa," I said. "Take off the brown one and put on the other black one. And don’t forget your muffler. It’s a very cold day." In a few minutes Papa stalked off, correctly booted and well-mufflered. He returned late that evening, and, to my dismay, I saw his muffler and overcoat were missing. "Dear me, Anne, you are quite right. I took them off to go into the cavern. One gets so dirty there." I nodded feelingly, remembering an occasion when Papa had returned literally plastered from head to foot with rich Pleistocene clay. Our principal reason for settling in Little Hampsley had been the neighbourhood of Hampsley Cavern, a buried cave rich in deposits of the Aurignacian culture. We had a tiny museum in the village, and the curator and Papa spent most of their days messing about underground and bringing to light portions of woolly rhinoceros and cave bear. Papa coughed badly all the evening, and the following morning I saw he had a temperature and sent for the doctor. Poor Papa, he never had a chance. It was double pneumonia. He died four days later. Two Everyone was very kind to me. Dazed as I was, I appreciated that. I felt no overwhelming grief. Papa had never loved me. I knew that well enough. If he had, I might have loved him in return. No, there had not been love between us, but we had belonged together, and I had looked after him, and had secretly admired his learning and his uncompromising devotion to science. And it hurt me that Papa should have died just when the interest of life was at its height for him. I should have felt happier if I could have buried him in a cave, with paintings of reindeer and flint implements, but the force of public opinion constrained a neat tomb (with marble slab) in our hideous local churchyard. The vicar’s consolations, though well-meant, did not console me in the least. It took some time to dawn upon me that the thing I had always longed for—freedom—was at last mine. I was an orphan, and practically penniless, but free. At the same time I realized the extraordinary kindness of all these good people. The vicar did his best to persuade me that his wife was in urgent need of a companion help. Our tiny local library suddenly made up its mind to have an assistant librarian. Finally, the doctor called upon me, and after making various ridiculous excuses for failing to send a proper bill, he hummed and hawed a good deal and suddenly suggested I should marry him. I was very much astonished. The doctor was nearer forty than thirty and a round, tubby little man. He was not at all like the hero of "The Perils of Pamela," and even less like the stern and silent Rhodesian. I reflected a minute and then asked why he wanted to marry me. That seemed to fluster him a good deal, and he murmured that a wife was a great help to a general practitioner. The position seemed even more unromantic than before, and yet something in me urged towards its acceptance. Safety, that was what I was being offered. Safety—and a Comfortable Home. Thinking it over now, I believe I did the little man an injustice. He was honestly in love with me, but a mistaken delicacy prevented him from pressing his suit on those lines. Anyway, my love of romance rebelled. "It’s extremely kind of you," I said. "But it’s impossible. I could never marry a man unless I loved him madly." "You don’t think—?" "No, I don’t," I said firmly. He sighed. "But, my dear child, what do you propose to do?"
It was, as he had said, an occupational disease of secretaries. It probably meant nothing. But the fact did at least suggest a motive and he was sure, quite sure, that she was concealing something. It might be love, it might be hate. It might, quite simply, be guilt. She might have taken her opportunity that afternoon, or she might have deliberately planned what she was going to do. He could see her in the part quite easily, as far as the execution of it went. Her swift but unhurried movements, moving here and there, looking after guests, handing glasses to one or another, taking glasses away, her eyes marking the spot where Marina had put her glass down on the table. And then, perhaps at the very moment when Marina had been greeting the arrivals from the States, with surprise and joyous cries and everybody’s eyes turned towards their meeting, she could have quietly and unobtrusively dropped the fatal dose into that glass. It would require audacity, nerve, swiftness. She would have had all those. Whatever she had done, she would not have looked guilty whilst she was doing it. It would have been a simple, brilliant crime, a crime that could hardly fail to be successful. But chance had ruled otherwise. In the rather crowded floorspace someone had joggled Heather Badcock’s arm. Her drink had been spilt, and Marina, with her natural impulsive grace, had quickly proffered her own glass, standing there untouched. And so the wrong woman had died. A lot of pure theory, and probably hooey at that, said Dermot Craddock to himself at the same time as he was making polite remarks to Ella Zielinsky. "One thing I wanted to ask you, Miss Zielinsky. The catering was done by a Market Basing firm, I understand?" "Yes." "Why was that particular firm chosen?" "I really don’t know," said Ella. "That doesn’t lie amongst my duties. I know Mr. Rudd thought it would be more tactful to employ somebody local rather than to employ a firm from London. The whole thing was really quite a small affair from our point of view." "Quite." He watched her as she stood frowning a little and looking down. A good forehead, a determined chin, a figure which could look quite voluptuous if it was allowed to do so, a hard mouth, an acquisitive mouth. The eyes? He looked at them in surprise. The lids were reddened. He wondered. Had she been crying? It looked like it. And yet he could have sworn she was not the type of young woman to cry. She looked up at him, and as though she read his thoughts, she took out her handkerchief and blew her nose heartily. "You’ve got a cold," he said. "Not a cold. Hay fever. It’s an allergy of some kind, really. I always get at it this time of year." There was a low buzz. There were two phones in the room, one on the table and one on another table in the corner. It was the latter one that was beginning to buzz. Ella Zielinsky went over to it and picked up the receiver. "Yes," she said, "he’s here. I’ll bring him up at once." She put the receiver down again. "Marina’s ready for you," she said. III Marina Gregg received Craddock in a room on the first floor, which was obviously her own private sitting room opening out of her bedroom. After the accounts of her prostration and her nervous state, Dermot Craddock had expected to find a fluttering invalid. But although Marina was half reclining on a sofa her voice was vigorous and her eyes were bright. She had very little makeup on, but in spite of this she did not look her age, and he was struck very forcibly by the subdued radiance of her beauty. It was the exquisite line of cheek and jawbone, the way the hair fell loosely and naturally to frame her face. The long sea-green eyes, the pencilled eyebrows, owing something to art but more to nature, and the warmth and sweetness of her smile, all had a subtle magic. She said: "Chief-Inspector Craddock? I’ve been behaving disgracefully. I do apologize. I just let myself go to pieces after this awful thing. I could have snapped out of it but I didn’t. I’m ashamed of myself."
He married Miss Bella, Miss Arundell’s niece, her sister’s child. Mr. Charles and Miss Theresa are brother and sister." "Ah, yes, I see. A family party. And when did they leave?" "On the Wednesday morning, sir. And Dr. Tanios and Miss Bella came down again the next weekend because they were worried about Miss Arundell." "And Mr. Charles and Miss Theresa?" "They came the weekend after. The weekend before she died." Poirot’s curiosity, I felt, was quite insatiable. I could see no point in these continued questions. He got the explanation of his mystery, and in my opinion the sooner he retired with dignity the better. The thought seemed to go from my brain to his. "Eh bien," he said. "This information you have given me is very helpful. I must consult this Mr. Purvis, I think you said? Thank you very much for all your help." He stooped and patted Bob. "Brave chien, va! You loved your mistress." Bob responded amiably to these overtures and, hopeful of a little play, went and fetched a large piece of coal. For this he was reproved and the coal removed from him. He sent me a glance in search of sympathy. "These women," he seemed to say. "Generous with the food, but not really sportsmen!" Nine RECONSTRUCTION OF THE DOG’S BALL INCIDENT "Well, Poirot," I said, as the gate of Littlegreen House closed behind us. "You are satisfied now, I hope!" "Yes, my friend. I am satisfied." "Thank heavens for that! All the mysteries explained! The Wicked Companion and the Rich Old Lady myth exploded. The delayed letter and even the famous incident of the dog’s ball shown in their true colours. Everything settled satisfactorily and according to Cocker!" Poirot gave a dry little cough and said: "I would not use the word satisfactorily, Hastings." "You did a minute ago." "No, no. I did not say the matter was satisfactory. I said that, personally, my curiosity was satisfied. I know the truth of the Dog’s Ball incident." "And very simple it was too!" "Not quite so simple as you think." He nodded his head several times. Then he went on: "You see, I know one little thing which you do not." "And what is that?" I asked somewhat sceptically. "I know that there is a nail driven into the skirting board at the top of the stairs." I stared at him. His face was quite grave. "Well," I said after a minute or two. "Why shouldn’t there be?" "The question is, Hastings, why should there be." "How do I know. Some household reason, perhaps. Does it matter?" "Certainly it matters. And I think of no household reason for a nail to be driven in at the top of the skirting board in that particular place. It was carefully varnished, too, so as not to show." "What are you driving at, Poirot? Do you know the reason?" "I can imagine it quite easily. If you wanted to stretch a piece of strong thread or wire across the top of the stairs about a foot from the ground, you could tie it on one side to the balusters, but on the inner wall side you would need something like a nail to attach the thread to." "Poirot!" I cried. "What on earth are you driving at?" "Mon cher ami, I am reconstructing the incident of the Dog’s Ball! Would you like to hear my reconstruction?" "Go ahead." "Eh bien, here it is. Someone had noticed the habit Bob had of leaving his ball at the top of the stairs. A dangerous thing to do—it might lead to an accident." Poirot paused a minute, then said in a slightly different tone. "If you wished to kill someone, Hastings, how would you set about it?" "I—well really—I don’t know. Fake up some alibi or something, I suppose." "A proceeding, I assure you, both difficult and dangerous. But then you are not the type of a cold-blooded cautious murderer. Does it not strike you that the easiest way of removing someone you want to remove from your path is to take advantage of accident? Accidents are happening all the time. And sometimes—Hastings—they can be helped to happen!"
A skilled and experienced waiter. Has given complete satisfaction. He has been in England about five years." Together the two men ran over a list of the hotels and restaurants where the Italian had worked. One fact struck Anthony as being possibly of significance. At two of the hotels in question there had been serious robberies during the time that Giuseppe was employed there, though no suspicion of any kind had attached to him in either case. Still, the fact was significant. Was Giuseppe merely a clever hotel thief? Had his search of Anthony’s suitcase been only part of his habitual professional tactics? He might just possibly have had the packet of letters in his hand at the moment when Anthony switched on the light, and have shoved it into his pocket mechanically so as to have his hands free. In that case, the thing was mere plain or garden robbery. Against that, there was to be put the man’s excitement of the evening before when he had caught sight of the papers lying on the table. There had been no money or object of value there such as would excite the cupidity of an ordinary thief. No, Anthony felt convinced that Giuseppe had been acting as a tool for some outside agency. With the information supplied to him by the manager, it might be possible to learn something about Giuseppe’s private life and so finally track him down. He gathered up the sheet of paper and rose. "Thank you very much indeed. It’s quite unnecessary to ask, I suppose, whether Giuseppe is still in the hotel?" The manager smiled. "His bed was not slept in, and all his things have been left behind. He must have rushed straight out after his attack upon you. I don’t think there is much chance of our seeing him again." "I imagine not. Well, thank you very much indeed. I shall be staying on here for the present." "I hope you will be successful in your task, but I confess that I am rather doubtful." "I always hope for the best." One of Anthony’s first proceedings was to question some of the other waiters who had been friendly with Giuseppe, but he obtained very little to go upon. He wrote out an advertisement on the lines he had planned, and had it sent to five of the most widely read newspapers. He was just about to go out and visit the restaurant at which Giuseppe had been previously employed when the telephone rang. Anthony took up the receiver. "Hullo, what is it?" A toneless voice replied. "Am I speaking to Mr. McGrath?" "You are. Who are you?" "This is Messrs. Balderson and Hodgkins. Just a minute, please. I will put you through to Mr. Balderson." "Our worthy publishers," thought Anthony. "So they are getting worried too, are they? They needn’t. There’s a week to run still." A hearty voice struck suddenly upon his ear. "Hullo! That Mr. McGrath?" "Speaking." "I’m Mr. Balderson of Balderson and Hodgkins. What about that manuscript, Mr. McGrath?" "Well," said Anthony, "what about it?" "Everything about it. I understand, Mr. McGrath, that you have just arrived in this country from South Africa. That being so, you can’t possibly understand the position. There’s going to be trouble about that manuscript, Mr. McGrath, big trouble. Sometimes I wish we’d never said we’d handle it." "Indeed?" "I assure you it’s so. At present I’m anxious to get it into my possession as quickly as possible, so as to have a couple of copies made. Then, if the original is destroyed—well, no harm will be done." "Dear me," said Anthony. "Yes, I expect it sounds absurd to you, Mr. McGrath. But, I assure you, you don’t appreciate the situation. There’s a determined effort being made to prevent its ever reaching this office. I say to you quite frankly and without humbug that if you attempt to bring it yourself it’s ten to one that you’ll never get here." "I doubt that," said Anthony. "When I want to get anywhere, I usually do." "You’re up against a very dangerous lot of people. I wouldn’t have believed it myself a month ago. I tell you, Mr. McGrath, we’ve been bribed and threatened and cajoled by one lot and another until we don’t know whether we’re on our heads or our heels.
Somebody else did. I wonder who?" She looked at Tommy. "And I wonder why?" Tommy had no solution to offer. He looked at Mrs. Boscowan. His Aunt Ada would have called her a scatty woman but Tommy did not think of her in that light. She was vague, with an abrupt way of jumping from one subject to another. The things she said seemed to have very little relation to the last thing she had said a minute before. She was the sort of person, Tommy thought, who might know a great deal more than she chose to reveal. Had she loved her husband or been jealous of her husband or despised her husband? There was really no clue whatever in her manner, or indeed her words. But he had the feeling that that small painted boat tied up under the bridge had caused her uneasiness. She hadn’t liked the boat being there. Suddenly he wondered if the statement she had made was true. Could she really remember from long years back whether Boscowan had painted a boat at the bridge or had not? It seemed really a very small and insignificant item. If it had been only a year ago when she had seen the picture last—but apparently it was a much longer time than that. And it had made Mrs. Boscowan uneasy. He looked at her again and saw that she was looking at him. Her curious eyes resting on him not defiantly, but only thoughtfully. Very, very thoughtfully. "What are you going to do now?" she said. That at least was easy. Tommy had no difficulty in knowing what he was going to do now. "I shall go home tonight—see if there is any news of my wife—any word from her. If not, tomorrow I shall go to this place," he said. "Sutton Chancellor. I hope that I may find my wife there." "It would depend," said Mrs. Boscowan. "Depend on what?" said Tommy sharply. Mrs. Boscowan frowned. Then she murmured, seemingly to herself, "I wonder where she is?" "You wonder where who is?" Mrs. Boscowan had turned her glance away from him. Now her eyes swept back. "Oh," she said. "I meant your wife." Then she said, "I hope she is all right." "Why shouldn’t she be all right? Tell me, Mrs. Boscowan, is there something wrong with that place—with Sutton Chancellor?" "With Sutton Chancellor? With the place?" She reflected. "No, I don’t think so. Not with the place." "I suppose I meant the house," said Tommy. "This house by the canal. Not Sutton Chancellor village." "Oh, the house," said Mrs. Boscowan. "It was a good house really. Meant for lovers, you know." "Did lovers live there?" "Sometimes. Not often enough really. If a house is built for lovers, it ought to be lived in by lovers." "Not put to some other use by someone." "You’re pretty quick," said Mrs. Boscowan. "You saw what I meant, didn’t you? You mustn’t put a house that was meant for one thing to the wrong use. It won’t like it if you do." "Do you know anything about the people who have lived there of late years?" She shook her head. "No. No. I don’t know anything about the house at all. It was never important to me, you see." "But you’re thinking of something—no, someone?" "Yes," said Mrs. Boscowan. "I suppose you’re right about that. I was thinking of—someone." "Can’t you tell me about the person you were thinking of?" "There’s really nothing to say," said Mrs. Boscowan. "Sometimes, you know, one just wonders where a person is. What’s happened to them or how they might have—developed. There’s a sort of feeling—" She waved her hands—"Would you like a kipper?" she said unexpectedly. "A kipper?" Tommy was startled. "Well, I happen to have two or three kippers here. I thought perhaps you ought to have something to eat before you catch a train. Waterloo is the station," she said. "For Sutton Chancellor, I mean. You used to have to change at Market Basing. I expect you still do." It was a dismissal. He accepted it.
"Let’s stop nagging and nattering. I’m going to be late and so are you." They went out together. "Tell Celia to buck up," he said over his shoulder. "I should like to make formal protest," said Mr. Chandra Lal. "Boracic powder, very necessary for my eyes which much inflamed by study, was removed." "And you’ll be late too, Mr. Chandra Lal," said Mrs. Hubbard firmly. "My professor is often unpunctual," said Mr. Chandra Lal gloomily, but moving towards the door. "Also, he is irritable and unreasonable when I ask many questions of searching nature." "Mais il faut qu’elle me le rende, ce compact," said Genevieve. "You must speak English, Genevieve—you’ll never learn English if you go back into French whenever you’re excited. And you had Sunday dinner in this week and you haven’t paid me for it." "Ah, I have not my purse just now. Tonight—Viens, René, nous serons en retard." "Please," said Mr. Akibombo, looking round him beseechingly. "I do not understand." "Come along, Akibombo," said Sally. "I’ll tell you about it on the way to the Institute." She nodded reassuringly to Mrs. Hubbard and steered the bewildered Akibombo out of the room. "Oh dear," said Mrs. Hubbard, drawing a deep breath. "Why in the world I ever took this job on!" Valerie, who was the only person left, grinned in a friendly fashion. "Don’t worry, Ma," she said. "It’s a good thing it’s all come out. Everyone was getting on the jumpy side." "I must say I was very surprised." "That it turned out to be Celia?" "Yes. Weren’t you?" Valerie said in a rather absent voice: "Rather obvious, really, I should have thought." "Have you been thinking so all along?" "Well, one or two things made me wonder. At any rate she’s got Colin where she wants him." "Yes. I can’t help feeling that it’s wrong." "You can’t get a man with a gun," Valerie laughed. "But a spot of kleptomania does the trick? Don’t worry, Mum. And for God’s sake make Celia give Genevieve back her compact, otherwise we shall never have any peace at meals." Mrs. Hubbard said with a sigh: "Nigel has cracked his saucer and the marmalade pot is broken." "Hell of a morning, isn’t it?" said Valerie. She went out. Mrs. Hubbard heard her voice in the hall saying cheerfully: "Good morning, Celia. The coast’s clear. All is known and all is going to be forgiven—by order of Pious Jean. As for Colin, he’s been roaring like a lion on your behalf." Celia came into the dining room. Her eyes were reddened with crying. "Oh, Mrs. Hubbard." "You’re very late, Celia. The coffee’s cold and there’s not much left to eat." "I didn’t want to meet the others." "So I gather. But you’ve got to meet them sooner or later." "Oh, yes, I know, But I thought—by this evening—it would be easier. And of course I shan’t stop here. I’ll go at the end of the week." Mrs. Hubbard frowned. "I don’t think there’s any need for that. You must expect a little unpleasantness—that’s only fair—but they’re generous-minded young people on the whole. Of course you’ll have to make reparation as far as possible." Celia interrupted her eagerly. "Oh, yes, I’ve got my cheque book here. That’s one of the things I wanted to say to you." She looked down. She was holding a cheque book and an envelope in her hand. "I’d written to you in case you weren’t about when I got down, to say how sorry I was and I meant to put in a cheque, so that you could square up with people—but my pen ran out of ink." "We’ll have to make a list." "I have—as far as possible. But I don’t know whether to try and buy new things or just to give the money." "I’ll think it over. It’s difficult to say offhand." "Oh, but do let me give you a cheque now. I’d feel so much better." About to say uncompromisingly "Really?
Poirot found the lady in her own boudoir. She was lying down on the divan, her head propped up by cushions, and she looked startlingly ill and haggard; far more so than she had done on the day Poirot arrived. "So you have come back, M. Poirot?" "I have returned, Madame." "You went to London?" Poirot nodded. "You didn’t tell me you were going," said Lady Astwell sharply. "A thousand apologies, Madame, I am in error, I should have done so. La prochaine fois—" "You will do exactly the same," interrupted Lady Astwell with a shrewd touch of humour. "Do things first and tell people afterwards, that is your motto right enough." "Perhaps it has also been Madame’s motto?" His eyes twinkled. "Now and then, perhaps," admitted the other. "What did you go up to London for, M. Poirot? You can tell me now, I suppose?" "I had an interview with the good Inspector Miller, and also with the excellent Mr. Mayhew." Lady Astwell’s eyes searched his face. "And you think, now—?" she said slowly. Poirot’s eyes were fixed on her steadily. "That there is a possibility of Charles Leverson’s innocence," he said gravely. "Ah!" Lady Astwell half-sprung up, sending two cushions rolling to the ground. "I was right, then, I was right!" "I said a possibility, Madame, that is all." Something in his tone seemed to strike her. She raised herself on one elbow and regarded him piercingly. "Can I do anything?" she asked. "Yes," he nodded his head, "you can tell me, Lady Astwell, why you suspect Owen Trefusis." "I have told you I know—that’s all." "Unfortunately, that is not enough," said Poirot drily. "Cast your mind back to the fatal evening, Madame. Remember each detail, each tiny happening. What did you notice or observe about the secretary? I, Hercule Poirot, tell you there must have been something." Lady Astwell shook her head. "I hardly noticed him at all that evening," she said, "and I certainly was not thinking of him." "Your mind was taken up by something else?" "Yes." "With your husband’s animus against Miss Lily Margrave?" "That’s right," said Lady Astwell, nodding her head; "you seem to know all about it, M. Poirot." "Me, I know everything," declared the little man with an absurdly grandiose air. "I am fond of Lily, M. Poirot; you have seen that for yourself. Reuben began kicking up a rumpus about some reference or other of hers. Mind you, I don’t say she hadn’t cheated about it. She had. But, bless you, I have done many worse things than that in the old days. You have got to be up to all sorts of tricks to get round theatrical managers. There is nothing I wouldn’t have written, or said, or done, in my time. "Lily wanted this job, and she put in a lot of slick work that was not quite—well, quite the thing, you know. Men are so stupid about that sort of thing; Lily really might have been a bank clerk absconding with millions for the fuss he made about it. I was terribly worried all the evening, because, although I could usually get round Reuben in the end, he was terribly pigheaded at times, poor darling. So of course I hadn’t time to go noticing secretaries, not that one does notice Mr. Trefusis much, anyway. He is just there and that’s all there is to it." "I have noticed that fact about M. Trefusis," said Poirot. "His is not a personality that stands forth, that shines, that hits you cr-r-rack." "No," said Lady Astwell, "he is not like Victor." "M. Victor Astwell is, I should say, explosive." "That is a splendid word for him," said Lady Astwell. "He explodes all over the house, like one of those thingimyjig firework things." "A somewhat quick temper, I should imagine?" suggested Poirot. "Oh, he’s a perfect devil when roused," said Lady Astwell, "but bless you, I’m not afraid of him. All bark and no bite to Victor." Poirot looked at the ceiling.
"Make all arrangements for Rustonbury, I would like to sing there, but there is one condition – the opera must be Tosca." Cowan looked doubtful. "That will be rather difficult – for a private show, you know, scenery and all that." " Tosca or nothing." Cowan looked at her very closely. What he saw seemed to convince him, he gave a brief nod and rose to his feet. "I will see what I can arrange," he said quietly. Nazorkoff rose too. She seemed more anxious than was usual, with her, to explain her decision. "It is my greatest rôle, Cowan. I can sing that part as no other woman has ever sung it." "It is a fine part," said Cowan. "Jeritza made a great hit in it last year." "Jeritza!" cried the other, a flush mounting in her cheeks. She proceeded to give him at great length her opinion of Jeritza. Cowan, who was used to listening to singers" opinions of other singers, abstracted his attention till the tirade was over; he then said obstinately: "Anyway, she sings "Vissi D’Arte" lying on her stomach." "And why not?" demanded Nazorkoff. "What is there to prevent her? I will sing it on my back with my legs waving in the air." Cowan shook his head with perfect seriousness. "I don’t believe that would go down any," he informed her. "All the same, that sort of thing takes on, you know." "No one can sing "Vissi D’Arte" as I can," said Nazorkoff confidently. "I sing it in the voice of the convent – as the good nuns taught me to sing years and years ago. In the voice of a choir boy or an angel, without feeling, without passion." "I know," said Cowan heartily. "I have heard you, you are wonderful." "That is art," said the prima donna, "to pay the price, to suffer, to endure, and in the end not only to have all knowledge, but also the power to go back, right back to the beginning and recapture the lost beauty of the heart of a child." Cowan looked at her curiously. She was staring past him with a strange, blank look in her eyes, and something about that look of hers gave him a creepy feeling. Her lips just parted, and she whispered a few words softly to herself. He only just caught them. "At last," she murmured. "At last – after all these years." Lady Rustonbury was both an ambitious and an artistic woman, she ran the two qualities in harness with complete success. She had the good fortune to have a husband who cared for neither ambition nor art and who therefore did not hamper her in any way. The Earl of Rustonbury was a large, square man, with an interest in horseflesh and in nothing else. He admired his wife, and was proud of her, and was glad that his great wealth enabled her to indulge all her schemes. The private theatre had been built less than a hundred years ago by his grandfather. It was Lady Rustonbury’s chief toy – she had already given an Ibsen drama in it, and a play of the ultra new school, all divorce and drugs, also a poetical fantasy with Cubist scenery. The forthcoming performance of Tosca had created wide-spread interest. Lady Rustonbury was entertaining a very distinguished houseparty for it, and all London that counted was motoring down to attend. Mme Nazorkoff and her company had arrived just before luncheon. The new young American tenor, Hensdale, was to sing "Cavaradossi’, and Roscari, the famous Italian baritone, was to be Scarpia. The expense of the production had been enormous, but nobody cared about that. Paula Nazorkoff was in the best of humours, she was charming, gracious, her most delightful and cosmopolitan self. Cowan was agreeably surprised, and prayed that this state of things might continue. After luncheon the company went out to the theatre, and inspected the scenery and various appointments. The orchestra was under the direction of Mr Samuel Ridge, one of England’s most famous conductors. Everything seemed to be going without a hitch, and strangely enough, that fact worried Mr Cowan. He was more at home in an atmosphere of trouble, this unusual peace disturbed him.
Boom! The gong resounded imposingly. As it died away, the door was flung open and Digby announced: "Dinner is served." Then, well-trained servant though he was, a look of complete astonishment flashed over his impassive face. For the first time in his memory, his master was not in the room! That his astonishment was shared by everybody was evident. Mrs. Lytcham Roche gave a little uncertain laugh. "Most amazing. Really—I don’t know what to do." Everybody was taken aback. The whole tradition of Lytcham Close was undermined. What could have happened? Conversation ceased. There was a strained sense of waiting. At last the door opened once more; a sigh of relief went round only tempered by a slight anxiety as to how to treat the situation. Nothing must be said to emphasize the fact that the host had himself transgressed the stringent rule of the house. But the newcomer was not Lytcham Roche. Instead of the big, bearded, viking- like figure, there advanced into the long drawing room a very small man, palpably a foreigner, with an egg-shaped head, a flamboyant moustache, and most irreproachable evening clothes. His eyes twinkling, the newcomer advanced toward Mrs. Lytcham Roche. "My apologies, madame," he said. "I am, I fear, a few minutes late." "Oh, not at all!" murmured Mrs. Lytcham Roche vaguely. "Not at all, Mr.—" She paused. "Poirot, madame. Hercule Poirot." He heard behind him a very soft "Oh"—a gasp rather than an articulate word—a woman’s ejaculation. Perhaps he was flattered. "You knew I was coming?" he murmured gently. "N’est-ce pas, madame? Your husband told you." "Oh—oh, yes," said Mrs. Lytcham Roche, her manner unconvincing in the extreme. "I mean, I suppose so. I am so terribly unpractical, M. Poirot. I never remember anything. But fortunately Digby sees to everything." "My train, I fear, was late," said M. Poirot. "An accident on the line in front of us." "Oh," cried Joan, "so that’s why dinner was put off." His eye came quickly round to her—a most uncannily discerning eye. "That is something out of the usual—eh?" "I really can’t think—" began Mrs. Lytcham Roche, and then stopped. "I mean," she went on confusedly, "it’s so odd. Hubert never—" Poirot’s eyes swept rapidly round the group. "M. Lytcham Roche is not down yet?" "No, and it’s so extraordinary—" She looked appealingly at Geoffrey Keene. "Mr. Lytcham Roche is the soul of punctuality," explained Keene. "He has not been late for dinner for—well, I don’t know that he was ever late before." To a stranger the situation must have been ludicrous—the perturbed faces and the general consternation. "I know," said Mrs. Lytcham Roche with the air of one solving a problem. "I shall ring for Digby." She suited the action to the word. The butler came promptly. "Digby," said Mrs. Lytcham Roche, "your master. Is he—" As was customary with her, she did not finish her sentence. It was clear that the butler did not expect her to do so. He replied promptly and with understanding. "Mr. Lytcham Roche came down at five minutes to eight and went into the study, madam." "Oh!" She paused. "You don’t think—I mean—he heard the gong?" "I think he must have—the gong is immediately outside the study door." "Yes, of course, of course," said Mrs. Lytcham Roche more vaguely than ever. "Shall I inform him, madam, that dinner is ready?" "Oh, thank you, Digby. Yes, I think—yes, yes, I should." "I don’t know," said Mrs. Lytcham Roche to her guests as the butler withdrew, "what I would do without Digby!" A pause followed. Then Digby reentered the room. His breath was coming a little faster than is considered good form in a butler.
"That’s not the same thing," Nina’s smile widened. "Come here, Vernon." He came obediently. Nina put her hands on his shoulders and looked him over quizzically. He submitted patiently. He never minded being touched by Aunt Nina. Her hands were light – not clutching like his mother’s. "Yes," said Nina. "You’re a Deyre – very much so. Rough luck on Myra, but there it is." "What does that mean?" said Vernon. "It means that you’re like your father’s family and not like your mother’s – worse luck for you." "Why worse luck for me?" "Because the Deyres, Vernon, are neither happy nor successful. And they can’t make good." What funny things Aunt Nina said! She said them half laughingly, so perhaps she didn’t mean them. And yet somehow – there was something in them that, though he didn’t understand, made him afraid. "Would it be better," he said suddenly, "to be like Uncle Sydney?" "Much better. Much better." Vernon considered. "But then," he said slowly, "if I was like Uncle Sydney –" He stopped, trying to get his thoughts into words. "Yes, well?" "If I was Uncle Sydney, I should have to live at Larch Hurst – and not here." Larch Hurst was a stoutly built red brick villa near Birmingham where Vernon had once been taken to stay with Uncle Sydney and Aunt Carrie. It had three acres of superb pleasure grounds, a rose garden, a pergola, a goldfish tank, and two excellently fitted bathrooms. "And wouldn’t you like that?" asked Nina, still watching him. "No!" said Vernon. A great sigh broke from him, heaving his small chest. "I want to live here – always, always, always!" 2 Soon after this, something queer happened about Aunt Nina. His mother began to speak of her and his father managed to hush her down with a sideways glance at himself. He only carried away a couple of phrases: "It’s that poor child I’m so sorry for. You’ve only got to look at Nina to see she’s a bad lot and always will be." The poor child, Vernon knew, was his cousin Josephine whom he had never seen, but to whom he sent presents at Christmas and duly received them in return. He wondered why Josephine was "poor" and why his mother was sorry for her, and also why Aunt Nina was a bad lot – whatever that meant. He asked Miss Robbins, who got very pink and told him he mustn’t talk about "things like that’. Things like what? Vernon wondered. However, he didn’t think much more about it, till four months later, when the matter was mentioned once more. This time no one noticed Vernon’s presence – feelings were running too high for that. His mother and father were in the middle of a vehement discussion. His mother, as usual, was vociferous, excited. His father was very quiet. "Disgraceful!" Myra was saying. "Within three months of running away with one man to go off with another. It shows her up in her true light. I always knew what she was like. Men, men, men, nothing but men!" "You’re welcome to any opinion you choose, Myra. That’s not the point. I knew perfectly how it would strike you." "And anyone else too, I should think! I can’t understand you, Walter. You call yourself an old family and all that –" "We are an old family," he put in quietly. "I should have thought you’d have minded a bit about the honour of your name. She’s disgraced it – and if you were a real man you’d cast her off utterly as she deserves." "Traditional scene from the melodrama, in fact." "You always sneer and laugh! Morals mean nothing to you – absolutely nothing." "At the minute, as I’ve been trying to make you understand, it’s not a question of morals. It’s a question of my sister being destitute. I must go out to Monte Carlo and see what can be done. I should have thought anyone in their senses would see that." "Thank you. You’re not very polite, are you? And whose fault is it she’s destitute, I should like to know? She had a good husband –" "No – not that." "At any rate, he married her." It was his father who flushed this time.
They proved, or so I thought at the time, to have been disturbed by Lawrence, bent on the same errand as myself. But I remembered that afterwards he and I together had come upon another faintly marked trail which proved to be that of the Inspector. On thinking it over, I distinctly remembered that the first trail (Lawrence’s) had been much more noticeable than the second, as though more than one person had been passing that way. And I reflected that that was probably what had drawn Lawrence’s attention to it in the first instance. Supposing that it had originally been made by either Dr. Stone or else Miss Cram? I remembered, or else I imagined remembering, that there had been several withered leaves on broken twigs. If so, the trail could not have been made the afternoon of our search. I was just approaching the spot in question. I recognized it easily enough and once more forced my way through the bushes. This time I noticed fresh twigs broken. Someone had passed this way since Lawrence and myself. I soon came to the place where I had encountered Lawrence. The faint trail, however, persisted farther, and I continued to follow it. Suddenly it widened out into a little clearing, which showed signs of recent upheaval. I say a clearing, because the denseness of the undergrowth was thinned out there, but the branches of the trees met overhead and the whole place was not more than a few feet across. On the other side, the undergrowth grew densely again, and it seemed quite clear that no one had forced a way through it recently. Nevertheless, it seemed to have been disturbed in one place. I went across and kneeled down, thrusting the bushes aside with both hands. A glint of shiny brown surface rewarded me. Full of excitement, I thrust my arm in and with a good deal of difficulty I extracted a small brown suitcase. I uttered an ejaculation of triumph. I had been successful. Coldly snubbed by Constable Hurst, I had yet proved right in my reasoning. Here without doubt was the suitcase carried by Miss Cram. I tried the hasp, but it was locked. As I rose to my feet I noticed a small brownish crystal lying on the ground. Almost automatically, I picked it up and slipped it into my pocket. Then grasping my find by the handle, I retraced my steps to the path. As I climbed over the stile into the lane, an agitated voice near at hand called out: "Oh! Mr. Clement. You’ve found it! How clever of you!" Mentally registering the fact that in the art of seeing without being seen, Miss Marple had no rival, I balanced my find on the palings between us. "That’s the one," said Miss Marple "I’d know it anywhere." This, I thought, was a slight exaggeration. There are thousands of cheap shiny suitcases all exactly alike. No one could recognize one particular one seen from such a distance away by moonlight, but I realized that the whole business of the suitcase was Miss Marple’s particular triumph and, as such, she was entitled to a little pardonable exaggeration. "It’s locked, I suppose, Mr. Clement?" "Yes. I’m just going to take it down to the police station." "You don’t think it would be better to telephone?" Of course unquestionably it would be better to telephone. To stride through the village, suitcase in hand, would be to court a probably undesirable publicity. So I unlatched Miss Marple’s garden gate and entered the house by the French window, and from the sanctity of the drawing room with the door shut, I telephoned my news. The result was that Inspector Slack announced he would be up himself in a couple of jiffies. When he arrived it was in his most cantankerous mood. "So we’ve got it, have we?" he said. "You know, sir, you shouldn’t keep things to yourself. If you’d any reason to believe you knew where the article in question was hidden, you ought to have reported it to the proper authorities." "It was a pure accident," I said. "The idea just happened to occur to me." "And that’s a likely tale. Nearly three-quarters of a mile of woodland, and you go right to the proper spot and lay your hand upon it." I would have given Inspector Slack the steps in reasoning which led me to this particular spot, but he had achieved his usual result of putting my back up. I said nothing. "Well?"
Only the third member of the party was unknown to them. The three entered the house, pulling the door to behind them. Slowly they mounted the rickety stairs. At the top was the ragged curtain hiding the recess where Tommy had hidden that day. Tuppence had heard the story from Jane in her character of "Annette." She looked at the tattered velvet with interest. Even now she could almost swear it moved—as though someone was behind it. So strong was the illusion that she almost fancied she could make out the outline of a form . . . Supposing Mr. Brown—Julius—was there waiting. . . . Impossible of course! Yet she almost went back to put the curtain aside and make sure. . . . Now they were entering the prison room. No place for anyone to hide here, thought Tuppence, with a sigh of relief, then chided herself indignantly. She must not give way to this foolish fancying—this curious insistent feeling that Mr. Brown was in the house . . . Hark! what was that? A stealthy footstep on the stairs? There was someone in the house! Absurd! She was becoming hysterical. Jane had gone straight to the picture of Marguerite. She unhooked it with a steady hand. The dust lay thick upon it, and festoons of cobwebs lay between it and the wall. Sir James handed her a pocketknife, and she stripped away the brown paper from the back . . . The advertisement page of a magazine fell out. Jane picked it up. Holding apart the frayed inner edges she extracted two thin sheets covered with writing! No dummy this time! The real thing! "We’ve got it," said Tuppence. "At last. . . ." The moment was almost breathless in its emotion. Forgotten the faint creakings, the imagined noises of a minute ago. None of them had eyes for anything but what Jane held in her hand. Sir James took it, and scrutinized it attentively. "Yes," he said quietly, "this is the ill-fated draft treaty!" "We’ve succeeded," said Tuppence. There was awe and an almost wondering unbelief in her voice. Sir James echoed her words as he folded the paper carefully and put it away in his pocketbook, then he looked curiously round the dingy room. "It was here that your young friend was confined for so long, was it not?" he said. "A truly sinister room. You notice the absence of windows, and the thickness of the close-fitting door. Whatever took place here would never be heard by the outside world." Tuppence shivered. His words woke a vague alarm in her. What if there was someone concealed in the house? Someone who might bar that door on them, and leave them to die like rats in a trap? Then she realized the absurdity of her thought. The house was surrounded by police who, if they failed to reappear, would not hesitate to break in and make a thorough search. She smiled at her own foolishness—then looked up with a start to find Sir James watching her. He gave her an emphatic little nod. "Quite right, Miss Tuppence. You scent danger. So do I. So does Miss Finn." "Yes," admitted Jane. "It’s absurd—but I can’t help it." Sir James nodded again. "You feel—as we all feel—the presence of Mr. Brown. Yes"—as Tuppence made a movement—"not a doubt of it—Mr. Brown is here. . . ." "In this house?" "In this room . . . You don’t understand? I am Mr. Brown. . . ." Stupefied, unbelieving, they stared at him. The very lines of his face had changed. It was a different man who stood before them. He smiled a slow cruel smile. "Neither of you will leave this room alive! You said just now we had succeeded. I have succeeded! The draft treaty is mine." His smile grew wider as he looked at Tuppence. "Shall I tell you how it will be? Sooner or later the police will break in, and they will find three victims of Mr.

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