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If, however, Léonie felt she ought to go to the police, she must do so, but it would be very unpleasant for her—and so on. "Léonie took immediate fright at the mention of the police. She adored you and had implicit faith in what M. le docteur thought best. Kennedy paid her a handsome sum of money and hustled her back to Switzerland. But before she went, she hinted something to Lily as to your father’s having killed his wife and that she had seen the body buried. That fitted in with Lily’s ideas at the time. She took it for granted that it was Kelvin Halliday Léonie had seen digging the grave." "But Kennedy didn’t know that, of course," said Gwenda. "Of course not. When he got Lily’s letter the words in it that frightened him were that Léonie had told Lily what she had seen out of the window and the mention of the car outside." "The car? Jackie Afflick’s car?" "Another misunderstanding. Lily remembered, or thought she remembered, a car like Jackie Afflick’s being outside in the road. Already her imagination had got to work on the Mystery Man who came over to see Mrs. Halliday. With the hospital next door, no doubt a good many cars did park along this road. But you must remember that the doctor’s car was actually standing outside the hospital that night—he probably leaped to the conclusion that she meant his car. The adjective posh was meaningless to him." "I see," said Giles. "Yes, to a guilty conscience that letter of Lily’s might look like blackmail. But how do you know all about Léonie?" Her lips pursed close together, Miss Marple said: "He went—right over the edge, you know. As soon as the men Inspector Primer had left rushed in and seized him, he went over the whole crime again and again—everything he’d done. Léonie died, it seems, very shortly after her return to Switzerland. Overdose of some sleeping tablets … Oh no, he wasn’t taking any chances." "Like trying to poison me with the brandy." "You were very dangerous to him, you and Giles. Fortunately you never told him about your memory of seeing Helen dead in the hall. He never knew there had been an eyewitness." "Those telephone calls to Fane and Afflick," said Giles. "Did he put those through?" "Yes. If there was an enquiry as to who could have tampered with the brandy, either of them would make an admirable suspect, and if Jackie Afflick drove over in his car alone, it might tie him in with Lily Kimble’s murder. Fane would most likely have an alibi." "And he seemed fond of me," said Gwenda. "Little Gwennie." "He had to play his part," said Miss Marple. "Imagine what it meant to him. After eighteen years, you and Giles come along, asking questions, burrowing into the past, disturbing a murder that had seemed dead but was only sleeping … Murder in retrospect … A horribly dangerous thing to do, my dears. I have been sadly worried." "Poor Mrs. Cocker," said Gwenda. "She had a terribly near escape. I’m glad she’s going to be all right. Do you think she’ll come back to us, Giles? After all this?" "She will if there’s a nursery," said Giles gravely, and Gwenda blushed, and Miss Marple smiled a little and looked out across Torbay. "How very odd it was that it should happen the way it did," mused Gwenda. "My having those rubber gloves on, and looking at them, and then his coming into the hall and saying those words that sounded so like the others. "Face’… and then: "Eyes dazzled’—" She shuddered. "Cover her face … Mine eyes dazzle … she died young … that might have been me … if Miss Marple hadn’t been there." She paused and said softly, "Poor Helen … Poor lovely Helen, who died young … You know, Giles, she isn’t there anymore—in the house—in the hall. I could feel that yesterday before we left. There’s just the house. And the house is fond of us. We can go back if we like…."
And I know who put the jewel box in my room. I know everything…Do not lie to me, Kameni. I tell you I know." Kameni made no protest. He stood looking at her steadily and his gaze did not falter. When he spoke, his voice was grave and for once there was no smile on his face. "I shall not lie to you, Renisenb." He waited for a moment, frowning a little as though trying to arrange his thoughts. "In a way, Renisenb, I am glad that you do know. Though it is not quite as you think." "You gave the broken amulet to her–as you would have given it to me–as a sign that you were halves of the same whole. Those were your words." "You are angry, Renisenb. I am glad because that shows that you love me. But all the same I must make you understand. I did not give the amulet to Nofret. She gave it to me…" He paused. "Perhaps you do not believe me, but it is true. I swear that it is true." Renisenb said slowly: "I will not say that I do not believe you…That may very well be true." Nofret’s dark, unhappy face rose up before her eyes. Kameni was going on, eagerly, boyishly… "Try and understand, Renisenb. Nofret was very beautiful. I was flattered and pleased–who would not be? But I never really loved her–" Renisenb felt an odd pang of pity. No, Kameni had not loved Nofret–but Nofret had loved Kameni–had loved him despairingly and bitterly. It was at just this spot on the Nile bank that she had spoken to Nofret that morning, offering her friendship and affection. She remembered only too well the dark tide of hate and misery that had emanated from the girl then. The cause of it was clear enough now. Poor Nofret–the concubine of a fussy, elderly man, eating her heart out for love of a gay, careless, handsome young man who had cared little or nothing for her. Kameni was going on eagerly. "Do you not understand, Renisenb, that as soon as I came here, I saw you and loved you? That from that moment I thought of no one else? Nofret saw it plainly enough." Yes, Renisenb thought, Nofret had seen it. Nofret had hated her from that moment–and Renisenb did not feel inclined to blame her. "I did not even want to write the letter to your father. I did not want to have anything to do with Nofret’s schemes any more. But it was difficult–you must try and realize that it was difficult." "Yes, yes," Renisenb spoke impatiently. "All that does not matter. It is only Nofret that matters. She was very unhappy. She loved you, I think, very much." "Well, I did not love her." Kameni spoke impatiently. "You are cruel," said Renisenb. "No, I am a man, that is all. If a woman chooses to make herself miserable about me, it annoys me, that is the simple truth. I did not want Nofret. I wanted you. Oh, Renisenb, you cannot be angry with me for that?" In spite of herself she smiled. "Do not let Nofret who is dead make trouble between us who are living. I love you, Renisenb, and you love me and that is all that matters." Yes, Renisenb thought, that is all that matters… She looked at Kameni who stood with his head a little on one side, a pleading expression on his gay, confident face. He looked very young. Renisenb thought: "He is right. Nofret is dead and we are alive. I understand her hatred of me now–and I am sorry that she suffered–but it was not my fault. And it was not Kameni’s fault that he loved me and not her. These things happen." Teti, who had been playing on the River bank, came up and pulled her mother’s hand. "Shall we go home now? Mother–shall we go home?" Renisenb gave a deep sigh. "Yes," she said, "we will go home." They walked towards the house, Teti running a little way in front of them. Kameni gave a sigh of satisfaction.
He was a quite good-looking man of about forty with a rather expressionless face, wearing horn-rimmed spectacles and carrying a briefcase. "Hello, darling," Henry greeted his wife, as he switched on the wall-bracket lights and put his briefcase on the armchair. "Hello, Henry," Clarissa replied. "Hasn’t it been an absolutely awful day?" "Has it?" He came across to lean over the back of the sofa and kiss her. "I hardly know where to begin," she told him. "Have a drink first." "Not just now," Henry replied, going to the French windows and closing the curtains. "Who’s in the house?" Slightly surprised at the question, Clarissa answered, "Nobody. It’s the Elgins" night off. Black Thursday, you know. We’ll dine on cold ham, chocolate mousse, and the coffee will be really good because I shall make it." A questioning "Um?" was Henry’s only response to this. Struck by his manner, Clarissa asked, "Henry, is anything the matter?" "Well, yes, in a way," he told her. "Something wrong?" she queried. "Is it Miranda?" "No, no, there’s nothing wrong, really," Henry assured her. "I should say quite the contrary. Yes, quite the contrary." "Darling," said Clarissa, speaking with affection and only a very faint note of ridicule, "do I perceive behind that impenetrable Foreign Office façade a certain human excitement?" Henry wore an air of pleasured anticipation. "Well," he admitted, "it is rather exciting in a way." He paused, then added, "As it happens, there’s a slight fog in London." "Is that very exciting?" Clarissa asked. "No, no, not the fog, of course." "Well?" Clarissa urged him. Henry looked quickly around, as though to assure himself that he could not be overheard, and then went across to the sofa to sit beside Clarissa. "You’ll have to keep this to yourself," he impressed upon her, his voice very grave. "Yes?" Clarissa prompted him, hopefully. "It’s really very secret," Henry reiterated. "Nobody’s supposed to know. But, actually, you’ll have to know." "Well, come on, tell me," she urged him. Henry looked around again, and then turned to Clarissa. "It’s all very hush- hush," he insisted. He paused for effect, and then announced, "The Soviet Premier, Kalendorff, is flying to London for an important conference with the Prime Minister tomorrow." Clarissa was unimpressed. "Yes, I know," she replied. Henry looked startled. "What do you mean, you know?" he demanded. "I read it in the paper last Sunday," Clarissa informed him casually. "I can’t think why you want to read these low-class papers," Henry expostulated. He sounded really put out. "Anyway," he continued, "the papers couldn’t possibly know that Kalendorff was coming over. It’s top secret." "My poor sweet," Clarissa murmured. Then, in a voice in which compassion was mixed with incredulity, she continued, "But top secret? Really! The things you high-ups believe." Henry rose and began to stride around the room, looking distinctly worried. "Oh dear, there must have been some leak," he muttered. "I should have thought," Clarissa observed tartly, "that by now you’d know there always is a leak. In fact I should have thought that you’d all be prepared for it." Henry looked somewhat affronted. "The news was only released officially tonight," he told her. "Kalendorff’s plane is due at Heathrow at eight-forty, but actually–" He leaned over the sofa and looked doubtfully at his wife. "Now, Clarissa," he asked her very solemnly, "can I really trust you to be discreet?" "I’m much more discreet than any Sunday newspaper," Clarissa protested, swinging her feet off the sofa and sitting up. Henry sat on an arm of the sofa and leaned towards Clarissa conspiratorially. "The conference will be at Whitehall tomorrow," he informed her, "but it would be a great advantage if a conversation could take place first between Sir John himself and Kalendorff. Now, naturally the reporters are all waiting at Heathrow, and the moment the plane arrives Kalendorff’s movements are more or less public property."
" Miss Lingard said fiercely: "Gervase Chevenix-Gore was a bully, a snob and a windbag! I wasn’t going to have him ruin Ruth’s happiness." Poirot said gently: "Ruth is your daughter?" "Yes—she is my daughter—I’ve often—thought about her. When I heard Sir Gervase Chevenix-Gore wanted someone to help him with a family history, I jumped at the chance. I was curious to see my—my girl. I knew Lady Chevenix-Gore wouldn’t recognize me. It was years ago—I was young and pretty then, and I changed my name after that time. Besides Lady Chevenix-Gore is too vague to know anything definitely. I liked her, but I hated the Chevenix-Gore family. They treated me like dirt. And here was Gervase going to ruin Ruth’s life with pride and snobbery. But I determined that she should be happy. And she will be happy—if she never knows about me!" It was a plea—not a question. Poirot bent his head gently. "No one shall know from me." Miss Lingard said quietly: "Thank you." III Later, when the police had come and gone, Poirot found Ruth Lake with her husband in the garden. She said challengingly: "Did you really think that I had done it, M. Poirot?" "I knew, madame, that you could not have done it—because of the michaelmas daisies." "The michaelmas daisies? I don’t understand." "Madame, there were four footprints and four footprints only in the border. But if you had been picking flowers there would have been many more. That meant that between your first visit and your second, someone had smoothed all those footsteps away. That could only have been done by the guilty person, and since your footprints had not been removed, you were not the guilty person. You were automatically cleared." Ruth’s face lightened. "Oh, I see. You know—I suppose it’s dreadful, but I feel rather sorry for that poor woman. After all, she did confess rather than let me be arrested—or at any rate, that is what she thought. That was—rather noble in a way. I hate to think of her going through a trial for murder." Poirot said gently: "Do not distress yourself. It will not come to that. The doctor, he tells me that she has serious heart trouble. She will not live many weeks." "I’m glad of that." Ruth picked an autumn crocus and pressed it idly against her cheek. "Poor woman. I wonder why she did it. . . ." Two Hercule Poirot sat in the corner of a first-class carriage speeding through the English countryside. Meditatively he took from his pocket a neatly folded telegram, which he opened and reread: Take four-thirty from St. Pancras instruct guard have express stopped at Whimperley. Chevenix-Gore. He folded up the telegram again and put it back in his pocket. The guard on the train had been obsequious. The gentleman was going to Hamborough Close? Oh, yes, Sir Gervase Chevenix-Gore’s guests always had the express stopped at Whimperley. "A special kind of prerogative, I think it is, sir." Since then the guard had paid two visits to the carriage—the first in order to assure the traveller that everything would be done to keep the carriage for himself, the second to announce that the express was running ten minutes late. The train was due to arrive at 7:50, but it was exactly two minutes past eight when Hercule Poirot descended on to the platform of the little country station and pressed the expected half crown into the attentive guard’s hand. There was a whistle from the engine, and the Northern Express began to move once more. A tall chauffeur in dark green uniform stepped up to Poirot. "Mr. Poirot? For Hamborough Close?" He picked up the detective’s neat valise and led the way out of the station. A big Rolls was waiting. The chauffeur held the door open for Poirot to get in, arranged a sumptuous fur rug over his knees, and they drove off. After some ten minutes of cross-country driving, round sharp corners and down country lanes, the car turned in at a wide gateway flanked with huge stone griffons. They drove through a park and up to the house.
That is to say I’ve known him for a period of, well, sixteen years I should say. Mind you, we are not the only firm of solicitors he employed, not by a long way." Inspector Neele nodded. He knew that. Billingsley, Horsethorpe & Walters were what one might describe as Rex Fortescue’s reputable solicitors. For his less reputable dealings he had employed several different and slightly less scrupulous firms. "Now what do you want to know?" continued Mr. Billingsley. "I’ve told you about his will. Percival Fortescue is the residuary legatee." "I’m interested now," said Inspector Neele, "in the will of his widow. On Mr. Fortescue’s death she came into the sum of one hundred thousand pounds, I understand?" Billingsley nodded his head. "A considerable sum of money," he said, "and I may tell you in confidence, Inspector, that it is one the firm could ill have afforded to pay out." "The firm, then, is not prosperous?" "Frankly," said Mr. Billingsley, "and strictly between ourselves, it’s drifting onto the rocks and has been for the last year and a half." "For any particular reason?" "Why yes. I should say the reason was Rex Fortescue himself. For the last year Rex Fortescue’s been acting like a madman. Selling good stock here, buying speculative stuff there, talking big about it all the time in the most extraordinary way. Wouldn’t listen to advice. Percival—the son, you know—he came here urging me to use my influence with his father. He’d tried, apparently and been swept aside. Well, I did what I could, but Fortescue wouldn’t listen to reason. Really, he seems to have been a changed man." "But not, I gather, a depressed man," said Inspector Neele. "No, no. Quite the contrary. Flamboyant, bombastic." Inspector Neele nodded. An idea which had already taken form in his mind was strengthened. He thought he was beginning to understand some of the causes of friction between Percival and his father. Mr. Billingsley was continuing: "But it’s no good asking me about the wife’s will. I didn’t make any will for her." "No. I know that," said Neele. "I’m merely verifying that she had something to leave. In short, a hundred thousand pounds." Mr. Billingsley was shaking his head violently. "No, no, my dear sir. You’re wrong there." "Do you mean the hundred thousand pounds was only left to her for her lifetime?" "No—no—it was left to her outright. But there was a clause in the will governing that bequest. That is to say, Fortescue’s wife did not inherit the sum unless she survived him for one month. That, I may say, is a clause fairly common nowadays. It has come into operation owing to the uncertainties of air travel. If two people are killed in an air accident, it becomes exceedingly difficult to say who was the survivor and a lot of very curious problems arise." Inspector Neele was staring at him. "Then Adele Fortescue had not got a hundred thousand pounds to leave. What happens to that money?" "It goes back into the firm. Or rather, I should say, it goes to the residuary legatee." "And the residuary legatee is Mr. Percival Fortescue." "That’s right," said Billingsley, "it goes to Percival Fortescue. And with the state the firm’s affairs are in," he added unguardedly, "I should say that he’ll need it!" IV "The things you policemen want to know," said Inspector Neele’s doctor friend. "Come on, Bob, spill it." "Well, as we’re alone together you can’t quote me, fortunately! But I should say, you know, that your idea’s dead right. GPI by the sound of it all. The family suspected it and wanted to get him to see a doctor. He wouldn’t. It acts just in the way you describe. Loss of judgment, megalomania, violent fits of irritation and anger—boastfulness—delusions of grandeur—of being a great financial genius.
"Our other guests are late," said Mr. Shaitana. "My fault, perhaps. I believe I told them 8:15." But at that moment the door opened and the butler announced: "Dr. Roberts." The man who came in did so with a kind of parody of a brisk bedside manner. He was a cheerful, highly-coloured individual of middle age. Small twinkling eyes, a touch of baldness, a tendency to embonpoint and a general air of well- scrubbed and disinfected medical practitioner. His manner was cheerful and confident. You felt that his diagnosis would be correct and his treatments agreeable and practical—"a little champagne in convalescence perhaps." A man of the world! "Not late, I hope?" said Dr. Roberts genially. He shook hands with his host and was introduced to the others. He seemed particularly gratified at meeting Battle. "Why, you’re one of the big noises at Scotland Yard, aren’t you? This is interesting! Too bad to make you talk shop but I warn you I shall have a try at it. Always been interested in crime. Bad thing for a doctor, perhaps. Mustn’t say so to my nervous patients—ha ha!" Again the door opened. "Mrs. Lorrimer." Mrs. Lorrimer was a well-dressed woman of sixty. She had finely cut features, beautifully arranged grey hair, and a clear, incisive voice. "I hope I’m not late," she said, advancing to her host. She turned from him to greet Dr. Roberts, with whom she was acquainted. The butler announced: "Major Despard." Major Despard was a tall, lean, handsome man, his face slightly marred by a scar on the temple. Introductions completed, he gravitated naturally to the side of Colonel Race—and the two men were soon talking sport and comparing their experiences on safari. For the last time the door opened and the butler announced: "Miss Meredith." A girl in the early twenties entered. She was of medium height and pretty. Brown curls clustered in her neck, her grey eyes were large and wide apart. Her face was powdered but not made-up. Her voice was slow and rather shy. She said: "Oh dear, am I the last?" Mr. Shaitana descended on her with sherry and an ornate and complimentary reply. His introductions were formal and almost ceremonious. Miss Meredith was left sipping her sherry by Poirot’s side. "Our friend is very punctilious," said Poirot with a smile. The girl agreed. "I know. People rather dispense with introductions nowadays. They just say "I expect you know everybody" and leave it at that." "Whether you do or you don’t?" "Whether you do or don’t. Sometimes it makes it awkward—but I think this is more awe-inspiring." She hesitated and then said: "Is that Mrs. Oliver, the novelist?" Mrs. Oliver’s bass voice rose powerfully at that minute, speaking to Dr. Roberts. "You can’t get away from a woman’s instinct, doctor. Women know these things." Forgetting that she no longer had a brow she endeavoured to sweep her hair back from it but was foiled by the fringe. "That is Mrs. Oliver," said Poirot. "The one who wrote The Body in the Library?" "That identical one." Miss Meredith frowned a little. "And that wooden-looking man—a superintendent did Mr. Shaitana say?" "From Scotland Yard." "And you?" "And me?" "I know all about you, M. Poirot. It was you who really solved the A.B.C. crimes." "Madamoiselle, you cover me with confusion." Miss Meredith drew her brows together. "Mr. Shaitana," she began and then stopped. "Mr. Shaitana—" Poirot said quietly: "One might say he was "crime-minded." It seems so. Doubtless he wishes to hear us dispute ourselves. He is already egging on Mrs. Oliver and Dr. Roberts. They are now discussing untraceable poisons." Miss Meredith gave a little gasp as she said: "What a queer man he is!" "Dr. Roberts?" "No, Mr. Shaitana." She shivered a little and said: "There’s always something a little frightening about him, I think. You never know what would strike him as amusing. It might—it might be something cruel." "Such as foxhunting, eh?" Miss Meredith threw him a reproachful glance.
Immediately after supper, Mrs Inglethorp retired to her boudoir again. "Send my coffee in here, Mary," she called. "I’ve just five minutes to catch the post." Cynthia and I went and sat by the open window in the drawing-room. Mary Cavendish brought our coffee to us. She seemed excited. "Do you young people want lights, or do you enjoy the twilight?" she asked. "Will you take Mrs Inglethorp her coffee, Cynthia? I will pour it out." "Do not trouble, Mary," said Inglethorp. "I will take it to Emily." He poured it out, and went out of the room carrying it carefully. Lawrence followed him, and Mrs Cavendish sat down by us. We three sat for some time in silence. It was a glorious night, hot and still. Mrs Cavendish fanned herself gently with a palm leaf. "It’s almost too hot," she murmured. "We shall have a thunderstorm." Alas, that these harmonious moments can never endure! My paradise was rudely shattered by the sound of a well-known, and heartily disliked, voice in the hall. "Dr Bauerstein!" exclaimed Cynthia. "What a funny time to come." I glanced jealously at Mary Cavendish, but she seemed quite undisturbed, the delicate pallor of her cheeks did not vary. In a few moments, Alfred Inglethorp had ushered the doctor in, the latter laughing, and protesting that he was in no fit state for a drawing-room. In truth, he presented a sorry spectacle, being literally plastered with mud. "What have you been doing, doctor?" cried Mrs Cavendish. "I must make my apologies," said the doctor. "I did not really mean to come in, but Mr Inglethorp insisted." "Well, Bauerstein, you are in a plight," said John, strolling in from the hall. "Have some coffee, and tell us what you have been up to." "Thank you, I will." He laughed rather ruefully, as he described how he had discovered a very rare species of fern in an inaccessible place, and in his efforts to obtain it had lost his footing, and slipped ignominiously into a neighbouring pond. "The sun soon dried me off," he added, "but I’m afraid my appearance is very disreputable." At this juncture, Mrs Inglethorp called to Cynthia from the hall, and the girl ran out. "Just carry up my despatch-case, will you, dear? I’m going to bed." The door into the hall was a wide one. I had risen when Cynthia did, John was close by me. There were, therefore, three witnesses who could swear that Mrs Inglethorp was carrying her coffee, as yet untasted, in her hand. My evening was utterly and entirely spoilt by the presence of Dr Bauerstein. It seemed to me the man would never go. He rose at last, however, and I breathed a sigh of relief. "I’ll walk down to the village with you," said Mr Inglethorp. "I must see our agent over those estate accounts." He turned to John. "No one need sit up. I will take the latch-key." Chapter 3 The Night of the Tragedy To make this part of my story clear, I append the following plan of the first floor of Styles. The servants" rooms are reached through the door B. They have no communication with the right wing, where the Inglethorps" rooms were situated. !43.jpg It seemed to be the middle of the night when I was awakened by Lawrence Cavendish. He had a candle in his hand, and the agitation of his face told me at once that something was seriously wrong. "What’s the matter?" I asked, sitting up in bed, and trying to collect my scattered thoughts. "We are afraid my mother is very ill. She seems to be having some kind of fit. Unfortunately she has locked herself in." "I’ll come at once." I sprang out of bed, and pulling on a dressing-gown, followed Lawrence along the passage and the gallery to the right wing of the house. John Cavendish joined us, and one or two of the servants were standing round in a state of awe-stricken excitement. Lawrence turned to his brother. "What do you think we had better do?" Never, I thought, had his indecision of character been more apparent.
"Supposing someone wants to kill me . . . Could they do it this way? Could they make me dream that dream night after night?" "Hypnotism, you mean?" "Yes." Hercule Poirot considered the question. "It would be possible, I suppose," he said at last. "It is more a question for a doctor." "You don’t know of such a case in your experience?" "Not precisely on those lines, no." "You see what I’m driving at? I’m made to dream the same dream, night after night, night after night—and then—one day the suggestion is too much for me—and I act upon it. I do what I’ve dreamed of so often—kill myself!" Slowly Hercule Poirot shook his head. "You don’t think that is possible?" asked Farley. "Possible?" Poirot shook his head. "That is not a word I care to meddle with." "But you think it improbable?" "Most improbable." Benedict Farley murmured. "The doctor said so too . . ." Then his voice rising shrilly again, he cried out, "But why do I have this dream? Why? Why?" Hercule Poirot shook his head. Benedict Farley said abruptly, "You’re sure you’ve never come across anything like this in your experience?" "Never." "That’s what I wanted to know." Delicately, Poirot cleared his throat. "You permit," he said, "a question?" "What is it? What is it? Say what you like." "Who is it you suspect of wanting to kill you?" Farley snapped out, "Nobody. Nobody at all." "But the idea presented itself to your mind?" Poirot persisted. "I wanted to know—if it was a possibility." "Speaking from my own experience, I should say No. Have you ever been hypnotized, by the way?" "Of course not. D’you think I’d lend myself to such tomfoolery?" "Then I think one can say that your theory is definitely improbable." "But the dream, you fool, the dream." "The dream is certainly remarkable," said Poirot thoughtfully. He paused and then went on. "I should like to see the scene of this drama—the table, the clock, and the revolver." "Of course, I’ll take you next door." Wrapping the folds of his dressing gown round him, the old man half rose from his chair. Then suddenly, as though a thought had struck him, he resumed his seat. "No," he said. "There’s nothing to see there. I’ve told you all there is to tell." "But I should like to see for myself—" "There’s no need," Farley snapped. "You’ve given me your opinion. That’s the end." Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "As you please." He rose to his feet. "I am sorry, Mr. Farley, that I have not been able to be of assistance to you." Benedict Farley was staring straight ahead of him. "Don’t want a lot of hanky-pankying around," he growled out. "I’ve told you the facts—you can’t make anything of them. That closes the matter. You can send me a bill for the consultation fee." "I shall not fail to do so," said the detective drily. He walked towards the door. "Stop a minute." The millionaire called him back. "That letter—I want it." "The letter from your secretary?" "Yes." Poirot’s eyebrows rose. He put his hand into his pocket, drew out a folded sheet, and handed it to the old man. The latter scrutinized it, then put it down on the table beside him with a nod. Once more Hercule Poirot walked to the door. He was puzzled. His busy mind was going over and over the story he had been told. Yet in the midst of his mental preoccupation, a nagging sense of something wrong obtruded itself. And that something had to do with himself—not with Benedict Farley. With his hand on the door knob, his mind cleared. He, Hercule Poirot, had been guilty of an error! He turned back into the room once more. "A thousand pardons! In the interest of your problem I have committed a folly! That letter I handed to you—by mischance I put my hand into my right-hand pocket instead of the left—" "What’s all this? What’s all this?"
"You take very good care of me, Cherry," said Miss Marple. "Got to," said Cherry, in her usual idiom. "Good people are scarce." "Well, thank you for the compliment," said Miss Marple, arriving safely with her last foot on the ground floor. "Nothing the matter, is there?" asked Cherry. "You look a bit rattled like, if you know what I mean." "No, nothing’s the matter," said Miss Marple. "I had rather an unusual letter from a firm of solicitors." "Nobody is suing you for anything, are they?" said Cherry, who was inclined to regard solicitors" letters as invariably associated with disaster of some kind. "Oh no, I don’t think so," said Miss Marple. "Nothing of that kind. They just asked me to call upon them next week in London." "Perhaps you’ve been left a fortune," said Cherry, hopefully. "That, I think, is very unlikely," said Miss Marple. "Well, you never know," said Cherry. Settling herself in her chair, and taking her knitting out of its embroidered knitting bag, Miss Marple considered the possibility of Mr. Rafiel having left her a fortune. It seemed even more unlikely than when Cherry had suggested it. Mr. Rafiel, she thought, was not that kind of a man. It was not possible for her to go on the date suggested. She was attending a meeting of the Women’s Institute to discuss the raising of a sum for building a small additional couple of rooms. But she wrote, naming a day in the following week. In due course her letter was answered and the appointment definitely confirmed. She wondered what Messrs. Broadribb and Schuster were like. The letter had been signed by J. R. Broadribb who was, apparently, the senior partner. It was possible, Miss Marple thought, that Mr. Rafiel might have left her some small memoir or souvenir in his will. Perhaps some book on rare flowers that had been in his library and which he thought would please an old lady who was keen on gardening. Or perhaps a cameo brooch which had belonged to some great-aunt of his. She amused herself by these fancies. They were only fancies, she thought, because in either case it would merely be a case of the Executors—if these lawyers were the Executors—forwarding her by post any such object. They would not have wanted an interview. "Oh well," said Miss Marple, "I shall know next Tuesday." II "Wonder what she’ll be like," said Mr. Broadribb to Mr. Schuster, glancing at the clock as he did so. "She’s due in a quarter of an hour," said Mr. Schuster. "Wonder if she’ll be punctual?" "Oh, I should think so. She’s elderly, I gather, and much more punctilious than the young scatterbrains of today." "Fat or thin, I wonder?" said Mr. Schuster. Mr. Broadribb shook his head. "Didn’t Rafiel ever describe her to you?" asked Mr. Schuster. "He was extraordinarily cagey in everything he said about her." "The whole thing seems very odd to me," said Mr. Schuster. "If we only knew a bit more about what it all meant…." "It might be," said Mr. Broadribb thoughtfully, "something to do with Michael." "What? After all these years? Couldn’t be. What put that into your head? Did he mention—" "No, he didn’t mention anything. Gave me no clue at all as to what was in his mind. Just gave me instructions." "Think he was getting a bit eccentric and all that towards the end?" "Not in the least. Mentally he was a brilliant as ever. His physical ill health never affected his brain, anyway. In the last two months of his life he made an extra two hundred thousand pounds. Just like that." "He had a flair," said Mr. Schuster with due reverence. "Certainly, he always had a flair." "A great financial brain," said Mr. Broadribb, also in a tone of reverence suitable to the sentiment. "Not many like him, more’s the pity." A buzzer went on the table. Mr. Schuster picked up the receiver. A female voice said, "Miss Jane Marple is here to see Mr. Broadribb by appointment." Mr.
Weak rather than vicious." "May be mental," said Melchett hopefully. Superintendent Harper nodded. He said: "Has it struck you, sir—that that may be the explanation of the whole case?" "Criminal lunatic, you mean?" "Yes, sir. One of those fellows who go about strangling young girls. Doctors have a long name for it." "That would solve all our difficulties," said Melchett. "There’s only one thing I don’t like about it," said Superintendent Harper. "What?" "It’s too easy." "H’m—yes—perhaps. So, as I said at the beginning where are we?" "Nowhere, sir," said Superintendent Harper. Twelve I Conway Jefferson stirred in his sleep and stretched. His arms were flung out, long, powerful arms into which all the strength of his body seemed to be concentrated since his accident. Through the curtains the morning light glowed softly. Conway Jefferson smiled to himself. Always, after a night of rest, he woke like this, happy, refreshed, his deep vitality renewed. Another day! So for a minute he lay. Then he pressed the special bell by his hand. And suddenly a wave of remembrance swept over him. Even as Edwards, deft and quiet-footed, entered the room, a groan was wrung from his master. Edwards paused with his hand on the curtains. He said: "You’re not in pain, sir?" Conway Jefferson said harshly: "No. Go on, pull ’em." The clear light flooded the room. Edwards, understanding, did not glance at his master. His face grim, Conway Jefferson lay remembering and thinking. Before his eyes he saw again the pretty, vapid face of Ruby. Only in his mind he did not use the adjective vapid. Last night he would have said innocent. A naïve, innocent child! And now? A great weariness came over Conway Jefferson. He closed his eyes. He murmured below his breath: "Margaret…." It was the name of his dead wife…. II "I like your friend," said Adelaide Jefferson to Mrs. Bantry. The two women were sitting on the terrace. "Jane Marple’s a very remarkable woman," said Mrs. Bantry. "She’s nice too," said Addie, smiling. "People call her a scandalmonger," said Mrs. Bantry, "but she isn’t really." "Just a low opinion of human nature?" "You could call it that." "It’s rather refreshing," said Adelaide Jefferson, "after having had too much of the other thing." Mrs. Bantry looked at her sharply. Addie explained herself. "So much high-thinking—idealization of an unworthy object!" "You mean Ruby Keene?" Addie nodded. "I don’t want to be horrid about her. There wasn’t any harm in her. Poor little rat, she had to fight for what she wanted. She wasn’t bad. Common and rather silly and quite good-natured, but a decided little gold-digger. I don’t think she schemed or planned. It was just that she was quick to take advantage of a possibility. And she knew just how to appeal to an elderly man who was—lonely." "I suppose," said Mrs. Bantry thoughtfully, "that Conway was lonely?" Addie moved restlessly. She said: "He was—this summer." She paused and then burst out: "Mark will have it that it was all my fault. Perhaps it was, I don’t know." She was silent for a minute, then, impelled by some need to talk, she went on speaking in a difficult, almost reluctant way. "I—I’ve had such an odd sort of life. Mike Carmody, my first husband, died so soon after we were married—it—it knocked me out. Peter, as you know, was born after his death. Frank Jefferson was Mike’s great friend. So I came to see a lot of him. He was Peter’s godfather—Mike had wanted that. I got very fond of him—and—oh! sorry for him too." "Sorry?" queried Mrs. Bantry with interest. "Yes, just that. It sounds odd. Frank had always had everything he wanted. His father and his mother couldn’t have been nicer to him. And yet—how can I say it?—you see, old Mr. Jefferson’s personality is so strong. If you live with it, you can’t somehow have a personality of your own. Frank felt that.
Motive and opportunity—why, she was alone in the house! Old Mrs. Archer could easily have got the pistol from Mr. Redding’s house for either of those two. And then, of course, there was Lettice—wanting freedom and money to do as she liked. I’ve known many cases where the most beautiful and ethereal girls have shown next to no moral scruple—though, of course, gentlemen never wish to believe it of them." I winced. "And then there was the tennis racquet," continued Miss Marple. "The tennis racquet?" "Yes, the one Mrs. Price Ridley’s Clara saw lying on the grass by the Vicarage gate. That looked as though Mr. Dennis had got back earlier from his tennis party than he said. Boys of sixteen are so very susceptible and so very unbalanced. Whatever the motive—for Lettice’s sake or for yours, it was a possibility. And then, of course, there was poor Mr. Hawes and you—not both of you naturally—but alternatively, as the lawyers say." "Me?" I exclaimed in lively astonishment. "Well, yes. I do apologize—and indeed I never really thought—but there was the question of those disappearing sums of money. Either you or Mr. Hawes must be guilty, and Mrs. Price Ridley was going about everywhere hinting that you were the person in fault—principally because you objected so vigorously to any kind of inquiry into the matter. Of course, I myself was always convinced it was Mr. Hawes—he reminded me so much of that unfortunate organist I mentioned; but all the same one couldn’t be absolutely sure—" "Human nature being what it is," I ended grimly. "Exactly. And then, of course, there was dear Griselda." "But Mrs. Clement was completely out of it," interrupted Melchett. "She returned by the 6:50 train." "That’s what she said," retorted Miss Marple. "One should never go by what people say. The 6:50 was half an hour late that night. But at a quarter past seven I saw her with my own eyes starting for Old Hall. So it followed that she must have come by the earlier train. Indeed she was seen; but perhaps you know that?" She looked at me inquiringly. Some magnetism in her glance impelled me to hold out the last anonymous letter, the one I had opened so short a time ago. It set out in detail that Griselda had been seen leaving Lawrence Redding’s cottage by the back window at twenty past six on the fatal day. I said nothing then or at any time of the dreadful suspicion that had for one moment assailed my mind. I had seen it in nightmare terms—a past intrigue between Lawrence and Griselda, the knowledge of it coming to Protheroe’s ears, his decision to make me acquainted with the facts—and Griselda, desperate, stealing the pistol and silencing Protheroe. As I say—a nightmare only—but invested for a few long minutes with a dreadful appearance of reality. I don’t know whether Miss Marple had any inkling of all this. Very probably she had. Few things are hidden from her. She handed me back the note with a little nod. "That’s been all over the village," she said. "And it did look rather suspicious, didn’t it? Especially with Mrs. Archer swearing at the inquest that the pistol was still in the cottage when she left at midday." She paused a minute and then went on. "But I’m wandering terribly from the point. What I want to say—and believe it my duty—is to put my own explanation of the mystery before you. If you don’t believe it—well, I shall have done my best. Even as it is, my wish to be quite sure before I spoke may have cost poor Mr. Hawes his life." Again she paused, and when she resumed, her voice held a different note. It was less apologetic, more decided. "That is my own explanation of the facts. By Thursday afternoon the crime had been fully planned down to the smallest detail. Lawrence Redding first called on the Vicar, knowing him to be out. He had with him the pistol which he concealed in that pot in the stand by the window. When the Vicar came in, Lawrence explained his visit by a statement that he had made up his mind to go away.
"Yes, it must have been about a quarter past seven when Mr Hailsham-Brown got in." "That would have been shortly after Mr Costello left," the Inspector observed. He moved to the centre of the room, and his manner changed almost imperceptibly as he continued, "He and Mr Hailsham-Brown probably passed each other." "You mean," Miss Peake said thoughtfully, "that he may have come back again to see Mr Hailsham-Brown." "Oliver Costello definitely didn’t come back to the house," Clarissa cut in sharply. "But you can’t be sure of that, Mrs Hailsham-Brown," the gardener contradicted her. "He might have got in by that window without your knowing anything about it." She paused, and then exclaimed, "Golly! You don’t think he murdered Mr Hailsham-Brown, do you? I say, I am sorry." "Of course he didn’t murder Henry," Clarissa snapped irritably. "Where did your husband go when he left here?" the Inspector asked her. "I’ve no idea," Clarissa replied shortly. "Doesn’t he usually tell you where he’s going?" the Inspector persisted. "I never ask questions," Clarissa told him. "I think it must be so boring for a man if his wife is always asking questions." Miss Peake gave a sudden squeal. "But how stupid of me," she shouted. "Of course, if that man’s car is still here, then he must be the one who’s been murdered." She roared with laughter. Sir Rowland rose to his feet. "We’ve no reason to believe anyone has been murdered, Miss Peake," he admonished her with dignity. "In fact, the Inspector believes it was all some silly hoax." Miss Peake was clearly not of the same opinion. "But the car," she insisted. "I do think that car still being here is very suspicious." She got up and approached the Inspector. "Have you looked about for the body, Inspector?" she asked him eagerly. "The Inspector has already searched the house," Sir Rowland answered before the police officer had a chance to speak. He was rewarded by a sharp glance from the Inspector, whom Miss Peake was now tapping on the shoulder as she continued to air her views. "I’m sure those Elgins have something to do with it–the butler and that wife of his who calls herself a cook," the gardener assured the Inspector confidently. "I’ve had my suspicions of them for quite some time. I saw a light in their bedroom window as I came along here just now. And that in itself is suspicious. It’s their night out, and they usually don’t return until well after eleven." She gripped the Inspector’s arm. "Have you searched their quarters?" she asked him urgently. The Inspector opened his mouth to speak, but she interrupted him with another tap on the shoulder. "Now listen," she began. "Suppose this Mr Costello recognized Elgin as a man with a criminal record. Costello might have decided to come back and warn Mrs Hailsham-Brown about the man, and Elgin assaulted him." Looking immensely pleased with herself, she flashed a glance around the room, and continued. "Then, of course, Elgin would have to hide the body somewhere quickly, so that he could dispose of it later in the night. Now, where would he hide it, I wonder?" she asked rhetorically, warming to her thesis. With a gesture towards the French windows, she began, "Behind a curtain or–" She was cut short by Clarissa who interrupted angrily. "Oh, really, Miss Peake. There isn’t anybody hidden behind any of the curtains. And I’m sure Elgin would never murder anybody. It’s quite ridiculous." Miss Peake turned. "You’re so trusting, Mrs Hailsham-Brown," she admonished her employer. "When you get to my age, you’ll realize how very often people are simply not quite what they seem." She laughed heartily as she turned back to the Inspector. When he opened his mouth to speak, she gave him yet another tap on the shoulder. "Now then," she continued, "where would a man like Elgin hide the body? There’s that cupboard place between here and the library. You’ve looked there, I suppose?" Sir Rowland intervened hastily. "Miss Peake, the Inspector has looked both here and in the library," he insisted.
They’re both equally good—or bad. I should think you’d get a room all right." The question made him look more attentively at his interlocutor. Nowadays people usually booked a room beforehand at any place they were going to…. The man was tall, with a bronzed face, a beard, and very blue eyes. He was about forty and not ill-looking in a tough and rather daredevil style. It was not, perhaps, a wholly pleasant face. Come from overseas somewhere, thought Rowley. Was there or was there not a faint Colonial twang in his accent? Curious, in some way, the face was not unfamiliar…. Where had he seen that face, or a face very like it, before? Whilst he was puzzling unsuccessfully over that problem, the stranger startled him by asking: "Can you tell me if there’s a house called Furrowbank near here?" Rowley answered slowly: "Why, yes. Up there on the hill. You must have passed close by it—that is, if you’ve come along the footpath from the station." "Yes—that’s what I did." He turned, staring up the hill. "So that was it—that big white new-looking house." "Yes, that’s the one." "A big place to run," said the man. "Must cost a lot to keep up?" A devil of a lot, thought Rowley. And our money…A stirring of anger made him forget for the moment where he was…. With a start he came back to himself to see the stranger staring up the hill with a curious speculative look in his eyes. "Who lives there?" he said. "Is it—a Mrs. Cloade?" "That’s right," said Rowley. "Mrs. Gordon Cloade." The stranger raised his eyebrows. He seemed gently amused. "Oh," he said, "Mrs. Gordon Cloade. Very nice for her!" Then he gave a short nod. "Thanks, pal," he said, and shifting the pack he carried he strode on towards Warmsley Vale. Rowley turned slowly back into the farmyard. His mind was still puzzling over something. Where the devil had he seen that fellow before? III About nine-thirty that night, Rowley pushed aside a heap of forms that had been littering the kitchen table and got up. He looked absentmindedly at the photograph of Lynn that stood on the mantelpiece, then frowning, he went out of the house. Ten minutes later he pushed open the door of the Stag Saloon Bar. Beatrice Lippincott, behind the bar counter, smiled welcome at him. Mr. Rowley Cloade, she thought, was a fine figure of a man. Over a pint of bitter Rowley exchanged the usual observations with the company present, unfavourable comment was made upon the Government, the weather, and sundry particular crops. Presently, moving up a little, Rowley was able to address Beatrice in a quiet voice: "Got a stranger staying here? Big man? Slouch hat?" "That’s right, Mr. Rowley. Came along about six o’clock. That the one you mean?" Rowley nodded. "He passed my place. Asked his way." "That’s right. Seems a stranger." "I wondered," said Rowley, "who he was." He looked at Beatrice and smiled. Beatrice smiled back. "That’s easy, Mr. Rowley, if you’d like to know." She dipped under the bar and out to return with a fat leather volume wherein were registered the arrivals. She opened it at the page showing the most recent entries. The last of these ran as follows: Enoch Arden. Cape Town. British. Nine I It was a fine morning. The birds were singing, and Rosaleen, coming down to breakfast in her expensive peasant dress, felt happy. The doubts and fears that had lately oppressed her seemed to have faded away. David was in a good temper, laughing and teasing her. His visit to London on the previous day had been satisfactory. Breakfast was well cooked and well served. They had just finished it when the post arrived. There were seven or eight letters for Rosaleen. Bills, charitable appeals, some local invitations—nothing of any special interest. David laid aside a couple of small bills and opened the third envelope. The enclosure, like the outside of the envelope, was written in printed characters. Dear Mr. Hunter, I think it is best to approach you rather than your sister, Mrs.
Thoroughly well organised. She went abroad under her own and under different names, but never too often, and the actual smuggling was always done, unknowingly, by someone else. She had agents abroad who saw to the exchange of rucksacks at the right moment. Yes, it was a clever idea. And we’ve got M. Poirot here to thank for putting us on to it. It was smart of her, too, to suggest that psychological stealing stunt to poor little Miss Austin. You were wise to that almost at once, weren’t you, M. Poirot?" Poirot smiled in a deprecating manner and Mrs. Hubbard looked admiringly at him. The conversation was strictly off the record in Mrs. Hubbard’s sitting room. "Greed was her undoing," said Poirot. "She was tempted by that fine diamond in Patricia Lane’s ring. It was foolish of her because it suggested at once that she was used to handling precious stones—that business of prising the diamond out and replacing it with a zircon. Yes, that certainly gave me ideas about Valerie Hobhouse. She was clever, though, when I taxed her with inspiring Celia, she admitted it and explained it in a thoroughly sympathetic way." "But murder!" said Mrs. Hubbard. "Cold-blooded murder. I can’t really believe it even now." Inspector Sharpe looked gloomy. "We aren’t in a position to charge her with the murder of Celia Austin yet," he said. "We’ve got her cold on the smuggling, of course. No difficulties about that. But the murder charge is more tricky. The public prosecutor doesn’t see his way. There’s motive, of course, and opportunity. She probably knew all about the bet and Nigel’s possession of morphia, but there’s no real evidence, and there are the two other deaths to take into account. She could have poisoned Mrs. Nicoletis all right—but on the other hand, she definitely did not kill Patricia Lane. Actually she’s about the only person who’s completely in the clear. Geronimo says positively that she left the house at six o’clock. He sticks to that. I don’t know whether she bribed him—" "No," said Poirot, shaking his head. "She did not bribe him." "And we’ve the evidence of the chemist at the corner of the road. He knows her quite well and he sticks to it that she came in at five minutes past six and bought face powder and aspirin and used the telephone. She left his shop at quarter past six and took a taxi from the rank outside." Poirot sat up in his chair. "But that," he said, "is magnificent! It is just what we want!" "What on earth do you mean?" "I mean that she actually telephoned from the box at the chemist’s shop." Inspector Sharpe looked at him in an exasperated fashion. "Now, see here, M. Poirot. Let’s take the known facts. At eight minutes past six, Patricia Lane is alive and telephoning to the police station from this room. You agree to that?" "I do not think she was telephoning from this room." "Well then, from the hall downstairs." "Not from the hall either." Inspector Sharpe sighed. "I suppose you don’t deny that a call was put through to the police station? You don’t think that I and my sergeant and Police Constable Nye and Nigel Chapman were the victims of mass hallucination?" "Assuredly not. A call was put through to you. I should say at a guess that it was put through from the public call box at the chemist’s on the corner." Inspector Sharpe’s jaw dropped for a moment. "You mean that Valerie Hobhouse put through that call? That she pretended to speak as Patricia Lane, and that Patricia Lane was already dead." "That is what I mean, yes." The inspector was silent for a moment, then he brought down his fist with a crash on the table. "I don’t believe it. The voice—I heard it myself—" "You heard it, yes. A girl’s voice, breathless, agitated. But you didn’t know Patricia Lane’s voice well enough to say definitely that it was her voice." "I didn’t, perhaps. But it was Nigel Chapman who actually took the call. You can’t tell me that Nigel Chapman could be deceived.
I was still in the lounge at a quarter to seven when Mr Sanders came in. There were two gentlemen with him and all three of them were inclined to be a little on the lively side. Mr Sanders left his two friends and came right over to where I was sitting with Miss Trollope. He explained that he wanted our advice about a Christmas present he was giving his wife. It was an evening bag. ""And you see, ladies," he said. "I’m only a rough sailorman. What do I know about such things? I’ve had three sent to me on approval and I want an expert opinion on them." "We said, of course, that we would be delighted to help him, and he asked if we’d mind coming upstairs, as his wife might come in any minute if he brought the things down. So we went up with him. I shall never forget what happened next – I can feel my little fingers tingling now. "Mr Sanders opened the door of the bedroom and switched on the light. I don’t know which of us saw it first . . . " Mrs Sanders was lying on the floor, face downwards – dead. "I got to her first. I knelt down and took her hand and felt for the pulse, but it was useless, the arm itself was cold and stiff. Just by her head was a stocking filled with sand – the weapon she had been struck down with. Miss Trollope, silly creature, was moaning and moaning by the door and holding her head. Sanders gave a great cry of "My wife, my wife," and rushed to her. I stopped him touching her. You see, I was sure at the moment he had done it, and there might have been something that he wanted to take away or hide. ""Nothing must be touched," I said. "Pull yourself together, Mr Sanders. Miss Trollope, please go down and fetch the manager." "I stayed there, kneeling by the body. I wasn’t going to leave Sanders alone with it. And yet I was forced to admit that if the man was acting, he was acting marvellously. He looked dazed and bewildered and scared out of his wits. "The manager was with us in no time. He made a quick inspection of the room then turned us all out and locked the door, the key of which he took. Then he went off and telephoned to the police. It seemed a positive age before they came (we learnt afterwards that the line was out of order). The manager had to send a messenger to the police station, and the Hydro is right out of the town, up on the edge of the moor; and Mrs Carpenter tried us all very severely. She was so pleased at her prophecy of "Never two without three" coming true so quickly. Sanders, I hear, wandered out into the grounds, clutching his head and groaning and displaying every sign of grief. "However, the police came at last. They went upstairs with the manager and Mr Sanders. Later they sent down for me. I went up. The Inspector was there, sitting at a table writing. He was an intelligent-looking man and I liked him. ""Miss Jane Marple?" he said. ""Yes." ""I understand, Madam, that you were present when the body of the deceased was found?" "I said I was and I described exactly what had occurred. I think it was a relief to the poor man to find someone who could answer his questions coherently, having previously had to deal with Sanders and Emily Trollope, who, I gather, was completely demoralized – she would be, the silly creature! I remember my dear mother teaching me that a gentlewoman should always be able to control herself in public, however much she may give way in private." "An admirable maxim," said Sir Henry gravely. "When I had finished the Inspector said: ""Thank you, Madam. Now I’m afraid I must ask you just to look at the body once more. Is that exactly the position in which it was lying when you entered the room? It hasn’t been moved in any way?" "I explained that I had prevented Mr Sanders from doing so, and the Inspector nodded approval. ""The gentleman seems terribly upset," he remarked. ""He seems so – yes," I replied. "I don’t think I put any special emphasis on the "seems", but the Inspector looked at me rather keenly. ""So we can take it that the body is exactly as it was when found?" he said.
Leonides" instructions. He approved the draft, returned it to me, and in due course I sent him the will for signature. After a lapse of a week, I ventured to remind him that I had not yet received the will duly signed and attested, and asking him if here was anything he wished altered. He replied that he was perfectly satisfied, and added that after signing the will he had sent it to his bank." "That’s quite right," said Roger eagerly. "It was about the end of November last year—you remember, Philip? Father had us all up one evening and read the will to us." Taverner turned towards Philip Leonides. "That agrees with your recollection, Mr. Leonides?" "Yes," said Philip. "It was rather like the Voysey Inheritance," said Magda. She sighed pleasurably. "I always think there’s something so dramatic about a will." "Miss Sophia?" "Yes," said Sophia. "I remember perfectly." "And the provisions of that will?" asked Taverner. Mr. Gaitskill was about to reply in his precise fashion, but Roger Leonides got ahead of him. "It was a perfectly simple will. Electra and Joyce had died and their share of the settlements had returned to father. Joyce’s son, William, had been killed in action in Burma, and the money he left went to his father. Philip and I and the children were the only relatives left. Father explained that. He left fifty thousand pounds free of duty to Aunt Edith, a hundred thousand pounds free of duty to Brenda, this house to Brenda, or else a suitable house in London to be purchased for her, whichever she preferred. The residue to be divided into three portions, one to myself, one to Philip, the third to be divided between Sophia, Eustace, and Josephine, the portions of the last two to be held in trust until they should come of age. I think that’s right, isn’t it, Mr. Gaitskill?" "Those are—roughly stated—the provisions of the document I drew up," agreed Mr. Gaitskill, displaying some slight acerbity at not having been allowed to speak for himself. "Father read it out to us," said Roger. "He asked if there was any comment we might like to make. Of course there was none." "Brenda made a comment," said Miss de Haviland. "Yes," said Magda with zest. "She said she couldn’t bear her darling old Aristide to talk about death. It "gave her the creeps," she said. And after he was dead she didn’t want any of the horrid money!" "That," said Miss de Haviland, "was a conventional protest, typical of her class." It was a cruel and biting little remark. I realized suddenly how much Edith de Haviland disliked Brenda. "A very fair and reasonable disposal of his estate," said Mr. Gaitskill. "And after reading it what happened?" asked Inspector Taverner. "After reading it," said Roger, "he signed it." Taverner leaned forward. "Just how and when did he sign it?" Roger looked round at his wife in an appealing way. Clemency spoke in answer to that look. The rest of the family seemed content for her to do so. "You want to know exactly what took place?" "If you please, Mrs. Roger." "My father-in-law laid the will down on his desk and requested one of us—Roger, I think—to ring the bell. Roger did so. When Johnson came in answer to the bell, my father-in-law requested him to fetch Janet Wolmer, the parlourmaid. When they were both there, he signed the will and requested them to sign their own names beneath his signature." "The correct procedure," said Mr. Gaitskill. "A will must be signed by the testator in the presence of two witnesses who must affix their own signatures at the same time and place." "And after that?" asked Taverner. "My father-in-law thanked them, and they went out. My father-in-law picked up the will, put it in a long envelope and mentioned that he would send it to Mr. Gaitskill on the following day." "You all agree," said Inspector Taverner, looking round, "that this is an accurate account of what happened?" There were murmurs of agreement. "The will was on the desk, you said. How near were any of you to that desk?" "Not very near. Five or six yards, perhaps, would be the nearest." "When Mr.
Once arrived there, Poirot ordered a most delectable lunch, and then turned to his guest. "And for wine, mademoiselle? What do you say to champagne?" Miss Monro said nothing—or everything. The meal started pleasantly. Poirot replenished the lady’s glass with thoughtful assiduity, and gradually slid on to the topic nearest his heart. "The poor Mr. Darrell. What a pity he is not with us." "Yes, indeed," sighed Miss Monro. "Poor boy, I do wonder what’s become of him." "Is it a long time since you have seen him, yes?" "Oh, simply ages—not since the war. He was a funny boy, Claudie, very close about things, never told you a word about himself. But, of course, that all fits in if he’s a missing heir. Is it a title, Mr. Poirot?" "Alas, a mere heritage," said Poirot unblushingly. "But you see, it may be a question of identification. That is why it is necessary for us to find someone who knew him very well indeed. You knew him very well, did you not, mademoiselle?" "I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Poirot. You’re a gentleman. You know how to order a lunch for a lady—which is more than some of these young whippersnappers do nowadays. Downright mean, I call it. As I was saying, you being a Frenchman won’t be shocked. Ah, you Frenchmen! Naughty, naughty!" She wagged her finger at him in an excess of archness. "Well, there it was, me and Claudie, two young things—what else could you expect? And I’ve still a kindly feeling for him. Though, mind you, he didn’t treat me well—no, he didn’t—he didn’t treat me well at all. Not as a lady should be treated. They’re all the same when it comes to a question of money." "No, no, mademoiselle, do not say that," protested Poirot, filling up her glass once more. "Could you now describe this Mr. Darrell to me?" "He wasn’t anything so very much to look at," said Flossie Monro dreamily. "Neither tall nor short, you know, but quite well set up. Spruce looking. Eyes a sort of blue-grey. And more or less fair-haired, I suppose. But oh, what an artist! I never saw anyone to touch him in the profession! He’d have made his name before now if it hadn’t been for jealousy. Ah, Mr. Poirot, jealousy—you wouldn’t believe it, you really wouldn’t, what we artists have to suffer through jealousy. Why, I remember once at Manchester—" We displayed what patience we could in listening to a long complicated story about a pantomime, and the infamous conduct of the principal boy. Then Poirot led her gently back to the subject of Claud Darrell. "It is very interesting, all this that you are able to tell us, mademoiselle, about Mr. Darrell. Women are such wonderful observers—they see everything, they notice the little detail that escapes the mere man. I have seen a woman identify one man out of a dozen others—and why, do you think? She had observed that he had a trick of stroking his nose when he was agitated. Now would a man ever have thought of noticing a thing like that?" "Did you ever!" cried Miss Monro. "I suppose we do notice things. I remember Claudie, now I come to think of it, always fiddling with his bread at table. He’d get a little piece between his fingers and then dab it round to pick up crumbs. I’ve seen him do it a hundred times. Why, I’d know him anywhere by that one trick of his." "Is not that just what I say? The marvellous observation of a woman. And did you ever speak to him about this little habit of his, mademoiselle?" "No, I didn’t, Mr. Poirot. You know what men are! They don’t like you to notice things—especially if it should seem you were telling them off about it. I never said a word—but many’s the time I smiled to myself. Bless you, he never knew he was doing it even." Poirot nodded gently.
I found Miss de Bellefort in a very excited, hysterical condition." "Did she utter any threats against Madame Doyle?" "No, nothing of that kind. She was in a condition of morbid self-reproach. She’d taken a good deal of alcohol, I should say, and she was suffering from reaction. I didn’t think she ought to be left. I gave her a shot of morphia and sat with her." "Now, Mademoiselle Bowers, I want you to answer this. Did Mademoiselle de Bellefort leave her cabin at all?" "No, she did not." "And you yourself?" "I stayed with her until early this morning." "You are quite sure of that?" "Absolutely sure." "Thank you, Mademoiselle Bowers." The nurse went out. The two men looked at each other. Jacqueline de Bellefort was definitely cleared of the crime. Who then had shot Linnet Doyle? Fourteen Race said: "Someone pinched the pistol. It wasn’t Jacqueline de Bellefort. Someone knew enough to feel that his crime would be attributed to her. But that someone did not know that a hospital nurse was going to give her morphia and sit up with her all night. And one thing more. Someone had already attempted to kill Linnet Doyle by rolling a boulder over the cliff; that someone was not Jacqueline de Bellefort. Who was it?" Poirot said: "It will be simpler to say who it could not have been. Neither Monsieur Doyle, Madame Allerton, Monsieur Allerton, Mademoiselle Van Schuyler, nor Mademoiselle Bowers could have had anything to do with it. They were all within my sight." "H’m," said Race; "that leaves rather a large field. What about motive? "That is where I hope Monsieur Doyle may be able to help us. There have been several incidents—" The door opened and Jacqueline de Bellefort entered. She was very pale and she stumbled a little as she walked. "I didn’t do it," she said. Her voice was that of a frightened child. "I didn’t do it. Oh, please believe me. Everyone will think I did it—but I didn’t—I didn’t. It’s—it’s awful. I wish it hadn’t happened. I might have killed Simon last night; I was mad, I think. But I didn’t do the other…." She sat down and burst into tears. Poirot patted her on the shoulder. "There, there. We know that you did not kill Madame Doyle. It is proved—yes, proved, mon enfant. It was not you." Jackie sat up suddenly, her wet handkerchief clasped in her hand. "But who did?" "That," said Poirot, "is just the question we are asking ourselves. You cannot help us there, my child?" Jacqueline shook her head. "I don’t know…I can’t imagine…No, I haven’t the faintest idea." She frowned deeply. "No," she said at last. "I can’t think of anyone who wanted her dead." Her voice faltered a little. "Except me." Race said: "Excuse me a minute—just thought of something." He hurried out of the room. Jacqueline de Bellefort sat with her head downcast, nervously twisting her fingers. She broke out suddenly: "Death’s horrible—horrible! I—hate the thought of it." Poirot said: "Yes. It is not pleasant to think, is it, that now, at this very moment, someone is rejoicing at the successful carrying out of his or her plan." "Don’t—don’t!" cried Jackie. "It sounds horrible, the way you put it." Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "It is true." Jackie said in a low voice: "I—I wanted her dead—and she is dead…And, what is worse…she died—just like I said." "Yes, Mademoiselle. She was shot through the head." She cried out: "Then I was right, that night at the Cataract Hotel. There was someone listening!" "Ah!" Poirot nodded his head. "I wondered if you would remember that. Yes, it is altogether too much of a coincidence—that Madame Doyle should be killed in just the way you described." Jackie shuddered. "That man that night—who can he have been?"
"No," said the lawyer, "no, perhaps not." His voice was as usual dry and unemotional, yet something in it encouraged Arthur Calgary to continue. "I thought, you see," went on Calgary, "that that would be the end of it. I was prepared for a certain amount of—what shall I say—natural resentment on their part. Although concussion may be termed, I suppose, an Act of God, yet from their viewpoint they could be forgiven for that, as I say. But at the same time I hoped it would be offset by the thankfulness they would feel over the fact that Jack Argyle’s name was cleared. But things didn’t turn out as I anticipated. Not at all." "I see." "Perhaps, Mr. Marshall, you anticipated something of what would happen? Your manner, I remember, puzzled me when I was here before. Did you foresee the attitude of mind that I was going to encounter?" "You haven’t told me yet, Dr. Calgary, what that attitude was." Arthur Calgary drew his chair forward. "I thought that I was ending something, giving—shall we say—a different end to a chapter already written. But I was made to feel, I was made to see, that instead of ending something I was starting something. Something altogether new. Is that a true statement, do you think, of the position?" Mr. Marshall nodded his head slowly. "Yes," he said, "it could be put that way. I did think—I admit it—that you were not realizing all the implications. You could not be expected to do so because, naturally, you knew nothing of the background or of the facts except as they were given in the law reports." "No. No, I see that now. Only too clearly." His voice rose as he went on excitedly, "It wasn’t really relief they felt, it wasn’t thankfulness. It was apprehension. A dread of what might be coming next. Am I right?" Marshall said cautiously: "I should think probably that you are quite right. Mind you, I do not speak of my own knowledge." "And if so," went on Calgary, "then I no longer feel that I can go back to my work satisfied with having made the only amends that I can make. I’m still involved. I’m responsible for bringing a new factor into various people’s lives. I can’t just wash my hands of it." The lawyer cleared his throat. "That, perhaps, is a rather fanciful point of view, Dr. Calgary." "I don’t think it is—not really. One must take responsibility for one’s actions and not only one’s actions but for the result of one’s actions. Just on two years ago I gave a lift to a young hitchhiker on the road. When I did that I set in train a certain course of events. I don’t feel that I can disassociate myself from them." The lawyer still shook his head. "Very well, then," said Arthur Calgary impatiently. "Call it fanciful if you like. But my feelings, my conscience, are still involved. My only wish was to make amends for something it had been outside my power to prevent. I have not made amends. In some curious way I have made things worse for people who have already suffered. But I still don’t understand clearly why." "No," said Marshall slowly, "no, you would not see why. For the past eighteen months or so you’ve been out of touch with civilization. You did not read the daily papers, the account of this family that was given in the newspapers. Possibly you would not have read them anyway, but you could not have escaped, I think, hearing about them. The facts are very simple, Dr. Calgary. They are not confidential. They were made public at the time. It resolves itself very simply into this. If Jack Argyle did not (and by your account he cannot have), committed the crime, then who did? That brings us back to the circumstances in which the crime was committed. It was committed between the hours of seven and seven-thirty on a November evening in a house where the deceased woman was surrounded by the members of her own family and household. The house was securely locked and shuttered and if anyone entered from outside, then the outsider must have been admitted by Mrs. Argyle herself or have entered with their own key. In other words, it must have been someone she knew.
"You made her pay instead." "You are saying very offensive things, Alan. Be careful." "Aren’t they true? Why did you find it so easy to get money out of Jane?" "Not for love of me, certainly. It must have been for love of you." "That’s just what it was," said Alan simply. "She paid for my freedom—freedom to work in my own way. So long as you had a sufficiency of money, you’d leave me alone—not badger me to paint a crowd of awful women." Isobel said nothing. "Well?" cried Alan angrily. Her quiescence infuriated him. Isobel was looking at the floor. Presently she raised her head and said quietly: "Come here, Alan." She touched the divan at her side. Uneasily, unwillingly, he came and sat there, not looking at her. But he knew that he was afraid. "Alan," said Isobel presently. "Well?" He was irritable, nervous. "All that you say may be true. It doesn’t matter. I’m like that. I want things—clothes, money, you. Jane’s dead, Alan." "What do you mean?" "Jane’s dead. You belong to me altogether now. You never did before—not quite." He looked at her—saw the light in her eyes, acquisitive, possessive—was revolted, yet fascinated. "Now you shall be all mine." He understood Isobel then as he had never understood her before. "You want me as a slave? I’m to paint what you tell me to paint, live as you tell me to live, be dragged at your chariot wheels." "Put it like that if you please. What are words?" He felt her arms round his neck, white, smooth, firm as a wall. Words danced through his brain. "A wall as white as milk." Already he was inside the wall. Could he still escape? Did he want to escape? He heard her voice close against his ear—poppy and mandragora. "What else is there to live for? Isn’t this enough? Love—happiness—success—love—" The wall was growing up all round him now—"the curtain soft as silk," the curtain wrapping him round, stifling him a little, but so soft, so sweet! Now they were drifting together, at peace, out on the crystal sea. The wall was very high now, shutting out all those other things—those dangerous, disturbing things that hurt—that always hurt. Out on the sea of crystal, the golden apple between their hands. The light faded from Jane’s picture. Eight THE MYSTERY OF THE SPANISH CHEST "The Mystery of the Spanish Chest" is an expanded version of the story "The Mystery of the Baghdad Chest" which was first published in The Strand, January 1932. Punctual to the moment, as always, Hercule Poirot entered the small room where Miss Lemon, his efficient secretary, awaited her instructions for the day. At first sight Miss Lemon seemed to be composed entirely of angles—thus satisfying Poirot’s demand for symmetry. Not that where women were concerned Hercule Poirot carried his passion for geometrical precision so far. He was, on the contrary, old-fashioned. He had a continental prejudice for curves—it might be said for voluptuous curves. He liked women to be women. He liked them lush, highly coloured, exotic. There had been a certain Russian countess—but that was long ago now. A folly of earlier days. But Miss Lemon he had never considered as a woman. She was a human machine—an instrument of precision. Her efficiency was terrific. She was forty-eight years of age, and was fortunate enough to have no imagination whatever. "Good morning, Miss Lemon." "Good morning, M. Poirot." Poirot sat down and Miss Lemon placed before him the morning’s mail, neatly arranged in categories. She resumed her seat and sat with pad and pencil at the ready. But there was to be this morning a slight change in routine. Poirot had brought in with him the morning newspaper, and his eyes were scanning it with interest. The headlines were big and bold. SPANISH CHEST MYSTERY. LATEST DEVELOPMENTS. "You have read the morning papers, I presume, Miss Lemon?" "Yes, M. Poirot. The news from Geneva is not very good." Poirot waved away the news from Geneva in a comprehensive sweep of the arm. "A Spanish chest," he mused.
If I am right I shall know in another half hour. Then there’s the lady’s husband, Mr. Dering." "You’ve seen him?" asked Emily curiously. Inspector Narracott looked at her vivid face, and felt tempted to relax official caution. Leaning back in his chair he recounted his interview with Mr. Dering, then from a file at his elbow he took out a copy of the wireless message he had dispatched to Mr. Rosenkraun. "That’s what I sent," he said. "And here’s the reply." Emily read it. Narracott 2 Drysdale Road Exeter. Certainly confirm Mr. Dering’s statement. He was in my company all Friday afternoon. Rosenkraun. "Oh!—bother," said Emily, selecting a milder word than she had meant to use, knowing that the police force was old-fashioned and easily shocked. "Ye-es," said Inspector Narracott reflectively. "It’s annoying, isn’t it?" And his slow Devonshire smile broke out again. "But I am a suspicious man, Miss Trefusis. Mr. Dering’s reasons sounded very plausible—but I thought it a pity to play into his hands too completely. So I sent another wireless message." Again he handed her two pieces of paper. The first ran: Information wanted re murder of Captain Trevelyan. Do you support Martin Dering’s statement of alibi for Friday afternoon. Divisional Inspector Narracott Exeter. The return message showed agitation and a reckless disregard for expense. Had no idea it was criminal case did not see Martin Dering Friday Agreed support his statement as one friend to another believed his wife was having him watched for divorce proceedings. "Oh," said Emily. "Oh!—you are clever, Inspector." The Inspector evidently thought that he had been rather clever. His smile was gentle and contented. "How men do stick together," went on Emily looking over the telegrams. "Poor Sylvia. In some ways I really think that men are beasts. That’s why," she added, "it’s so nice when one finds a man on whom one can really rely." And she smiled admiringly at the Inspector. "Now, all this is very confidential, Miss Trefusis," the Inspector warned her. "I have gone further than I should in letting you know about this." "I think it’s adorable of you," said Emily. "I shall never never forget it." "Well, mind," the Inspector warned her. "Not a word to anybody." "You mean that I am not to tell Charles—Mr. Enderby." "Journalists will be journalists," said Inspector Narracott. "However well you have got him tamed, Miss Trefusis—well, news is news, isn’t it?" "I won’t tell him then," said Emily. "I think I’ve got him muzzled all right, but as you say newspaper men will be newspaper men." "Never part with information unnecessarily. That’s my rule," said Inspector Narracott. A faint twinkle appeared in Emily’s eyes, her unspoken thought being that Inspector Narracott had infringed this rule rather badly during the last half hour. A sudden recollection came into her mind, not of course that it probably mattered now. Everything seemed to be pointing in a totally different direction. But still it would be nice to know. "Inspector Narracott!" she said suddenly. "Who is Mr. Duke?" "Mr. Duke?" She thought the Inspector was rather taken aback by her questions. "You remember," said Emily, "we met you coming out of his cottage in Sittaford." "Ah, yes, yes, I remember. To tell you the truth, Miss Trefusis, I thought I would like to have an independent account of that table-turning business. Major Burnaby is not a first-rate hand at description." "And yet," said Emily thoughtfully, "if I had been you, I should have gone to somebody like Mr. Rycroft for it. Why Mr. Duke?" There was a silence and then the Inspector said: "Just a matter of opinion." "I wonder. I wonder if the police know something about Mr. Duke." Inspector Narracott didn’t answer. He had got his eyes fixed very steadily on the blotting paper. "The man who leads a blameless life!" said Emily, "that seems to describe Mr. Duke awfully accurately, but perhaps he hasn’t always led a blameless life? Perhaps the police know that?"
She was very fair, and Celia was never quite sure what she looked like, and her character was variable. Vera de Vete, Sue’s half sister, was the romantic personality of "the school’. She was fourteen. She had straw-coloured hair and deep forget-me-not blue eyes. There was mystery about her past – and in the end Celia knew that she would turn out to have been changed at birth and that she was really the Lady Vera, the daughter of one of the proudest noblemen in the land. There was a new girl – Lena, and one of Celia’s favourite plays was to be Lena arriving at the school. Miriam knew vaguely about "the girls" but she never asked questions about them – for which Celia was passionately grateful. On wet days "the girls" gave a concert in the schoolroom, different pieces being allotted to them. It annoyed Celia very much that her fingers stumbled over Ethel’s piece, which she was anxious to play well, and that though she always allotted Isabella the most difficult, it went perfectly. "The girls" played cribbage against each other also, and here again Isabella always seemed to have an annoying run of luck. Sometimes, when Celia went to stay with Grannie, she was taken by her to a musical comedy. They would have a four-wheeler to the station then train to Victoria, four-wheeler to lunch at the Army and Navy Stores, where Grannie would do immense lists of shopping in the grocery with the special old man who always attended to her. Then they would go up to the restaurant and have lunch, finishing with "a small cup of coffee in a large cup’, so that plenty of milk could be added. Then they would go to the confectionery department and buy half a pound of chocolate coffee creams, and then into another four- wheeler and off to the theatre, which Grannie enjoyed every bit as much as Celia did. Very often, afterwards, Grannie would buy Celia the score of the music. That opened up a new field of activity to "the girls’. They now blossomed into musical comedy stars. Isabella and Vera had soprano voices – Isabella’s was bigger, but Vera’s was sweeter. Ethel had a magnificent contralto – Elsie had a pretty little voice. Annie, Ella, and Sue had unimportant parts, but Sue gradually developed into taking the soubrette roles. The Country Girl was Celia’s favourite. "Under the Deodars" seemed to her the loveliest song that had ever been written. She sang it until she was hoarse. Vera was given the part of the Princess, so that she could sing it and the heroine’s role given to Isabella. The Cingalee was another favourite, because it had a good part for Ethel. Miriam, who suffered from headaches and whose bedroom was below the piano, at last forbade Celia to play for more than three hours on end. 2 At last Celia’s early ambition was realized. She had an accordion-pleated dancing dress, and she stayed behind for the skirt-dancing class. She was now one of the elect. She would no longer dance with Dorothy Pine who only wore a plain white party frock. The accordion-pleated girls only danced with each other – unless they were being self-consciously "kind’. Celia and Janet Maitland paired off. Janet danced beautifully. They were engaged for the waltz in perpetuity. And they also partnered each other for the march, but there they were sometimes torn apart, since Celia was a head and a half taller than Janet, and Miss Mackintosh liked her marching pairs to look symmetrical. The polka it was the fashion to dance with the little ones. Each elder girl took a tot. Six girls stayed behind for skirt dancing. It was a source of bitter disappointment to Celia that she always remained in the second row. Janet, Celia did not mind, because Janet danced better than anyone else, but Daphne danced badly and made lots of mistakes. Celia always felt it was very unfair, and the true solution of the mystery, that Miss Mackintosh put the shorter girls in front and the taller ones behind, never once occurred to her. Miriam was quite as excited as Celia over what colour her accordion pleat should be.
"But—oh, I see—no, I don’t. Or do I begin to see what you are hinting at…?" "I doubt it!" said Poirot. "But if you do, you realize, I hope, the supreme importance of that statement." He fixed me with a fierce eye. "Of course. Of course," I said hurriedly. "And then," continued Poirot, "various other things happen. Charles and Theresa come for the weekend, and Miss Arundell shows the new will to Charles—or so he says." "Don’t you believe him?" "I only believe statements that are checked. Miss Arundell does not show it to Theresa." "Because she thought Charles would tell her." "But he doesn’t. Why doesn’t he?" "According to Charles himself he did tell her." "Theresa said quite positively that he didn’t—a very interesting and suggestive little clash. And when we depart she calls him a fool." "I’m getting fogged, Poirot," I said plaintively. "Let us return to the sequence of events. Dr. Tanios comes down on Sunday—possibly without the knowledge of his wife." "I should say certainly without her knowledge." "Let us say probably. To proceed! Charles and Theresa leave on the Monday. Miss Arundell is in good health and spirits. She eats a good dinner and sits in the dark with the Tripps and the Lawson. Towards the end of the séance she is taken ill. She retires to bed and dies four days later and Miss Lawson inherits all her money, and Captain Hastings says she died a natural death!" "Whereas Hercule Poirot says she was given poison in her dinner on no evidence at all!" "I have some evidence, Hastings. Think over our conversation with the Misses Tripp. And also one statement that stood out from Miss Lawson’s somewhat rambling conversation." "Do you mean the fact that she had curry for dinner? Curry would mask the taste of a drug. Is that what you meant?" Poirot said slowly: "Yes, the curry has a certain significance, perhaps." "But," I said, "if what you advance (in defiance of all the medical evidence) is true, only Miss Lawson or one of the maids could have killed her." "I wonder." "Or the Tripp women? Nonsense. I can’t believe that! All these people are palpably innocent." Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "Remember this, Hastings, stupidity—or even silliness, for that matter—can go hand in hand with intense cunning. And do not forget the original attempt at murder. That was not the handiwork of a particularly clever or complex brain. It was a very simple little murder, suggested by Bob and his habit of leaving the ball at the top of the stairs. The thought of putting a thread across the stairs was quite simple and easy—a child could have thought of it!" I frowned. "You mean—" "I mean that what we are seeking to find here is just one thing—the wish to kill. Nothing more than that." "But the poison must have been a very skilful one to leave no trace," I argued. "Something that the ordinary person would have difficulty in getting hold of. Oh, damn it all, Poirot. I simply can’t believe it now. You can’t know! It’s all pure hypothesis." "You are wrong, my friend. As the result of our various conversations this morning. I have now something definite to go upon. Certain faint but unmistakable indications. The only thing is—I am afraid." "Afraid? Of what?" He said gravely: "Of disturbing the dogs that sleep. That is one of your proverbs, is it not? To let the sleeping dogs lie! That is what our murderer does at present—sleeps happily in the sun… Do we not know, you and I, Hastings, how often a murderer, his confidence disturbed, turns and kills a second—or even a third time!" "You are afraid of that happening?" He nodded. "Yes. If there is a murderer in the woodpile—and I think there is, Hastings. Yes, I think there is…." Nineteen VISIT TO MR. PURVIS Poirot called for his bill and paid it. "What do we do next?" I asked. "We are going to do what you suggested earlier in the morning. We are going to Harchester to interview Mr. Purvis. That is why I telephoned from the Durham Hotel." "You telephoned to Purvis?"
AGATHA CHRISTIE writing as MARY WESTMACOTT Unfinished Portrait Foreword My Dear Mary: I send you this because I don’t know what to do with it. I suppose, really, I want it to see the light of day. One does. I suppose the complete genius keeps his pictures stacked in the studio and never shows them to anybody. I was never like that, but then I was never a genius – just Mr Larraby, the promising young portrait painter. Well, my dear, you know what it is, none better – to be cut off from the thing you loved doing and did well because you loved doing it. That’s why we were friends, you and I. And you know about this writing business – I don’t. If you read this manuscript, you’ll see that I’ve taken Barge’s advice. You remember? He said, "Try a new medium." This is a portrait – and probably a damned bad one because I don’t know my medium. If you say it’s no good, I’ll take your word for it, but if you think it has, in the smallest degree, that significant form we both believe to be the fundamental basis of art – well, then, I don’t see why it shouldn’t be published. I’ve put the real names, but you can change them. And who is to mind? Not Michael. And as for Dermot he would never recognize himself! He isn’t made that way. Anyway, as Celia herself said, her story is a very ordinary story. It might happen to anybody. In fact, it frequently does. It isn’t her story I’ve been interested in. All along it’s been Celia herself. Yes, Celia herself … You see I wanted to nail her in paint to a canvas, and that being out of the question, I’ve tried to get her in another way. But I’m working in an unfamiliar medium – these words and sentences and commas and full stops – they’re not my craft. You’ll remark, I dare say, que ça se voit! I’ve seen her, you know, from two angles. First, from my own. And secondly, owing to the peculiar circumstances of twenty-four hours, I’ve been able – at moments – to get inside her skin and see her from her own. And the two don’t always agree. That’s what’s so tantalizing and fascinating to me! I should like to be God and know the truth. But a novelist can be God to the creatures he creates. He has them in his power to do what he likes with – or so he thinks. But they do give him surprises. I wonder if the real God finds that too … Yes, I wonder … Well, my dear, I won’t wander on any more. Do what you can for me. Yours ever, J.L. Book One The Island There is a lonely isle Set apart In the midst of the sea Where the birds rest awhile On their long flight To the South They rest a night Then take wing and depart To the Southern seas … I am an island set apart In the midst of the sea And a bird from the mainland Rested on me … 1 The Woman in the Garden 1 Do you know the feeling you have when you know something quite well and yet for the life of you can’t recollect it? I had that feeling all the way down the winding white road to the town. It was with me when I started from the plateau overhanging the sea in the Villa gardens. And with every step I took, it grew stronger and – somehow – more urgent. And at last, just when the avenue of palm trees runs down to the beach, I stopped. Because, you see, I knew it was now or never. This shadowy thing that was lurking at the back of my brain had got to be pulled out into the open, had got to be probed and examined and nailed down, so that I knew what it was. I’d got to pin the thing down – otherwise it would be too late. I did what one always does do when trying to remember things. I went over the facts. The walk up from the town – with the dust and the sun on the back of my neck. Nothing there. The grounds of the Villa – cool and refreshing with the great cypresses standing dark against the skyline. The green grass path that led to the plateau where the seat was placed overlooking the sea. The surprise and slight annoyance at finding a woman occupying the seat. For a moment I had felt awkward.
Thirdly, your sneak thief is rarely a murderer. Fourthly, as he has been in prison since Saturday, it would be too much of a coincidence that he is able to give so accurate a description of Lowen." Japp nodded. "I don’t say you’re not right. But all the same, you won’t get a jury to take much note of a jailbird’s evidence. What seems odd to me is that Lowen couldn’t find a cleverer way of disposing of the ring." Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "Well, after all, if it were found in the neighbourhood, it might be argued that Davenheim himself had dropped it." "But why remove it from the body at all?" I cried. "There might be a reason for that," said Japp. "Do you know that just beyond the lake, a little gate leads out on to the hill, and not three minutes" walk brings you to—what do you think?—a lime kiln." "Good heavens!" I cried. "You mean that the lime which destroyed the body would be powerless to affect the metal of the ring?" "Exactly." "It seems to me," I said, "that that explains everything. What a horrible crime!" By common consent we both turned and looked at Poirot. He seemed lost in reflection, his brow knitted, as though with some supreme mental effort. I felt at last his keen intellect was asserting itself. What would his first words be? We were not long left in doubt. With a sigh, the tension of his attitude relaxed and turning to Japp, he asked: "Have you any idea, my friend, whether Mr. and Mrs. Davenheim occupied the same bedroom?" The question seemed so ludicrously inappropriate that for a moment we both stared in silence. Then Japp burst into a laugh. "Good Lord, Monsieur Poirot, I thought you were coming out with something startling. As to your question, I’m sure I don’t know." "You could find out?" asked Poirot with curious persistence. "Oh, certainly—if you really want to know." "Merci, mon ami. I should be obliged if you would make a point of it." Japp stared at him a few minutes longer, but Poirot seemed to have forgotten us both. The detective shook his head sadly at me, and murmuring, "Poor old fellow! War’s been too much for him!" gently withdrew from the room. As Poirot seemed sunk in a daydream, I took a sheet of paper, and amused myself by scribbling notes upon it. My friend’s voice aroused me. He had come out of his reverie, and was looking brisk and alert. "Que faites-vous là, mon ami?" "I was jotting down what occurred to me as the main points of interest in this affair." "You become methodical—at last!" said Poirot approvingly. I concealed my pleasure. "Shall I read them to you?" "By all means." I cleared my throat. " "One: All the evidence points to Lowen having been the man who forced the safe. " "Two: He had a grudge against Davenheim. " "Three: He lied in his first statement that he had never left the study. " "Four: If you accept Billy Kellett’s story as true, Lowen is unmistakably implicated." " I paused. "Well?" I asked, for I felt that I had put my finger on all the vital facts. Poirot looked at me pityingly, shaking his head very gently. "Mon pauvre ami! But it is that you have not the gift! The important detail, you appreciate him never! Also, your reasoning is false." "How?" "Let me take your four points." "One: Mr. Lowen could not possibly know that he would have the chance to open the safe. He came for a business interview. He could not know beforehand that Mr. Davenheim would be absent posting a letter, and that he would consequently be alone in the study!" "He might have seized the opportunity," I suggested. "And the tools? City gentlemen do not carry round housebreaker’s tools on the off chance! And one could not cut into that safe with penknife, bien entendu!" "Well, what about Number Two?" "You say Lowen had a grudge against Mr. Davenheim. What you mean is that he had once or twice got the better of him. And presumably those transactions were entered into with the view of benefiting himself.
This way of describing events almost caused me to smile, but I stuck to my guns. "So, having—pardon the expression—rather made a mess of things, don’t you think it would be more graceful to leave immediately?" "And the dinner, the without doubt excellent dinner, that the chef of Lord Yardly has prepared?" "Oh, what’s dinner!" I said impatiently. Poirot held up his hands in horror. "Mon Dieu! It is that in this country you treat the affairs gastronomic with a criminal indifference." "There’s another reason why we should get back to London as soon as possible," I continued. "What is that, my friend?" "The other diamond," I said, lowering my voice. "Miss Marvell’s." "Eh bien, what of it?" "Don’t you see?" His unusual obtuseness annoyed me. What had happened to his usually keen wits? "They’ve got one, now they’ll go for the other." "Tiens!" cried Poirot, stepping back a pace and regarding me with admiration. "But your brain marches to a marvel, my friend! Figure to yourself that for the moment I had not thought of that! But there is plenty of time. The full of the moon, it is not until Friday." I shook my head dubiously. The full of the moon theory left me entirely cold. I had my way with Poirot, however, and we departed immediately, leaving behind us a note of explanation and apology for Lord Yardly. My idea was to go at once to the Magnificent, and relate to Miss Marvell what had occurred, but Poirot vetoed the plan, and insisted that the morning would be time enough. I gave in rather grudgingly. In the morning Poirot seemed strangely disinclined to stir out. I began to suspect that, having made a mistake to start with, he was singularly loath to proceed with the case. In answer to my persuasions, he pointed out, with admirable common sense, that as the details of the affair at Yardly Chase were already in the morning papers the Rolfs would know quite as much as we could tell them. I gave way unwillingly. Events proved my forebodings to be justified. About two o’clock, the telephone rang. Poirot answered it. He listened for some moments, then with a brief "Bien, j’y serai" he rang off, and turned to me. "What do you think, mon ami?" He looked half ashamed, half excited. "The diamond of Miss Marvell, it has been stolen." "What?" I cried, springing up. "And what about the "full of the moon" now?" Poirot hung his head. "When did this happen?" "This morning, I understand." I shook my head sadly. "If only you had listened to me. You see I was right." "It appears so, mon ami," said Poirot cautiously. "Appearances are deceptive, they say, but it certainly appears so." As we hurried in a taxi to the Magnificent, I puzzled out the true inwardness of the scheme. "That "full of the moon" idea was clever. The whole point of it was to get us to concentrate on the Friday, and so be off our guard beforehand. It is a pity you did not realize that." "Ma foi!" said Poirot airily, his nonchalance quite restored after its brief eclipse. "One cannot think of everything!" I felt sorry for him. He did so hate failure of any kind. "Cheer up," I said consolingly. "Better luck next time." At the Magnificent, we were ushered at once into the manager’s office. Gregory Rolf was there with two men from Scotland Yard. A pale-faced clerk sat opposite them. Rolf nodded to us as we entered. "We’re getting to the bottom of it," he said. "But it’s almost unbelievable. How the guy had the nerve I can’t think." A very few minutes sufficed to give us the facts. Mr. Rolf had gone out of the hotel at 11:15. At 11:30, a gentleman, so like him in appearance as to pass muster, entered the hotel and demanded the jewel case from the safe deposit. He duly signed the receipt, remarking carelessly as he did so: "Looks a bit different from my ordinary one, but I hurt my hand getting out of the taxi." The clerk merely smiled and remarked that he saw very little difference.
Cornelia shook her head. "I tried to go once or twice, but she made me stay, and I was getting very, very uncomfortable. And then Mr. Fanthorp got up and went out—" "It was a little embarrassing," said Fanthorp. "I thought I’d make an unobtrusive exit. Miss de Bellefort was clearly working up for a scene." "And then she pulled out the pistol," went on Cornelia, "and Mr. Doyle jumped up to try and get it away from her, and it went off and shot him through the leg; and then she began to sob and cry—and I was scared to death and ran out after Mr. Fanthorp, and he came back with me, and Mr. Doyle said not to make a fuss, and one of the Nubian boys heard the noise of the shot and came along, but Mr. Fanthorp told him it was all right; and then we got Jacqueline away to her cabin, and Mr. Fanthorp stayed with her while I got Miss Bowers." Cornelia paused breathless. "What time was this?" asked Race. Cornelia said again, "Mercy, I don’t know," but Fanthorp answered promptly: "It must have been about twenty minutes past twelve. I know that it was actually half-past twelve when I finally got to my cabin." "Now let me be quite sure on one or two points," said Poirot. "After Madame Doyle left the saloon, did any of you four leave it?" "No." "You are quite certain Mademoiselle de Bellefort did not leave the saloon at all?" Fanthorp answered promptly: "Positive. Neither Doyle, Miss de Bellefort, Miss Robson, nor myself left the saloon." "Good. That establishes the fact that Mademoiselle de Bellefort could not possibly have shot Madame Doyle before—let us say—twenty past twelve. Now, Mademoiselle Robson, you went to fetch Mademoiselle Bowers. Was Mademoiselle de Bellefort alone in her cabin during that period?" "No. Mr. Fanthorp stayed with her." "Good! So far, Mademoiselle de Bellefort has a perfect alibi. Mademoiselle Bowers is the next person to interview, but, before I send for her, I should like to have your opinion on one or two points. Monsieur Doyle, you say, was very anxious that Mademoiselle de Bellefort should not be left alone. Was he afraid, do you think, that she was contemplating some further rash act?" "That is my opinion," said Fanthorp. "He was definitely afraid she might attack Madame Doyle?" "No." Fanthorp shook his head. "I don’t think that was his idea at all. I think he was afraid she might—er—do something rash to herself." "Suicide?" "Yes. You see, she seemed completely sobered and heartbroken at what she had done. She was full of self-reproach. She kept saying she would be better dead." Cornelia said timidly: "I think he was rather upset about her. He spoke—quite nicely. He said it was all his fault—that he’d treated her badly. He—he was really very nice." Hercule Poirot nodded thoughtfully. "Now about that pistol," he went on. "What happened to that?" "She dropped it," said Cornelia. "And afterwards?" Fanthorp explained how he had gone back to search for it, but had not been able to find it. "Aha!" said Poirot. "Now we begin to arrive. Let us, I pray you, be very precise. Describe to me exactly what happened." "Miss de Bellefort let it fall. Then she kicked it away from her with her foot." "She sort of hated it," explained Cornelia. "I know just what she felt." "And it went under a settee, you say. Now be very careful. Mademoiselle de Bellefort did not recover that pistol before she left the saloon?" Both Fanthorp and Cornelia were positive on that point. "Précisément. I seek only to be very exact, you comprehend. Then we arrive at this point.
He touched his hat and, still grinning, departed. "Such a day as I’ve had," said Grannie, untying her bonnet strings. She displayed no signs of fatigue and had obviously enjoyed herself. "The Stores were packed, my dear." Apparently with other old ladies, all carrying off hams in four-wheeled cabs. 9 Celia never took up Red Cross work. Several things happened. First, Rouncy broke up and went home to live with her brother. Celia and her mother did the work of the house with the disapproving aid of Gregg, who "didn’t hold" with war and ladies doing things they weren’t meant to do. Then Grannie wrote to Miriam. Dearest Miriam: You suggested some years ago that I should make my home with you. I refused then, as I felt too old to make a move. But Dr Holt (such a clever man – and enjoys a good story – I’m afraid his wife doesn’t really appreciate him) says my eyesight is failing and that nothing can be done about it. That is God’s will and I accept it, but I do not fancy being left at the mercy of maids. Such wicked things as one reads of nowadays – and I have missed several things lately. Do not mention this when you write – they may open my letters. I am posting this myself. So I think that it will be best for me to come to you. It will make things easier, as my income will help. I do not like the idea of Celia doing things in the house. The dear child should reserve her strength. You remember Mrs Pinchin’s Eva? Just that same delicate complexion. She overdid things and is now in a Sanatorium in Switzerland. You and Celia must come and help me to move. It will be a terrible business, I’m afraid. It was a terrible business. Grannie had lived in the house at Wimbledon for fifty years, and, true product of a thrifty generation, she had never thrown away anything that might possibly "come in’. There were vast wardrobes and chests of drawers of solid mahogany, each drawer and shelf crammed with neatly rolled bundles of materials and odds and ends put away safely by Grannie and forgotten. There were innumerable "remnants’, odd lengths of silks and satins, and prints and cottons. There were dozens of needle books "for the maids at Christmas’, with the needles rusted in them. There were old scraps and pieces of gowns. There were letters and papers and diaries and recipes and newspaper cuttings. There were forty-four pin-cushions and thirty-five pairs of scissors. There were drawers and drawers full of fine linen underclothes all gone into holes, but preserved because of "the good embroidery, my dear’. Saddest of all there was the store cupboard (memory of Celia’s youth). The store cupboard had defeated Grannie. She could no longer penetrate into its depths. Stores had lain there undisturbed while fresh stores accumulated on top of them. Weevily flour, crumbling biscuits, mouldy jams, liquescent mass of preserved fruits – all these were disinterred from the depths and thrown away while Grannie sat and wept and lamented the "shameful waste’. "Surely, Miriam, they would do very nicely for puddings for the kitchen?" Poor Grannie – so able and energetic and thrifty a housewife – defeated by age and failing sight, and forced to sit and see alien eyes surveying her defeat … She fought tooth and nail for every one of her treasures that this ruthless younger generation wanted to throw away. "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.
Tuppence smiled, gratified at the success of her efforts. "We haven’t exactly proved it yet. But we’re after her. And"—she produced a long drawn-out wink—"I guess she won’t get away with the goods this time." Albert uttered another ejaculation indicative of delight. "Mind you, sonny, not a word of this," said Tuppence suddenly. "I guess I oughtn’t to have put you wise, but in the States we know a real smart lad when we see one." "I’ll not breathe a word," protested Albert eagerly. "Ain’t there anything I could do? A bit of shadowing, maybe, or suchlike?" Tuppence affected to consider, then shook her head. "Not at the moment, but I’ll bear you in mind, son. What’s this about the girl you say is leaving?" "Annie? Regular turn up, they ’ad. As Annie said, servants is someone nowadays, and to be treated accordingly, and, what with her passing the word round, she won’t find it so easy to get another." "Won’t she?" said Tuppence thoughtfully. "I wonder—" An idea was dawning in her brain. She thought a minute or two, then tapped Albert on the shoulder. "See here, son, my brain’s got busy. How would it be if you mentioned that you’d got a young cousin, or a friend of yours had, that might suit the place. You get me?" "I’m there," said Albert instantly. "You leave it to me, miss, and I’ll fix the whole thing up in two ticks." "Some lad!" commented Tuppence, with a nod of approval. "You might say that the young woman could come right away. You let me know, and if it’s O.K. I’ll be round tomorrow at eleven o’clock." "Where am I to let you know to?" "Ritz," replied Tuppence laconically. "Name of Cowley." Albert eyed her enviously. "It must be a good job, this tec business." "It sure is," drawled Tuppence, "especially when old man Rysdale backs the bill. But don’t fret, son. If this goes well, you shall come in on the ground floor." With which promise she took leave of her new ally, and walked briskly away from South Audley Mansions, well pleased with her morning’s work. But there was no time to be lost. She went straight back to the Ritz and wrote a few brief words to Mr. Carter. Having dispatched this, and Tommy not having yet returned—which did not surprise her—she started off on a shopping expedition which, with an interval for tea and assorted creamy cakes, occupied her until well after six o’clock, and she returned to the hotel jaded, but satisfied with her purchases. Starting with a cheap clothing store, and passing through one or two secondhand establishments, she had finished the day at a well-known hairdresser’s. Now, in the seclusion of her bedroom, she unwrapped that final purchase. Five minutes later she smiled contentedly at her reflection in the glass. With an actress’s pencil she had slightly altered the line of her eyebrows, and that, taken in conjunction with the new luxuriant growth of fair hair above, so changed her appearance that she felt confident that even if she came face to face with Whittington he would not recognize her. She would wear elevators in her shoes, and the cap and apron would be an even more valuable disguise. From hospital experience she knew only too well that a nurse out of uniform is frequently unrecognized by her patients. "Yes," said Tuppence aloud, nodding at the pert reflection in the glass, "you’ll do." She then resumed her normal appearance. Dinner was a solitary meal. Tuppence was rather surprised at Tommy’s nonreturn. Julius, too, was absent—but that to the girl’s mind was more easily explained. His "hustling" activities were not confined to London, and his abrupt appearances and disappearances were fully accepted by the Young Adventurers as part of the day’s work. It was quite on the cards that Julius P. Hersheimmer had left for Constantinople at a moment’s notice if he fancied that a clue to his cousin’s disappearance was to be found there.
"That remains to be seen," said Sir James gravely. The other hesitated. "You do not think I ought to go to the police?" "No, no. In all probability the young lady is with other relations." The doctor was not completely satisfied, but he saw that Sir James was determined to say no more, and realized that to try to extract more information from the famous K.C. would be mere waste of labour. Accordingly, he wished them good-bye, and they left the hotel. For a few minutes they stood by the car talking. "How maddening," cried Tuppence. "To think that Julius must have been actually under the same roof with her for a few hours." "I was a darned idiot," muttered Julius gloomily. "You couldn’t know," Tuppence consoled him. "Could he?" She appealed to Sir James. "I should advise you not to worry," said the latter kindly. "No use crying over spilt milk, you know." "The great thing is what to do next," added Tuppence the practical. Sir James shrugged his shoulders. "You might advertise for the nurse who accompanied the girl. That is the only course I can suggest, and I must confess I do not hope for much result. Otherwise there is nothing to be done." "Nothing?" said Tuppence blankly. "And—Tommy?" "We must hope for the best," said Sir James. "Oh yes, we must go on hoping." But over her downcast head his eyes met Julius’s, and almost imperceptibly he shook his head. Julius understood. The lawyer considered the case hopeless. The young American’s face grew grave. Sir James took Tuppence’s hand. "You must let me know if anything further comes to light. Letters will always be forwarded." Tuppence stared at him blankly. "You are going away?" "I told you. Don’t you remember? To Scotland." "Yes, but I thought—" The girl hesitated. Sir James shrugged his shoulders. "My dear young lady, I can do nothing more, I fear. Our clues have all ended in thin air. You can take my word for it that there is nothing more to be done. If anything should arise, I shall be glad to advise you in any way I can." His words gave Tuppence an extraordinary desolate feeling. "I suppose you’re right," she said. "Anyway, thank you very much for trying to help us. Good-bye." Julius was bending over the car. A momentary pity came into Sir James’s keen eyes, as he gazed into the girl’s downcast face. "Don’t be too disconsolate, Miss Tuppence," he said in a low voice. "Remember, holiday time isn’t always all playtime. One sometimes manages to put in some work as well." Something in his tone made Tuppence glance up sharply. He shook his head with a smile. "No, I shan’t say anymore. Great mistake to say too much. Remember that. Never tell all you know—not even to the person you know best. Understand? Good-bye." He strode away. Tuppence stared after him. She was beginning to understand Sir James’s methods. Once before he had thrown her a hint in the same careless fashion. Was this a hint? What exactly lay behind those last brief words? Did he mean that, after all, he had not abandoned the case: that secretly, he would be working on it still while— Her meditations were interrupted by Julius, who adjured her to "get right in." "You’re looking kind of thoughtful," he remarked as they started off. "Did the old guy say anything more?" Tuppence opened her mouth impulsively, and then shut it again. Sir James’s words sounded in her ears: "Never tell all you know—not even to the person you know best." And like a flash there came into her mind another memory. Julius before the safe in the flat, her own question and the pause before his reply, "Nothing." Was there really nothing? Or had he found something he wished to keep to himself? If he could make a reservation, so could she. "Nothing particular," she replied. She felt rather than saw Julius throw a sideways glance at her. "Say, shall we go for a spin in the park?" "If you like." For a while they ran on under the trees in silence. It was a beautiful day. The keen rush through the air brought a new exhilaration to Tuppence. "Say, Miss Tuppence, do you think I’m ever going to find Jane?"
"It’s the best thing I’ve done," Everard declared aggressively. "We’re getting on," said Isobel. "Lady Charmington wants you to paint her." "Oh, Lord!" He frowned. "I’m not a fashionable portrait painter, you know." "You will be. You’ll get to the top of the tree." "That’s not the tree I want to get to the top of." "But, Alan dear, that’s the way to make mints of money." "Who wants mints of money?" "Perhaps I do," she said smiling. At once he felt apologetic, ashamed. If she had not married him she could have had her mints of money. And she needed it. A certain amount of luxury was her proper setting. "We’ve not done so badly just lately," he said wistfully. "No, indeed; but the bills are coming in rather fast." Bills–always bills! He walked up and down. "Oh, hang it! I don’t want to paint Lady Charmington," he burst out, rather like a petulant child. Isobel smiled a little. She stood by the fire without moving. Alan stopped his restless pacing and came nearer to her. What was there in her, in her stillness, her inertia, that drew him–drew him like a magnet? How beautiful she was–her arms like sculptured white marble, the pure gold of her hair, her lips–red full lips. He kissed them–felt them fasten on his own. Did anything else matter? What was there in Isobel that soothed you, that took all your cares from you? She drew you into her own beautiful inertia and held you there, quiet and content. Poppy and mandragora; you drifted there, on a dark lake, asleep. "I’ll do Lady Charmington," he said presently. "What does it matter? I shall be bored–but after all, painters must eat. There’s Mr Pots the painter, Mrs Pots the painter’s wife, and Miss Pots the painter’s daughter–all needing sustenance." "Absurd boy!" said Isobel. "Talking of our daughter–you ought to go and see Jane some time. She was here yesterday, and said she hadn’t seen you for months." "Jane was here?" "Yes–to see Winnie." Alan brushed Winnie aside. "Did she see the picture of you?" "Yes." "What did she think of it?" "She said it was splendid." "Oh!" He frowned, lost in thought. "Mrs Lemprière suspects you of a guilty passion for Jane, I think," remarked Isobel. "Her nose twitched a good deal." "That woman!" said Alan, with deep disgust. "That woman! What wouldn’t she think? What doesn’t she think?" "Well, I don’t think," said Isobel, smiling. "So go and see Jane soon." Alan looked across at her. She was sitting now on a low couch by the fire. Her face was half turned away, the smile still lingered on her lips. And at that moment he felt bewildered, confused, as though a mist had formed round him, and, suddenly parting, had given him a glimpse into a strange country. Something said to him: "Why does she want you to go and see Jane? There’s a reason." Because with Isobel, there was bound to be a reason. There was no impulse in Isobel, only calculation. "Do you like Jane?" he asked suddenly. "She’s a dear," said Isobel. "Yes, but do you really like her?" "Of course. She’s so devoted to Winnie. By the way, she wants to carry Winnie off to the seaside next week. You don’t mind, do you? It will leave us free for Scotland." "It will be extraordinarily convenient." It would, indeed, be just that. Extraordinarily convenient. He looked across at Isobel with a sudden suspicion. Had she asked Jane? Jane was so easily imposed upon. Isobel got up and went out of the room, humming to herself. Oh, well, it didn’t matter. Anyway, he would go and see Jane. III Jane Haworth lived at the top of a block of mansion flats overlooking Battersea Park. When Everard had climbed four flights of stairs and pressed the bell, he felt annoyed with Jane. Why couldn’t she live somewhere more get- at-able? When, not having obtained an answer, he had pressed the bell three times, his annoyance had grown greater.
I suggested she should look at properties in England. Then I said when she was twenty-one she could buy one of her own and say good-bye to all that New York lot." "Greta always has wonderful ideas," said Ellie. "She thinks of things I’d probably never have thought of myself." What were those words Mr. Lippincott had said to me? "She has too much influence over Ellie." I wondered if it was true. Queerly enough I didn’t really think so. I felt that there was a core somewhere in Ellie that Greta, for all that she knew her so well, had never quite appreciated. Ellie, I was sure, would always accept any ideas that matched with the ideas she wanted to have herself. Greta had preached rebellion to Ellie but Ellie herself wanted to rebel, only she was not sure how to do so. But I felt that Ellie, now that I was coming to know her better, was one of those very simple people who have unexpected reserves. I thought Ellie would be quite capable of taking a stand of her own if she wished to. The point was that she wouldn’t very often wish to and I thought then how difficult everyone was to understand. Even Ellie. Even Greta. Even perhaps my own mother…The way she looked at me with fear in her eyes. I wondered about Mr. Lippincott. I said, as we were peeling some outsize peaches: "Mr. Lippincott seems to have taken our marriage very well really. I was surprised." "Mr. Lippincott," said Greta, "is an old fox." "You always say so, Greta," said Ellie, "but I think he’s rather a dear. Very strict and proper and all that." "Well, go on thinking so if you like," said Greta. "Myself, I wouldn’t trust him an inch." "Not trust him!" said Ellie. Greta shook her head. "I know. He’s a pillar of respectability and trustworthiness. He’s everything a trustee and a lawyer should be." Ellie laughed and said, "Do you mean he’s embezzled my fortune? Don’t be silly, Greta. There are thousands of auditors and banks and check-ups and all that sort of thing." "Oh, I expect he’s all right really," said Greta. "All the same, those are the people that do embezzle. The trustworthy ones. And then everyone says afterwards, "I’d never have believed it of Mr. A. or Mr. B. The last man in the world." Yes, that’s what they say. "The last man in the world.’" Ellie said thoughtfully that her Uncle Frank, she thought, was much more likely to go in for dishonest practices. She did not seem unduly worried or surprised by the idea. "Oh well he looks like a crook," said Greta. "That handicaps him to start with. All that geniality and bonhomie. But he’ll never be in a position to be a crook in a big way." "Is he your mother’s brother?" I asked. I always got confused over Ellie’s relations. "He’s my father’s sister’s husband," said Ellie. "She left him and married someone else and died about six or seven years ago. Uncle Frank has more or less stuck on with the family." "There are three of them," said Greta kindly and helpfully. "Three leeches hanging round, as you might say. Ellie’s actual uncles were killed, one in Korea and one in a car accident, so what she’s got is a much-damaged stepmother, an Uncle Frank, an amiable hanger-on in the family home, and her cousin Reuben whom she calls Uncle but he’s only a cousin and Andrew Lippincott, and Stanford Lloyd." "Who is Stanford Lloyd?" I asked, bewildered. "Oh another sort of trustee, isn’t he, Ellie? At any rate he manages your investments and things like that. Which can’t really be very difficult because when you’ve got as much money as Ellie has, it sort of makes more money all the time without anyone having to do much about it. Those are the main surrounding group," Greta added, "and I have no doubt that you will be meeting them fairly soon. They’ll be over here to have a look at you." I groaned, and looked at Ellie.
I never saw any. I was shown into Richard Symmington’s inner office which had the agreeable mustiness of a long-established legal firm. Vast numbers of deed boxes, labelled Lady Hope, Sir Everard Carr, William Yatesby-Hoares, Esq., Deceased, etc., gave the required atmosphere of decorous county families and legitimate long-established business. Studying Mr. Symmington as he bent over the documents I had brought, it occurred to me that if Mrs. Symmington had encountered disaster in her first marriage, she had certainly played safe in her second. Richard Symmington was the acme of calm respectability, the sort of man who would never give his wife a moment’s anxiety. A long neck with a pronounced Adam’s apple, a slightly cadaverous face and a long thin nose. A kindly man, no doubt, a good husband and father, but not one to set the pulses madly racing. Presently Mr. Symmington began to speak. He spoke clearly and slowly, delivering himself of much good sense and shrewd acumen. We settled the matter in hand and I rose to go, remarking as I did so: "I walked down the hill with your stepdaughter." For a moment Mr. Symmington looked as though he did not know who his stepdaughter was, then he smiled. "Oh yes, of course, Megan. She—er—has been back from school some time. We’re thinking about finding her something to do—yes, to do. But of course she’s very young still. And backward for her age, so they say. Yes, so they tell me." I went out. In the outer office was a very old man on a stool writing slowly and laboriously, a small cheeky-looking boy and a middle-aged woman with frizzy hair and pinze-nez who was typing with some speed and dash. If this was Miss Ginch I agreed with Owen Griffith that tender passages between her and her employer were exceedingly unlikely. I went into the baker’s and said my piece about the currant loaf. It was received with the exclamation and incredulity proper to the occasion, and a new currant loaf was thrust upon me in replacement—"fresh from the oven this minute"—as its indecent heat pressed against my chest proclaimed to be no less than truth. I came out of the shop and looked up and down the street hoping to see Joanna with the car. The walk had tired me a good deal and it was awkward getting along with my sticks and the currant loaf. But there was no sign of Joanna as yet. Suddenly my eyes were held in glad and incredulous surprise. Along the pavement towards me there came floating a goddess. There is really no other word for it. The perfect features, the crisply curling golden hair, the tall exquisitely- shaped body! And she walked like a goddess, without effort, seeming to swim nearer and nearer. A glorious, an incredible, a breathtaking girl! In my intense excitement something had to go. What went was the currant loaf. It slipped from my clutches. I made a dive after it and lost my stick, which clattered to the pavement, and I slipped and nearly fell myself. It was the strong arm of the goddess that caught and held me. I began to stammer: "Th-thanks awfully, I’m f-f-frightfully sorry." She had retrieved the currant loaf and handed it to me together with the stick. And then she smiled kindly and said cheerfully: "Don’t mention it. No trouble, I assure you," and the magic died completely before the flat, competent voice. A nice healthy-looking well set-up girl, no more. I fell to reflecting what would have happened if the Gods had given Helen of Troy exactly those flat accents. How strange that a girl could trouble your inmost soul so long as she kept her mouth shut, and that the moment she spoke the glamour could vanish as though it had never been. I had known the reverse happen, though. I had seen a little sad monkey-faced woman whom no one would turn to look at twice. Then she opened her mouth and suddenly enchantment had lived and bloomed and Cleopatra had cast her spell anew. Joanna had drawn up at the kerb beside me without my noticing her arrival. She asked if there was anything the matter. "Nothing," I said, pulling myself together. "I was reflecting on Helen of Troy and others." "What a funny place to do it," said Joanna.
"Are you quite mad, Ariadne?" "Probably," said Mrs. Oliver, "raving mad. Come on. Miranda will enjoy being in London. You needn’t worry. She’s not going to have any operation. That’s what’s called "cover" in spy stories. We’ll take her to a theatre, or an opera or the ballet, whichever way her tastes lie. On the whole I think it would be best to take her to the ballet." "I’m frightened," said Judith. Ariadne Oliver looked at her friend. She was trembling slightly. She looked more than ever, Mrs. Oliver thought, like Undine. She looked divorced from reality. "Come on," said Mrs. Oliver, "I promised Hercule Poirot I’d bring you when he gave me the word. Well, he’s given me the word." "What’s going on in this place?" said Judith. "I can’t think why I ever came here." "I sometimes wondered why you did," said Mrs. Oliver, "but there’s no accounting for where people go to live. A friend of mine went to live in Moreton-in-the-Marsh the other day. I asked him why he wanted to go and live there. He said he’d always wanted to and thought about it. Whenever he retired he meant to go there. I said that I hadn’t been to it myself but it sounded to me bound to be damp. What was it actually like? He said he didn’t know what it was like because he’d never been there himself. But he had always wanted to live there. He was quite sane, too." "Did he go?" "Yes." "Did he like it when he got there?" "Well, I haven’t heard that yet," said Mrs. Oliver. "But people are very odd, aren’t they? The things they want to do, the things they simply have to do…" She went to the garden and called, "Miranda, we’re going to London." Miranda came slowly towards them. "Going to London?" "Ariadne’s going to drive us there," said her mother. "We’ll go and see a theatre there. Mrs. Oliver thinks perhaps she can get tickets for the ballet. Would you like to go to the ballet?" "I’d love it," said Miranda. Her eyes lighted up. "I must go and say goodbye to one of my friends first." "We’re going practically at once." "Oh, I shan’t be as long as that, but I must explain. There are things I promised to do." She ran down the garden and disappeared through the gate. "Who are Miranda’s friends?" asked Mrs. Oliver, with some curiosity." "I never really know," said Judith. "She never tells one things, you know. Sometimes I think that the only things that she really feels are her friends are the birds she looks at in the woods. Or squirrels or things like that. I think everybody likes her but I don’t know that she has any particular friends. I mean, she doesn’t bring back girls to tea and things like that. Not as much as other girls do. I think her best friend really was Joyce Reynolds." She added vaguely: "Joyce used to tell her fantastic things about elephants and tigers." She roused herself. "Well, I must go up and pack, I suppose, as you insist. But I don’t want to leave here. There are lots of things I’m in the middle of doing, like this jelly and—" "You’ve got to come," said Mrs. Oliver. She was quite firm about it. Judith came downstairs again with a couple of suitcases just as Miranda ran in through the side door, somewhat out of breath. "Aren’t we going to have lunch first?" she demanded. In spite of her elfin woodland appearance, she was a healthy child who liked her food. "We’ll stop for lunch on the way," said Mrs. Oliver. "We’ll stop at The Black Boy at Haversham. That would be about right. It’s about three-quarters of an hour from here and they give you quite a good meal. Come on, Miranda, we’re going to start now." "I shan’t have time to tell Cathie I can’t go to the pictures with her tomorrow. Oh, perhaps I could ring her up." "Well, hurry up," said her mother. Miranda ran into the sitting room where the telephone was situated. Judith and Mrs.
"But the packet of stropanthin was found in Douglas Gold’s pocket!" "A very simple matter to slip it there when we were all crowding round the dying woman." It was quite two minutes before Pamela got her breath. "But I don’t understand a word! The triangle—you said yourself—" Hercule Poirot nodded his head vigorously. "I said there was a triangle—yes. But you, you imagined the wrong one. You were deceived by some very clever acting! You thought, as you were meant to think, that both Tony Chantry and Douglas Gold were in love with Valentine Chantry. You believed, as you were meant to believe, that Douglas Gold, being in love with Valentine Chantry (whose husband refused to divorce her) took the desperate step of administering a powerful heart poison to Chantry and that, by a fatal mistake, Valentine Chantry drank that poison instead. All that is illusion. Chantry has been meaning to do away with his wife for some time. He was bored to death with her, I could see that from the first. He married her for her money. Now he wants to marry another woman—so he planned to get rid of Valentine and keep her money. That entailed murder." "Another woman?" Poirot said slowly: "Yes, yes—the little Marjorie Gold. It was the eternal triangle all right! But you saw it the wrong way round. Neither of those two men cared in the least for Valentine Chantry. It was her vanity and Marjorie Gold’s very clever stage managing that made you think they did! A very clever woman, Mrs. Gold, and amazingly attractive in her demure Madonna, poor-little-thing-way! I have known four women criminals of the same type. There was Mrs. Adams who was acquitted of murdering her husband, but everybody knows she did it. Mary Parker did away with an aunt, a sweetheart and two brothers before she got a little careless and was caught. Then there was Mrs. Rowden, she was hanged all right. Mrs. Lecray escaped by the skin of her teeth. This woman is exactly the same type. I recognized it as soon as I saw her! That type takes to crime like a duck to water! And a very pretty bit of well-planned work it was. Tell me, what evidence did you ever have that Douglas Gold was in love with Valentine Chantry? When you come to think it out, you will realize that there was only Mrs. Gold’s confidences and Chantry’s jealous bluster. Yes? You see?" "It’s horrible," cried Pamela. "They were a clever pair," said Poirot with professional detachment. "They planned to "meet" here and stage their crime. That Marjorie Gold, she is a cold-blooded devil! She would have sent her poor, innocent fool of a husband to the scaffold without the least remorse." Pamela cried out: "But he was arrested and taken away by the police last night." "Ah," said Hercule Poirot, "but after that, me, I had a few little words with the police. It is true that I did not see Chantry put the stropanthin in the glass. I, like everyone else, looked up when the ladies came in. But the moment I realized that Valentine Chantry had been poisoned, I watched her husband without taking my eyes off him. And so, you see, I actually saw him slip the packet of stropanthin in Douglas Gold’s coat pocket. . . ." He added with a grim expression on his face: "I am a good witness. My name is well-known. The moment the police heard my story they realized that it put an entirely different complexion on the matter." "And then?" demanded Pamela, fascinated. "Eh bien, then they asked Commander Chantry a few questions. He tried to bluster it out, but he is not really clever, he soon broke down." "So Douglas Gold was set at liberty?" "Yes." "And—Marjorie Gold?" Poirot’s face grew stern. "I warned her," he said. "Yes, I warned her . . . Up on the Mount of the Prophet . . . It was the only chance of averting the crime. I as good as told her that I suspected her. She understood. But she believed herself too clever . . . I told her to leave the island if she valued her life.
Tried not to admit it to myself. She was damned fond of him. Fond of a murderer! Well, he’ll hang as well as the woman. I’m glad he went to pieces and gave the show away." Miss Marple said: "She was always the strong character. It was her plan throughout. The irony of it is that she got the girl down here herself, never dreaming that she would take Mr. Jefferson’s fancy and ruin all her own prospects." Jefferson said: "Poor lass. Poor little Ruby…." Adelaide Jefferson and Hugo McLean came in. Adelaide looked almost beautiful tonight. She came up to Conway Jefferson and laid a hand on his shoulder. She said, with a little catch in her breath: "I want to tell you something, Jeff. At once. I’m going to marry Hugo." Conway Jefferson looked up at her for a moment. He said gruffly: "About time you married again. Congratulations to you both. By the way, Addie, I’m making a new will tomorrow." She nodded. "Oh yes, I know." Jefferson said: "No, you don’t. I’m settling ten thousand pounds on you. Everything else I have goes to Peter when I die. How does that suit you, my girl?" "Oh, Jeff!" Her voice broke. "You’re wonderful!" "He’s a nice lad. I’d like to see a good deal of him—in the time I’ve got left." "Oh, you shall!" "Got a great feeling for crime, Peter has," said Conway Jefferson meditatively. "Not only has he got the fingernail of the murdered girl—one of the murdered girls, anyway—but he was lucky enough to have a bit of Josie’s shawl caught in with the nail. So he’s got a souvenir of the murderess too! That makes him very happy!" II Hugo and Adelaide passed by the ballroom. Raymond came up to them. Adelaide said, rather quickly: "I must tell you my news. We’re going to be married." The smile on Raymond’s face was perfect—a brave, pensive smile. "I hope," he said, ignoring Hugo and gazing into her eyes, "that you will be very, very happy…." They passed on and Raymond stood looking after them. "A nice woman," he said to himself. "A very nice woman. And she would have had money too. The trouble I took to mug up that bit about the Devonshire Starrs … Oh well, my luck’s out. Dance, dance, little gentleman!" And Raymond returned to the ballroom.
Very nice of Doctor to be so optimistic, Nurse would think, but surely Doctor was wrong. Doctor very often wasn’t wrong. He knew that people who were in pain, helpless, crippled, even unhappy, still liked living and wanting to live. They would take one of Doctor’s pills to help them pass the night, but they had no intention of taking a few more than necessary of Doctor’s pills, just in order to pass the threshold to a world that they did not as yet know anything about! Mr. Rafiel. That was the person Miss Marple was thinking about as she looked across the garden with unseeing eyes. Mr. Rafiel? She felt now that she was getting a little closer to understanding the task laid upon her, the project suggested to her. Mr. Rafiel was a man who made plans. Made them in the same way that he planned financial deals and takeovers. In the words of her servant, Cherry, he had had a problem. When Cherry had a problem, she often came and consulted Miss Marple about it. This was a problem that Mr. Rafiel could not deal with himself, which must have annoyed him very much, Miss Marple thought, because he could usually deal with any problem himself and insisted on doing so. But he was bedridden and dying. He could arrange his financial affairs, communicate with his lawyers, with his employees and with such friends and relations as he had, but there was something or someone that he had not arranged for. A problem he had not solved, a problem he still wanted to solve, a project he still wanted to bring about. And apparently it was not one that could be settled by financial aid, by business dealings, by the services of a lawyer. "So he thought of me," said Miss Marple. It still surprised her very much. Very much indeed. However, in the sense she was now thinking of it, his letter had been quite explicit. He had thought she had certain qualifications for doing something. It had to do, she thought once again, with something in the nature of crime or affected by crime. The only other thing he knew about Miss Marple was that she was devoted to gardens. Well it could hardly be a gardening problem that he wanted her to solve. But he might think of her in connection with crime. Crime in the West Indies and crimes in her own neighbourhood at home. A crime—where? Mr. Rafiel had made arrangements. Arrangements, to begin with, with his lawyers. They had done their part. After the right interval of time they had forwarded to her his letter. It had been, she thought, a well considered and well thought out letter. It would have been simpler, certainly, to tell her exactly what he wanted her to do and why he wanted it. She was surprised in a way that he had not, before his death, sent for her, probably in a somewhat peremptory way and more or less lying on what he would have assured her was his deathbed, and would then have bullied her until she consented to do what he was asking her. But no, that would not really have been Mr. Rafiel’s way, she thought. He could bully people, none better, but this was not a case for bullying, and he did not wish either, she was sure, to appeal to her, to beg her to do him a favour, to urge her to redress a wrong. No. That again would not have been Mr. Rafiel’s way. He wanted, she thought, as he had probably wanted all his life, to pay for what he required. He wanted to pay her and therefore he wanted to interest her enough to enjoy doing certain work. The pay was offered to intrigue her, not really to tempt her. It was to arouse her interest. She did not think that he had said to himself, "Offer enough money and she’ll leap at it" because, as she knew very well herself, the money sounded very agreeable but she was not in urgent need of money. She had her dear and affectionate nephew who, if she was in straits for money of any kind, if she needed repairs to her house or a visit to a specialist or special treats, dear Raymond would always provide them. No. The sum he offered was to be exciting. It was to be exciting in the same way as it was exciting when you had a ticket for the Irish Sweep.
It was an escape. When he was painting he didn’t care, he shook off Caroline and her nagging and all the ceaseless rows and quarrels. They were endless, you know. Not a week passed without a thundering row over one thing or another. She enjoyed it. Having rows stimulated her, I believe. It was an outlet. She could say all the hard bitter stinging things she wanted to say. She’d positively purr after one of those set-tos—go off looking as sleek and well-fed as a cat. But it took it out of him. He wanted peace—rest—a quiet life. Of course a man like that ought never to marry—he isn’t out for domesticity. A man like Crale should have affairs but no binding ties. They’re bound to chafe him." "He confided in you?" "Well—he knew that I was a pretty devoted pal. He let me see things. He didn’t complain. He wasn’t that kind of man. Sometimes he’d say, "Damn all women." Or he’d say, "Never get married, old boy. Wait for hell till after this life.’" "You knew about his attachment to Miss Greer?" "Oh yes—at least I saw it coming on. He told me he’d met a marvellous girl. She was different, he said, from anything or anyone he’d ever met before. Not that I paid much attention to that. Amyas was always meeting one woman or other who was "different." Usually a month later he’d stare at you if you mentioned them, and wonder who you were talking about! But this Elsa Greer really was different. I realized that when I came down to Alderbury to stay. She’d got him, you know, hooked him good and proper. The poor mutt fairly ate out of her hand." "You did not like Elsa Greer either?" "No, I didn’t like her. She was definitely a predatory creature. She, too, wanted to own Crale body and soul. But I think, all the same, that she’d have been better for him than Caroline. She might conceivably have let him alone once she was sure of him. Or she might have got tired of him and moved on to someone else. The best thing for Amyas would have been to be quite free of female entanglements." "But that, it would seem, was not to his taste?" Philip Blake said with a sigh: "The damned fool was always getting himself involved with some woman or other. And yet, in a way, women really meant very little to him. The only two women who really made any impression on him at all in his life were Caroline and Elsa." Poirot said: "Was he fond of the child?" "Angela? Oh! we all liked Angela. She was such a sport. She was always game for anything. What a life she led that wretched governess of hers. Yes, Amyas liked Angela all right—but sometimes she went too far and then he used to get really mad with her—and then Caroline would step in—Caro was always on Angela’s side and that would finish Amyas altogether. He hated it when Caro sided with Angela against him. There was a bit of jealousy all round, you know. Amyas was jealous of the way Caro always put Angela first and would do anything for her. And Angela was jealous of Amyas and rebelled against his overbearing ways. It was his decision that she should go to school that autumn, and she was furious about it. Not, I think, because she didn’t like the idea of school, she really rather wanted to go, I believe—but it was Amyas’s high-handed way of settling it all offhand that infuriated her. She played all sorts of tricks on him in revenge. Once she put ten slugs in his bed. On the whole, I think Amyas was right. It was time she got some discipline. Miss Williams was very efficient, but even she confessed that Angela was getting too much for her." He paused. Poirot said: "When I asked if Amyas was fond of the child—I referred to his own child, his daughter?" "Oh, you mean little Carla? Yes, she was a great pet. He enjoyed playing with her when he was in the mood. But his affection for her wouldn’t have deterred him from marrying Elsa, if that’s what you mean. He hadn’t that kind of feeling for her."
But I, Hercule Poirot, say that Madame Renauld lied. The crime took place at least two hours earlier." "But the doctors—" "They declared, after examination of the body, that death had taken place between ten and seven hours previously. Mon ami, for some reason it was imperative that the crime should seem to have taken place later than it actually did. You have read of a smashed watch or clock recording the exact hour of a crime? So that the time should not rest on Madame Renauld’s testimony alone, someone moved on the hands of that wristwatch to two o’clock, and then dashed it violently to the ground. But, as is often the case, they defeated their own object. The glass was smashed, but the mechanism of the watch was uninjured. It was a most disastrous manoeuvre on their part, for it at once drew my attention to two points—first, that Madame Renauld was lying; secondly, that there must be some vital reason for the postponement of the time." "But what reason could there be?" "Ah, that is the question! There we have the whole mystery. As yet, I cannot explain it. There is only one idea that presents itself to me as having a possible connexion." "And that is?" "The last train left Merlinville at seventeen minutes past twelve." I followed it out slowly. "So that, the crime apparently taking place some two hours later, anyone leaving by that train would have an unimpeachable alibi!" "Perfect, Hastings! You have it!" I sprang up. "But we must inquire at the station! Surely they cannot have failed to notice two foreigners who left by that train! We must go there at once!" "You think so, Hastings?" "Of course. Let us go there now." Poirot restrained my ardour with a light touch upon the arm. "Go by all means if you wish, mon ami—but if you go, I should not ask for particulars of two foreigners." I stared and he said rather impatiently: "Là, là, you do not believe all that rigmarole, do you? The masked men and all the rest of cette histoire-là!" His words took me so much aback, that I hardly knew how to respond. He went on serenely: "You heard me say to Giraud, did you not, that all the details of this crime were familiar to me? Eh bien, that presupposes one of two things, either the brain that planned the first crime also planned this one, or else an account read of a cause célèbre unconsciously remained in our assassin’s memory and prompted the details. I shall be able to pronounce definitely on that after—" He broke off. I was revolving sundry matters in my mind. "But Mr. Renauld’s letter? It distinctly mentions a secret and Santiago!" "Undoubtedly there was a secret in Monsieur Renauld’s life—there can be no doubt of that. On the other hand, the word Santiago, to my mind, is a red herring, dragged continually across the track to put us off the scent. It is possible that it was used in the same way on Monsieur Renauld, to keep him from directing his suspicions to a quarter nearer at hand. Oh, be assured, Hastings, the danger that threatened him was not in Santiago, it was near at hand, in France." He spoke so gravely, and with such assurance, that I could not fail to be convinced. But I essayed one final objection: "And the match and cigarette end found near the body? What of them?" A light of pure enjoyment lit up Poirot’s face. "Planted! Deliberately planted there for Giraud or one of his tribe to find! Ah, he is smart, Giraud, he can do his tricks! So can a good retriever dog. He comes in so pleased with himself. For hours he has crawled on his stomach. "See what I have found," he says. And then again to me: "What do you see here?" Me, I answer, with profound and deep truth, "Nothing." And Giraud, the great Giraud, he laughs, he thinks to himself, "Oh, he is imbecile, this old one!" But we shall see…." But my mind had reverted to the main facts. "Then all this story of the masked men—?" "Is false." "What really happened?" Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "One person could tell us—Madame Renauld.
This will be terrible for him—" She paused. "Or do you think not?" "There are a lot of other girls in America," said Hercule Poirot. "And but for you his mother would be in prison—in prison—with her hair cut off—sitting in a cell—and smelling of disinfectant! Ah, but you are wonderful—wonderful." Surging forward she clasped Poirot in her arms and embraced him with Slavonic fervour. Mr. Higgs looked on appreciatively. The dog Cerberus beat his tail upon the floor. Into the midst of this scene of rejoicing came the trill of a bell. "Japp!" exclaimed Poirot, disengaging himself from the Countess’s arms. "It would be better, perhaps, if I went into the other room," said the Countess. She slipped through the connecting door. Poirot started towards the door to the hall. "Guv’nor," wheezed Mr. Higgs anxiously, "better look at yourself in the glass, ’adn’t you?" Poirot did so and recoiled. Lipstick and mascara ornamented his face in a fantastic medley. "If that’s Mr. Japp from Scotland Yard, ’e’d think the worst—sure to," said Mr. Higgs. He added, as the bell pealed again, and Poirot strove feverishly to remove crimson grease from the points of his moustache: "What do yer want me to do—’ook it too? What about this ’ere ’Ell ’Ound?" "If I remember rightly," said Hercule Poirot, "Cerberus returned to Hell." "Just as you like," said Mr. Higgs. "As a matter of fact I’ve taken a kind of fancy to ’im . . . Still, ’e’s not the kind I’d like to pinch—not permanent—too noticeable, if you know what I mean. And think what he’d cost me in shin of beef or ’orseflesh! Eats as much as a young lion, I expect." "From the Nemean Lion to the Capture of Cerberus," murmured Poirot. "It is complete." VII A week later Miss Lemon brought a bill to her employer. "Excuse me, M. Poirot. Is it in order for me to pay this? Leonora, Florist. Red Roses. Eleven pounds, eight shillings and sixpence. Sent to Countess Vera Rossakoff, Hell, 13 End St, WC1." As the hue of red roses, so were the cheeks of Hercule Poirot. He blushed, blushed to the eyeballs. "Perfectly in order, Miss Lemon. A little—er, tribute—to—to an occasion. The Countess’s son has just become engaged in America—to the daughter of his employer, a steel magnate. Red roses are—I seem to remember, her favourite flower." "Quite," said Miss Lemon. "They’re very expensive this time of year." Hercule Poirot drew himself up. "There are moments," he said, "when one does not economize." Humming a little tune, he went out of the door. His step was light, almost sprightly. Miss Lemon stared after him. Her filing system was forgotten. All her feminine instincts were aroused. "Good gracious," she murmured. "I wonder . . . Really—at his age! . . . Surely not. . . ." Two THE LERNEAN HYDRA Hercule Poirot looked encouragingly at the man seated opposite him. Dr. Charles Oldfield was a man of perhaps forty. He had fair hair slightly grey at the temples and blue eyes that held a worried expression. He stooped a little and his manner was a trifle hesitant. Moreover, he seemed to find difficulty in coming to the point. He said, stammering slightly: "I’ve come to you, M. Poirot, with rather an odd request. And now that I’m here, I’m inclined to funk the whole thing. Because, as I see very well now, it’s the sort of thing that no one can possibly do anything about." Hercule Poirot murmured: "As to that, you must let me judge." Oldfield muttered: "I don’t know why I thought that perhaps—" He broke off. Hercule Poirot finished the sentence. "That perhaps I could help you?
Although unable to see how Poirot had deduced Mr. Ventnor’s existence and personal appearance, I was keenly excited. "Tell me," I cried, "was this gentleman one of the first to land when you got to New York?" The steward shook his head. "No, indeed, sir, he was one of the last off the boat." I retired crestfallen, and observed Poirot grinning at me. He thanked the steward, a note changed hands, and we took our departure. "It’s all very well," I remarked heatedly, "but that last answer must have damned your precious theory, grin as you please!" "As usual, you see nothing, Hastings. That last answer is, on the contrary, the copingstone of my theory." I flung up my hands in despair. "I give it up." II When we were in the train, speeding towards London, Poirot wrote busily for a few minutes, sealing up the result in an envelope. "This is for the good Inspector McNeil. We will leave it at Scotland Yard in passing, and then to the Rendezvous Restaurant, where I have asked Miss Esmée Farquhar to do us the honour of dining with us." "What about Ridgeway?" "What about him?" asked Poirot with a twinkle. "Why, you surely don’t think—you can’t—" "The habit of incoherence is growing upon you, Hastings. As a matter of fact I did think. If Ridgeway had been the thief—which was perfectly possible—the case would have been charming; a piece of neat methodical work." "But not so charming for Miss Farquhar." "Possibly you are right. Therefore all is for the best. Now, Hastings, let us review the case. I can see that you are dying to do so. The sealed package is removed from the trunk and vanishes, as Miss Farquhar puts it, into thin air. We will dismiss the thin air theory, which is not practicable at the present stage of science, and consider what is likely to have become of it. Everyone asserts the incredulity of its being smuggled ashore—" "Yes, but we know—" "You may know, Hastings, I do not. I take the view that, since it seemed incredible, it was incredible. Two possibilities remain: it was hidden on board—also rather difficult—or it was thrown overboard." "With a cork on it, do you mean?" "Without a cork." I stared. "But if the bonds were thrown overboard, they couldn’t have been sold in New York." "I admire your logical mind, Hastings. The bonds were sold in New York, therefore they were not thrown overboard. You see where that leads us?" "Where we were when we started." "Jamais de la vie! If the package was thrown overboard and the bonds were sold in New York, the package could not have contained the bonds. Is there any evidence that the package did contain the bonds? Remember, Mr. Ridgeway never opened it from the time it was placed in his hands in London." "Yes, but then—" Poirot waved an impatient hand. "Permit me to continue. The last moment that the bonds are seen as bonds is in the office of the London and Scottish Bank on the morning of the 23rd. They reappear in New York half an hour after the Olympia gets in, and according to one man, whom nobody listens to, actually before she gets in. Supposing then, that they have never been on the Olympia at all? Is there any other way they could get to New York? Yes. The Gigantic leaves Southampton on the same day as the Olympia, and she holds the record for the Atlantic. Mailed by the Gigantic, the bonds would be in New York the day before the Olympia arrived. All is clear, the case begins to explain itself. The sealed packet is only a dummy, and the moment of its substitution must be in the office in the bank. It would be an easy matter for any of the three men present to have prepared a duplicate package which could be substituted for the genuine one. Très bien, the bonds are mailed to a confederate in New York, with instructions to sell as soon as the Olympia is in, but someone must travel on the Olympia to engineer the supposed moment of robbery." "But why?" "Because if Ridgeway merely opens the packet and finds it a dummy, suspicion flies at once to London.
"No," said Mrs. Oliver firmly. "I’d like to meet her. Good yarns she writes." He lowered his voice. "But they say she drinks like a fish." He hurried off and Mrs. Oliver said indignantly, "Really! That’s most unfair when I only like lemonade!" "And have you not just perpetrated the greatest unfairness in helping that young man towards the next clue?" "Considering he’s the only one who’s got here so far, I thought he ought to be encouraged." "But you wouldn’t give him your autograph." "That’s different," said Mrs. Oliver. "Sh! Here come some more." But these were not clue hunters. They were two women who having paid for admittance were determined to get their money’s worth by seeing the grounds thoroughly. They were hot and dissatisfied. "You’d think they’d have some nice flower beds," said one to the other. "Nothing but trees and more trees. It’s not what I call a garden." Mrs. Oliver nudged Poirot, and they slipped quietly away. "Supposing," said Mrs. Oliver distractedly, "that nobody ever finds my body?" "Patience, Madame, and courage," said Poirot. "The afternoon is still young." "That’s true," said Mrs. Oliver, brightening. "And it’s half price admission after four-thirty, so probably lots of people will flock in. Let’s go and see how that Marlene child is getting on. I don’t really trust that girl, you know. No sense of responsibility. I wouldn’t put it past her to sneak away quietly, instead of being a corpse, and go and have tea. You know what people are like about their teas." They proceeded amicably along the woodland path and Poirot commented on the geography of the property. "I find it very confusing," he said. "So many paths, and one is never sure where they lead. And trees, trees everywhere." "You sound like that disgruntled woman we’ve just left." They passed the Folly and zigzagged down the path to the river. The outlines of the boathouse showed beneath them. Poirot remarked that it would be awkward if the Murder searchers were to light upon the boathouse and find the body by accident. "A sort of short cut? I thought of that. That’s why the last clue is just a key. You can’t unlock the door without it. It’s a Yale. You can only open it from the inside." A short steep slope led down to the door of the boathouse which was built out over the storage space for boats. Mrs. Oliver took a key from a pocket concealed amongst her purple folds and unlocked the door. "We’ve just come to cheer you up, Marlene," she said brightly as she entered. She felt slightly remorseful at her unjust suspicions of Marlene’s loyalty, for Marlene, artistically arranged as "the body," was playing her part nobly, sprawled on the floor by the window. Marlene made no response. She lay quite motionless. The wind blowing gently through the open window rustled a pile of "Comics" spread out on the table. "It’s all right," said Mrs. Oliver impatiently. "It’s only me and M. Poirot. Nobody’s got any distance with the clues yet." Poirot was frowning. Very gently he pushed Mrs. Oliver aside and went and bent over the girl on the floor. A suppressed exclamation came from his lips. He looked up at Mrs. Oliver. "So –" he said. "That which you expected has happened." "You don’t mean – " Mrs. Oliver’s eyes widened in horror. She grasped for one of the basket chairs and sat down. "You can’t mean – She isn’t dead?" Poirot nodded. "Oh, yes," he said. "She is dead. Though not very long dead." "But how –?" He lifted the corner of the gay scarf bound round the girl’s head, so that Mrs. Oliver could see the ends of the clothes line. "Just like my murder," said Mrs. Oliver unsteadily. "But who? And why?" "That is the question," said Poirot. He forebore to add that those had also been her questions.
Mr Mayherne looked at him for a moment or two in silence. Though he had no intention of saying so, his belief in Leonard Vole's innocence was at that moment strengthened. He knew something of the mentality of elderly ladies. He saw Miss French, infatuated with the good-looking young man, hunting about for pretexts that would bring him to the house. What more likely than that she should plead ignorance of business, and beg him to help her with her money affairs? She was enough of a woman of the world to realize that any man is slightly flattered by such an admission of his superiority. Leonard Vole had been flattered. Perhaps, too, she had not been averse to letting this young man know that she was wealthy. Emily French had been a strong-willed old woman, willing to pay her price for what she wanted. All this passed rapidly through Mr Mayherne's mind, but he gave no indication of it, and asked instead a further question. "And you did handle her affairs for her at request?" "I did." "Mr Vole," said the solicitor, "I am going to ask you a very serious question, and one to which it is vital I should have a truthful answer. You were in low water financially. You had the handling of an old lady's affairs - an old lady who, according to her own statement, knew little or nothing of business. Did you at any time, or in any manner, convert to your own use the securities which you handled? Did you engage in any transaction for your own pecuniary advantage which will not bear the light of day?" He quelled the other's response. "Wait a minute before you answer. There are two courses open to us. Either we can make a feature of your probity and honesty in conducting her affairs whilst pointing out how unlikely it is that you would commit murder to obtain money which you might have obtained by such infinitely easier means. If, on the other hand, there is anything in your dealings which the prosecution will get hold of - if, to put it baldly, it can be proved that you swindled the old lady in any way, we must take the line that you had no motive for the murder, since she was already a profitable source of income to you. You perceive the distinction. Now, I beg of you, take your time before you reply." But Leonard Vole took no time at all. "My dealings with Miss French's affairs were all perfectly fair and above board. I acted for her interests to the very best of my ability, as anyone will find who looks into the matter." "Thank you," said Mr Mayherne. "You relieve my mind very much. I pay you the compliment of believing that you are far too clever to lie to me over such an important matter." "Surely," said Vole eagerly, "the strongest point in my favor is the lack of motive. Granted that I cultivated the acquaintanceship of a rich old lady in the hopes of getting money out of her - that, I gather, is the substance of what you have been saying - surely her death frustrates all my hopes?" The solicitor looked at him steadily. Then, very deliberately, he repeated his unconscious trick with his pince-nez. It was not until they were firmly replaced on his nose that he spoke. "Are you not aware, Mr Vole, that Miss French left a will under which you are the principal beneficiary?" "What?" The prisoner sprang to his feet. His dismay was obvious and unforced. "My God! What are you saying? She left her money to me?" Mr Mayherne nodded slowly. Vole sank down again, his head in his hands. "You pretend you know nothing of this will?" "Pretend? There's no pretense about it I knew nothing about it." "What would you say if I told you that the maid, Janet Mackenzie, swears that you did know? That her mistress told her distinctly that she had consulted you in the matter, and told you of her intentions?" "Say? That she's lying! No, I go too fast. Janet is an elderly woman. She was a faithful watchdog to her mistress, and she didn't like me. She was jealous and suspicious. I should say that Miss French confided her intentions to Janet, and that Janet either mistook something she said, or else was convinced in her own mind that I had persuaded the old lady into doing it.
"And the story was put about, very cleverly, that he had frequently mentioned to people that he had high blood pressure. But you know, it’s very easy to put about a story. Very easy. I’ve seen a lot of it in my time." "I bet you have," said Mr. Rafiel. "It only needs a murmur here and there," said Miss Marple. "You don’t say it of your own knowledge, you just say that Mrs. B. told you that Colonel C. told her. It’s always at second hand or third hand or fourth hand and it’s very difficult to find out who was the original whisperer. Oh yes, it can be done. And the people you say it to go on and repeat it to others as if they know it of their own knowledge." "Somebody’s been clever," said Mr. Rafiel thoughtfully. "Yes," said Miss Marple, "I think somebody’s been quite clever." "This girl saw something, or knew something and tried blackmail, I suppose," said Mr. Rafiel. "She mayn’t have thought of it as blackmail," said Miss Marple. "In these large hotels, there are often things the maids know that some people would rather not have repeated. And so they hand out a larger tip or a little present of money. The girl possibly didn’t realize at first the importance of what she knew." "Still, she got a knife in her back all right," said Mr. Rafiel brutally. "Yes. Evidently someone couldn’t afford to let her talk." "Well? Let’s hear what you think about it all." Miss Marple looked at him thoughtfully. "Why should you think I know any more than you do, Mr. Rafiel?" "Probably you don’t," said Mr. Rafiel, "but I’m interested to hear your ideas about what you do know." "But why?" "There’s not very much to do out here," said Mr. Rafiel, "except make money." Miss Marple looked slightly surprised. "Make money? Out here?" "You can send out half a dozen cables in code every day if you like," said Mr. Rafiel. "That’s how I amuse myself." "Take-over bids?" Miss Marple asked doubtfully, in the tone of one who speaks a foreign language. "That kind of thing," agreed Mr. Rafiel. "Pitting your wits against other people’s wits. The trouble is it doesn’t occupy enough time, so I’ve got interested in this business. It’s aroused my curiosity. Palgrave spent a good deal of his time talking to you. Nobody else would be bothered with him, I expect. What did he say?" "He told me a good many stories," said Miss Marple. "I know he did. Damn" boring, most of them. And you hadn’t only got to hear them once. If you got anywhere within range you heard them three or four times over." "I know," said Miss Marple. "I’m afraid that does happen when gentlemen get older." Mr. Rafiel looked at her very sharply. "I don’t tell stories," he said. "Go on. It started with one of Palgrave’s stories, did it?" "He said he knew a murderer," said Miss Marple. "There’s nothing really special about that," she added in her gentle voice, "because I suppose it happens to nearly everybody." "I don’t follow you," said Mr. Rafiel. "I don’t mean specifically," said Miss Marple, "but surely, Mr. Rafiel, if you cast over in your mind your recollections of various events in your life, hasn’t there nearly always been an occasion when somebody has made some careless reference such as "Oh yes I knew the So-and-So’s quite well—he died very suddenly and they always say his wife did him in, but I dare say that’s just gossip." You’ve heard people say something like that, haven’t you?" "Well, I suppose so—yes, something of the kind. But not—well, not seriously." "Exactly," said Miss Marple, "but Major Palgrave was a very serious man. I think he enjoyed telling this story. He said he had a snapshot of the murderer. He was going to show it to me but—actually—he didn’t." "Why?" "Because he saw something," said Miss Marple. "Saw someone, I suspect. His face got very red and he shoved back the snapshot into his wallet and began talking on another subject."
The lawyer laid down his knife and fork sharply. "Has anything happened to Miss Tuppence?" His voice was keen-edged. "She’s disappeared," said Julius. "When?" "A week ago." "How?" Sir James’s questions fairly shot out. Between them Tommy and Julius gave the history of the last week and their futile search. Sir James went at once to the root of the matter. "A wire signed with your name? They knew enough of you both for that. They weren’t sure of how much you had learnt in that house. Their kidnapping of Miss Tuppence is the countermove to your escape. If necessary they could seal your lips with what might happen to her." Tommy nodded. "That’s just what I thought, sir." Sir James looked at him keenly. "You had worked that out, had you? Not bad—not at all bad. The curious thing is that they certainly did not know anything about you when they first held you prisoner. You are sure that you did not in any way disclose your identity?" Tommy shook his head. "That’s so," said Julius with a nod. "Therefore I reckon someone put them wise—and not earlier than Sunday afternoon." "Yes, but who?" "That almighty omniscient Mr. Brown, of course!" There was a faint note of derision in the American’s voice which made Sir James look up sharply. "You don’t believe in Mr. Brown, Mr. Hersheimmer?" "No, sir, I do not," returned the young American with emphasis. "Not as such, that is to say. I reckon it out that he’s a figurehead—just a bogy name to frighten the children with. The real head of this business is that Russian chap Kramenin. I guess he’s quite capable of running revolutions in three countries at once if he chose! The man Whittington is probably the head of the English branch." "I disagree with you," said Sir James shortly. "Mr. Brown exists." He turned to Tommy. "Did you happen to notice where that wire was handed in?" "No, sir, I’m afraid I didn’t." "H’m. Got it with you?" "It’s upstairs, sir, in my kit." "I’d like to have a look at it sometime. No hurry. You’ve wasted a week,"—Tommy hung his head—"a day or so more is immaterial. We’ll deal with Miss Jane Finn first. Afterwards, we’ll set to work to rescue Miss Tuppence from bondage. I don’t think she’s in any immediate danger. That is, so long as they don’t know that we’ve got Jane Finn, and that her memory has returned. We must keep that dark at all costs. You understand?" The other two assented, and, after making arrangements for meeting on the morrow, the great lawyer took his leave. At ten o’clock, the two young men were at the appointed spot. Sir James had joined them on the doorstep. He alone appeared unexcited. He introduced them to the doctor. "Mr. Hersheimmer—Mr. Beresford—Dr. Roylance. How’s the patient?" "Going on well. Evidently no idea of the flight of time. Asked this morning how many had been saved from the Lusitania. Was it in the papers yet? That, of course, was only what was to be expected. She seems to have something on her mind, though." "I think we can relieve her anxiety. May we go up?" "Certainly." Tommy’s heart beat sensibly faster as they followed the doctor upstairs. Jane Finn at last! The long-sought, the mysterious, the elusive Jane Finn! How wildly improbable success had seemed! And here in this house, her memory almost miraculously restored, lay the girl who held the future of England in her hands. A half groan broke from Tommy’s lips. If only Tuppence could have been at his side to share in the triumphant conclusion of their joint venture! Then he put the thought of Tuppence resolutely aside. His confidence in Sir James was growing. There was a man who would unerringly ferret out Tuppence’s whereabouts. In the meantime, Jane Finn! And suddenly a dread clutched at his heart. It seemed too easy . . . Suppose they should find her dead . . . stricken down by the hand of Mr. Brown?
Bollard, and you won’t forget which the four things are, will you?" In another minute, she was out of the door. Turning rapidly to the left and then to the left again, she stopped in the arcade of a shoe shop until Bridget, rather breathless, rejoined her. "Oh," said Bridget, "I was terrified. I thought I was going to be killed. And I’ve torn a hole in my stocking, too." "Never mind," said Elvira and walked her friend rapidly along the street and round yet another corner to the right. "Come on." "Is it—was it—all right?" Elvira’s hand slipped into her pocket and out again showing the diamond and sapphire bracelet in her palm. "Oh, Elvira, how you dared!" "Now, Bridget, you’ve got to get along to that pawnshop we marked down. Go in and see how much you can get for this. Ask for a hundred." "Do you think—supposing they say—I mean—I mean, it might be on a list of stolen things—" "Don’t be silly. How could it be on a list so soon? They haven’t even noticed it’s gone yet." "But Elvira, when they do notice it’s gone, they’ll think—perhaps they’ll know—that you must have taken it." "They might think so—if they discover it soon." "Well, then they’ll go to the police and—" She stopped as Elvira shook her head slowly, her pale yellow hair swinging to and fro and a faint enigmatic smile curving up the corners of her mouth. "They won’t go to the police, Bridget. Certainly not if they think I took it." "Why—you mean—?" "As I told you, I’m going to have a lot of money when I’m twenty-one. I shall be able to buy lots of jewels from them. They won’t make a scandal. Go on and get the money quick. Then go to Aer Lingus and book the ticket—I must take a taxi to Prunier’s. I’m already ten minutes late. I’ll be with you tomorrow morning by half past ten." "Oh, Elvira, I wish you wouldn’t take such frightful risks," moaned Bridget. But Elvira had hailed a taxi. II Miss Marple had a very enjoyable time at Robinson & Cleaver’s. Besides purchasing expensive but delicious sheets—she loved linen sheets with their texture and their coolness—she also indulged in a purchase of good quality red-bordered glass cloths. Really the difficulty in getting proper glass cloths nowadays! Instead, you were offered things that might as well have been ornamental tablecloths, decorated with radishes or lobsters or the Tour Eiffel or Trafalgar Square, or else littered with lemons and oranges. Having given her address in St. Mary Mead, Miss Marple found a convenient bus which took her to the Army & Navy Stores. The Army & Navy Stores had been a haunt of Miss Marple’s aunt in days long gone. It was not, of course, quite the same nowadays. Miss Marple cast her thoughts back to Aunt Helen seeking out her own special man in the grocery department, settling herself comfortably in a chair, wearing a bonnet and what she always called her "black poplin" mantle. Then there would ensue a long hour with nobody in a hurry and Aunt Helen thinking of every conceivable grocery that could be purchased and stored up for future use. Christmas was provided for, and there was even a far-off look towards Easter. The young Jane had fidgeted somewhat, and had been told to go and look at the glass department by way of amusement. Having finished her purchases, Aunt Helen would then proceed to lengthy inquiries about her chosen shop-assistant’s mother, wife, second boy and crippled sister-in-law. Having had a thoroughly pleasant morning, Aunt Helen would say in the playful manner of those times, "And how would a little girl feel about some luncheon?" Whereupon they went up in the lift to the fourth floor and had luncheon which always finished with a strawberry ice. After that, they bought half a pound of coffee chocolate creams and went to a matinée in a four wheeler. Of course, the Army & Navy Stores had had a good many face lifts since those days. In fact, it was now quite unrecognizable from the old times. It was gayer and much brighter.
"What time was that?" "About ten minutes past six, sir." "Yes—well?" "I sent word to Jennings, sir. And it wasn’t till I came in here to shut the windows and draw the curtains at seven o’clock that I saw—" Melrose cut him short. "Yes, yes, you needn’t go into all that. You didn’t touch the body, or disturb anything, did you?" "Oh! No indeed, sir! I went as fast as I could go to the telephone to ring up the police." "And then?" "I told Jane—her ladyship’s maid, sir—to break the news to her ladyship." "You haven’t seen your mistress at all this evening?" Colonel Melrose put the question casually enough, but Mr. Satterthwaite’s keen ears caught anxiety behind the words. "Not to speak to, sir. Her ladyship has remained in her own apartments since the tragedy." "Did you see her before?" The question came sharply, and everyone in the room noted the hesitation before the butler replied. "I—I just caught a glimpse of her, sir, descending the staircase." "Did she come in here?" Mr. Satterthwaite held his breath. "I—I think so, sir." "What time was that?" You might have heard a pin drop. Did the old man know, Mr. Satterthwaite wondered, what hung on his answer? "It was just upon half past six, sir." Colonel Melrose drew a deep breath. "That will do, thank you. Just send Jennings, the valet, to me, will you?" Jennings answered the summons with promptitude. A narrow-faced man with a catlike tread. Something sly and secretive about him. A man, thought Mr. Satterthwaite, who would easily murder his master if he could be sure of not being found out. He listened eagerly to the man’s answers to Colonel Melrose’s questions. But his story seemed straightforward enough. He had brought his master down some soft hide slippers and removed the brogues. "What did you do after that, Jennings?" "I went back to the stewards" room, sir." "At what time did you leave your master?" "It must have been just after a quarter past six, sir." "Where were you at half past six, Jennings?" "In the stewards" room, sir." Colonel Melrose dismissed the man with a nod. He looked across at Curtis inquiringly. "Quite correct, sir, I checked that up. He was in the stewards" room from about six twenty until seven o’clock." "Then that lets him out," said the chief constable a trifle regretfully. "Besides, there’s no motive." They looked at each other. There was a tap at the door. "Come in," said the colonel. A scared-looking lady’s maid appeared. "If you please, her ladyship has heard that Colonel Melrose is here and she would like to see him." "Certainly," said Melrose. "I’ll come at once. Will you show me the way?" But a hand pushed the girl aside. A very different figure now stood in the doorway. Laura Dwighton looked like a visitor from another world. She was dressed in a clinging medieval tea gown of dull blue brocade. Her auburn hair was parted in the middle and brought down over her ears. Conscious of the fact she had a style of her own, Lady Dwighton had never had her hair cut. It was drawn back into a simple knot on the nape of her neck. Her arms were bare. One of them was outstretched to steady herself against the frame of the doorway, the other hung down by her side, clasping a book. She looks, Mr. Satterthwaite thought, like a Madonna from an early Italian canvas. She stood there, swaying slightly from side to side. Colonel Melrose sprang toward her. "I’ve come to tell you—to tell you—" Her voice was low and rich. Mr. Satterthwaite was so entranced with the dramatic value of the scene that he had forgotten its reality. "Please, Lady Dwighton—" Melrose had an arm round her, supporting her. He took her across the hall into a small anteroom, its walls hung with faded silk. Quin and Satterthwaite followed. She sank down on the low settee, her head resting back on a rust-coloured cushion, her eyelids closed. The three men watched her. Suddenly she opened her eyes and sat up.
"Not entirely conjecture, Dr. Calgary. The knife was in his pocket." "The actual knife?" "Yes. It had blood on it. We’re going to test it, but it’ll be her blood all right. Her blood and the blood of Philip Durrant!" "But—it couldn’t have been." "Who says it couldn’t have been?" "Hester. I rang her up and she told me all about it." "She did, did she? Well, the facts are very simple. Mary Durrant went down to the kitchen, leaving her husband alive, at ten minutes to four—at that time there were in the house Leo Argyle and Gwenda Vaughan in the library, Hester Argyle in her bedroom on the first floor, and Kirsten Lindstrom in the kitchen. Just after four o’clock, Micky and Tina drove up. Micky went into the garden and Tina went upstairs, following close on Kirsten’s foosteps, who had just gone up with coffee and biscuits for Philip. Tina stopped to speak to Hester, then went on to join Miss Lindstrom and together they found Philip dead." "And all this time Micky was in the garden. Surely that’s a perfect alibi?" "What you don’t know, Dr. Calgary, is that there’s a big magnolia tree growing up by the side of the house. The kids used to climb it. Micky in particular. It was one of his ways in and out of the house. He could have shinned up that tree, gone into Durrant’s room, stabbed him, back and out again. Oh, it needed split-second timing, but it’s astonishing what audacity will do sometimes. And he was desperate. At all costs he had to prevent Tina and Durrant meeting. To be safe, he had to kill them both." Calgary thought for a moment or two. "You said just now, Superintendent, that Tina has recovered consciousness. Wasn’t she able to say definitely who stabbed her?" "She wasn’t very coherent," said Huish slowly. "In fact I doubt if she was conscious in the proper sense of the term." He gave a tired smile. "All right, Dr. Calgary, I’ll tell you exactly what she said. First of all she said a name. Micky…." "She has accused him, then," said Calgary. "That’s what it looks like," said Huish, nodding his head. "The rest of what she said didn’t make sense. It’s a bit fantastic." "What did she say?" Huish looked down at the pad in front of him. ""Micky." Then a pause. Then, "The cup was empty …" then another pause, and then, "The dove on the mast.’" He looked at Calgary. "Can you make any sense of that?" "No," said Calgary. He shook his head and said wonderingly: "The dove on the mast… That seems a very extraordinary thing to say." "No masts and no doves as far as we know," said Huish. "But it meant something to her, something in her own mind. But it mayn’t, you know, have been anything to do with the murder. Goodness knows what realms of fancy she’s floating in." Calgary was silent for some moments. He sat thinking things over. He said: "You’ve arrested Micky?" "We’ve detained him. He will be charged within twenty-four hours." Huish looked curiously at Calgary. "I gather that this lad, Micky, wasn’t your answer to the problem?" "No," said Calgary. "No, Micky wasn’t my answer. Even now—I don’t know." He got up. "I still think I’m right," he said, "but I quite see that I’ve not got enough to go on for you to believe me. I must go out there again. I must see them all." "Well," said Huish, "be careful of yourself, Dr. Calgary. What is your idea, by the way?" "Would it mean anything to you," said Calgary, "if I told you that it is my belief that this was a crime of passion?" Huish’s eyebrows rose. "There are a lot of passions, Dr. Calgary," he said. "Hate, avarice, greed, fear, they’re all passions." "When I said a crime of passion," said Calgary, "I meant exactly what one usually means by that term."

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Dataset Card for AgathaChristieText

There is a tide in the affairs of men,
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune, 
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
On such a full sea are we now afloat,
And we must take the current when it serves, 
Or lose our ventures.

Dataset Summary

The agatha_christie dataset contains the complete works of Agatha Christie, including the novels, short stories, and plays. The dataset is in English and contains 110 works in total. The dataset is intended for text generation tasks, such as language modeling, and can be used to train models to generate text in the style of Agatha Christie.

Supported Tasks and Leaderboards

The dataset can be used for text generation tasks, such as language modeling. The dataset can be used to train models to generate text in the style of Agatha Christie.

Languages

The text in the dataset is in English.

Dataset Structure

Dataset instances

The following is an example sample from the dataset.

{"text":"Mrs. McGillicuddy was short and stout, the porter was tall and free-striding. In addition, Mrs. McGillicuddy was burdened with a large quantity of parcels; the result of a day’s Christmas shopping. The race was, therefore, an uneven one, and the porter turned the corner at the end of the platform whilst Mrs. McGillicuddy was still coming up the straight.", "source": "4-50 from paddington - agatha christie.epub" }

Data Fields

text: The text of the work chunked into semantic segments by llamaindex SemanticNodeParser.

Splits

The dataset is split into tain, test and validation splits.

train.parquet
test.parquet
validation.parquet

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Size of downloaded dataset files:

37 MB

Size of the auto-converted Parquet files:

37 MB

Number of rows:

14,659