Peril At End House Part 13

'I'll do anything you like. I don't care what I do.'

'You will see no friends for the present.'

'I don't care. I don't want to see anyone.'

'For you the pa.s.sive part-for us the active one. Now, Mademoiselle, I am going to leave you. I will not intrude longer upon your sorrow.'

He moved towards the door, pausing with his hand on the handle to say over his shoulder: 'By the way, you once mentioned a will you made. Where is it, this will?'

'Oh! it's knocking round somewhere.'

'At End House?'

'Yes.'

'In a safe? Locked up in your desk?'

'Well, I really don't know. It's somewhere about.' She frowned. 'I'm frightfully untidy, you know. Papers and things like that would be mostly in the writing-table in the library. That's where most of the bills are. The will is probably with them. Or it might be in my bedroom.'

'You permit me to make the search-yes?'

'If you want to-yes. Look at anything you like.'

'Merci, Mademoiselle. I will avail myself of your permission.'

Chapter 12 Ellen.

Poirot said no word till we had emerged from the nursing home into the outer air. Then he caught me by the arm.

'You see, Hastings? You see? Ah! Sacre tonnerre! I was right! I was right! Always I knew there was something lacking-some piece of the puzzle that was not there. And without that missing piece the whole thing was meaningless.'

His almost despairing triumph was double-Dutch to me. I Could not see that anything very epoch-making had occurred.

'It was there all the time. And I could not see it. But how should I? To know there is something -that, yes-but to know what that something is. Ah! Qa c'est bien plus difficile.'

'Do you mean that this has some direct bearing on the crime?' 'Ma foi, do you not see?' 'As a matter of fact, I don't.'

'Is it possible? Why, it gives us what we have been looking for-the motive-the hidden obscure motive!'

'I may be very dense, but I can't see it. Do you mean jealousy of some kind?'

'Jealousy? No, no, my friend. The usual motive-the inevitable motive. Money, my friend, money!'

I stared. He went on, speaking more calmly.

'Listen, mon ami. Just over a week ago Sir Matthew Seton dies. And Sir Matthew Seton was a millionaire-one of the richest men in England.'

'Yes, but-'

'Attendez. One step at a time. He has a nephew whom he idolizes and to whom, we may safely a.s.sume, he has left his vast fortune.'

'But-'

'Mais oui-legacies, yes, an endowment to do with his hobby, yes, but the bulk of the money would go to Michael Seton. Last Tuesday, Michael Seton is reported missing-and on Wednesday the attacks on Mademoiselle's life begin. Supposing, Hastings, that Michael Seton made a will before he started on his flight, and that in that will he left all he had to his fiancee.'

'That's pure supposition.'

'It is supposition-yes. But it must be so. Because, if it is not so, there is no meaning in anything that has happened. It is no paltry inheritance that is at stake. It is an enormous fortune.'

I was silent for some minutes, turning the matter over in my mind. It seemed to me that Poirot was leaping to conclusions in a most reckless manner, and yet I was secretly convinced that he was right. It was his extraordinary flair for being right that influenced me. Yet it seemed to me that there was a good deal to be proved still.

'But if n.o.body knew of the engagement,' I argued.

'Pah! Somebody did know. For the matter of that, somebody always does know. If they do not know, they guess. Madame Rice suspected. Mademoiselle Nick admitted as much. She may have had means of turning those suspicions into certainties.'

'How?'

'Well, for one thing, there must have been letters from Michael Seton to Mademoiselle Nick. They had been engaged some time. And her best friend could not call that young lady anything but careless. She leaves things here and there, and everywhere. I doubt if she has ever locked up anything in her life. Oh, yes, there would be means of making sure.'

'And Frederica Rice would know about the will that her friend had made?'

'Doubtless. Oh, yes, it narrows down now. You remember my list-a list of persons numbered from A. to J. It has narrowed down to only two persons. I dismiss the servants. I dismiss the Commander Challenger-even though he did take one hour and a half to reach here from Plymouth-and the distance is only thirty miles. I dismiss the long-nosed M. Lazarus who offered fifty pounds for a picture that was only worth twenty (it is odd, that, when you come to think of it. Most uncharacteristic of his race). I dismiss the Australians-so hearty and so pleasant. I keep two people on my list still.'

'One is Frederica Rice,' I said slowly.

I had a vision of her face, the golden hair, the white fragility of the features.

'Yes. She is indicated very clearly. However carelessly worded Mademoiselle's will may have been, she would be plainly indicated as residuary legatee. Apart from End House, everything was to go to her. If Mademoiselle Nick instead of Mademoiselle Maggie had been shot last night, Madame Rice would be a rich woman today.'

'I can hardly believe it!'

'You mean that you can hardly believe that a beautiful woman can be a murderess? One often has a little difficulty with members of a jury on that account. But you may be right. There is still another suspect.'

'Who?'

'Charles Vyse.'

'But he only inherits the house.'

'Yes-but he may not know that. Did he make Mademoiselle's will for her? I think not. If so, it would be in his keeping, not "knocking around somewhere", or whatever the phrase was that Mademoiselle used. So, you see, Hastings,it is quite probable that he knows nothing about that will. He may believe that she has never made a will and that, in that case, he will inherit as next of kin.'

'You know,' I said, 'that really seems to me much more probable.'

'That is your romantic mind, Hastings. The wicked solicitor. A familiar figure in fiction. If as well as being a solicitor he has an impa.s.sive face, it makes the matter almost certain. It is true that, in some ways, he is more in the picture than Madame. He would be more likely to know about the pistol and more likely to use one.'

'And to send the boulder crashing down.'

'Perhaps. Though, as I have told you, much can be done by leverage. And the fact that the boulder was dislodged at the wrong minute, and consequently missed Mademoiselle, is more suggestive of feminine agency. The idea of tampering with the interior of a car seems masculine in conception-though many women are as good mechanics as men nowadays. On the other hand, there are one or two gaps in the theory against M. Vyse.'

'Such as-?'

'He is less likely to have known of the engagement than Madame. And there is another point. His action was rather precipitate.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, until last night there was nocert.i.tude that Seton was dead. To act rashly, without due a.s.surance, seems very uncharacteristic of the legal mind.'

'Yes,' I said. 'A woman would jump to conclusions.'

'Exactly. Ce que femme veut, Dieu veut. That is the att.i.tude.'

'It's really amazing the way Nick has escaped. It seems almost incredible.'

And suddenly I remembered the tone in Frederica's voice as she had said: 'Nick bears a charmed life.'

I shivered a little.

'Yes,' said Poirot, thoughtfully. 'And I can take no credit to myself. Which is humiliating.'

'Providence,' I murmured.

'Ah! mon ami, I would not put on the shoulders of the good G.o.d the burden of men's wrong doing. You say that in your Sunday morning voice of thankfulness-without reflecting that what you are really saying is that le bon Dieu has killed Miss Maggie Buckley.'

'Really, Poirot!'

'Really, my friend! But I will not sit back and say "le bon Dieu has arranged everything, I will not interfere". Because I am convinced that le bon Dieu created Hercule Poirot for the express purpose of interfering. It is my metier.'

We had been slowly ascending the zigzag path up the cliff. It was at this juncture that we pa.s.sed through the little gate into the grounds of End House.

'Pouf!' said Poirot. 'That ascent is a steep one. I am hot. My moustaches are limp. Yes, as I was saying just now, I am on the side of the innocent. I am on the side of Mademoiselle Nick because she was attacked. I am on the side of Mademoiselle Maggie because she has been killed.'

'And you are against Frederica Rice and Charles Vyse.'

'No, no, Hastings. I keep an open mind. I say only that at the moment one of those two is indicated. Chut!'

We had come out on the strip of lawn by the house, and a man was driving a mowing machine. He had a long, stupid face and lack-l.u.s.tre eyes. Beside him was a small boy of about ten, ugly but intelligent-looking.

It crossed my mind that we had not heard the mowing machine in action, but I presumed that the gardener was not overworking himself. He had probably been resting from his labours, and had sprung into action on hearing our voices approaching.

'Good morning,' said Poirot. 'Good morning, sir.'

'You are the gardener, I suppose. The husband of Madame who works in the house.'

'He's my Dad,' said the small boy.

'That's right, sir,' said the man. 'You'll be the foreign gentleman, I take it, that's really a detective. Is there any news of the young mistress, sir?'

'I come from seeing her at the immediate moment. She has pa.s.sed a satisfactory night.'

'We've had policemen here,' said the small boy. 'That's where the lady was killed. Here by the steps. I seen a pig killed once, haven't I, Dad?'

'Ah!' said his father, unemotionally.

'Dad used to kill pigs when he worked on a farm. Didn't you, Dad? I seen a pig killed. I liked it.'

'Young 'uns like to see pigs killed,' said the man, as though stating one of the unalterable facts of nature.

'Shot with a pistol, the lady was,' continued the boy. 'She didn't have her throat cut. No!'

We pa.s.sed on to the house, and I felt thankful to get away from the ghoulish child.

Poirot entered the drawing-room, the windows of which were open, and rang the bell. Ellen, neatly attired in black, came in answer to the bell. She showed no surprise at seeing us.

Poirot explained that we were here by permission of Miss Buckley to make a search of the house.

'Very good sir.'

'The police have finished?'

'They said they had seen everything they wanted, sir. They've been about the garden since very early in the morning. I don't know whether they've found anything.'

She was about to leave the room when Poirot stopped her with a question.

'Were you very surprised last night when you heard Miss Buckley had been shot?'

'Yes, sir, very surprised. Miss Maggie was a nice young lady, sir. I can't imagine anyone being so wicked as to want to harm her.'

'If it had been anyone else, you would not have been so surprised-eh?' 'I don't know what you mean, sir?'

'When I came into the hall last night,' he said, 'you asked at once whether anyone had been hurt. Were you expecting anything of the kind?'

She was silent. Her fingers pleated a corner of her ap.r.o.n. She shook her head and murmured: 'You gentlemen wouldn't understand.'

'Yes, yes,' said Poirot, 'I would understand. However fantastic what you may say, I would understand.'

She looked at him doubtfully, then seemed to make up her mind to trust him. 'You see, sir,' she said, 'this isn't a good house.'

I was surprised and a little contemptuous. Poirot, however, seemed to find the remark not in the least unusual.

'You mean it is an old house.' 'Yes, sir, not a good house.'