Peril At End House Part 7

'Both of you, of course,' said Nick.

'Many thanks,' I said.

'Nothing like a party for reviving the drooping spirits,' remarked Nick. And with a little laugh she went out.

'Pauvre enfant,' said Poirot.

He reached for his hat and carefully flicked an infinitesimal speck of dust from its surface.

'We are going out?' I asked.

'Mais oui, we have legal business to transact, mon ami.'

'Of course. I understand.'

'One of your brilliant mentality could not fail to do so, Hastings.'

The offices of Messrs Vyse, Trevannion & Wynnard were situated in the main street of the town. We mounted the stairs to the first floor and entered a room where three clerks were busily writing. Poirot asked to see Mr Charles Vyse.

A clerk murmured a few words down a telephone, received, apparently, an affirmative reply, and remarking that Mr Vyse would see us now, he led us across the pa.s.sage, tapped on a door and stood aside for us to pa.s.s in.

From behind a large desk covered with legal papers, Mr Vyse rose up to greet us.

He was a tall young man, rather pale, with impa.s.sive features. He was going a little bald on either temple and wore gla.s.ses. His colouring was fair and indeterminate.

Poirot had come prepared for the encounter. Fortunately he had with him an agreement, as yet unsigned, and so on some technical points in connection with this, he wanted Mr Vyse's advice.

Mr Vyse, speaking carefully and correctly, was soon able to allay Poirot's alleged doubts, and to clear up some obscure points of the wording.

'I am very much obliged to you,' murmured Poirot. 'As a foreigner, you comprehend, these legal matters and phrasing are most difficult.'

It was then that Mr Vyse asked who had sent Poirot to him.

'Miss Buckley,' said Poirot, promptly. 'Your cousin, is she not? A most charming young lady. I happened to mention that I was in perplexity and she told me to come to you. I tried to see you on Sat.u.r.day morning-about half-past twelve-but you were out.'

'Yes, I remember. I left early on Sat.u.r.day.'

'Mademoiselle your cousin must find that large house very lonely? She lives there alone, I understand.'

'Quite so.'

'Tell me, Mr Vyse, if I may ask, is there any chance of that property being in the market?'

'Not the least, I should say.'

'You understand, I do not ask idly. I have a reason! I am in search, myself, of just such a property. The climate of St Loo enchants me. It is true that the house appears to be in bad repair, there has not been, I gather, much money to spend upon it. Under those circ.u.mstances, is it not possible that Mademoiselle would consider an offer?'

'Not the least likelihood of it.' Charles Vyse shook his head with the utmost decision. 'My cousin is absolutely devoted to the place. Nothing would induce her to sell, I know. It is, you understand, a family place.'

'I comprehend that, but-'

'It is absolutely out of the question. I know my cousin. She has a fanatical devotion to the house.'

A few minutes later we were out in the street again.

'Well, my friend,' said Poirot. 'And what impression did this M. Charles Vyse make upon you?'

I considered.

'A very negative one,' I said at last. 'He is a curiously negative person.' 'Not a strong personality, you would say?'

'No, indeed. The kind of man you would never remember on meeting him again. A mediocre person.'

'His appearance is certainly not striking. Did you notice any discrepancy in the course of our conversation with him?'

'Yes,' I said slowly, 'I did. With regard to the selling of End House.'

'Exactly. Would you have described Mademoiselle Buckley's att.i.tude towards End House as one of "fanatical devotion"?'

'It is a very strong term.'

'Yes-and Mr Vyse is not given to using strong terms. His normal att.i.tude-a legal att.i.tude-is to under, rather than over, state. Yet he says that Mademoiselle has a fanatical devotion to the home of her ancestors.'

'She did not convey that impression this morning,' I said. 'She spoke about it very sensibly, I thought. She's obviously fond of the place-just as anyone in her position would be-but certainly nothing more.'

'So, in fact, one of the two is lying,' said Poirot, thoughtfully. 'One would not suspect Vyse of lying.'

'Clearly a great a.s.set if one has any lying to do,' remarked Poirot. 'Yes, he has quite the air of a George Washington, that one. Did you notice another thing, Hastings?'

'What was that?'

'He was not in his office at half-past twelve on Sat.u.r.day.'

Chapter 7 Tragedy.

The first person we saw when we arrived at End House that evening was Nick. She was dancing about the hall wrapped in a marvellous kimono covered with dragons.

'Oh! it's only you!' 'Mademoiselle-I am desolated!'

'I know. It did sound rude. But you see, I'm waiting for my dress to arrive. They promised-the brutes-promised faithfully!'

'Ah! if it is a matter of la toilette ! There is a dance tonight, is there not?' 'Yes. We are all going on to it after the fireworks. That is, I suppose we are.' There was a sudden drop in her voice. But the next minute she was laughing.

'Never give in! That's my motto. Don't think of trouble and trouble won't come! I've got my nerve back tonight. I'm going to be gay and enjoy myself.'

There was a footfall on the stairs. Nick turned.

'Oh! here's Maggie. Maggie, here are the sleuths that are protecting me from the secret a.s.sa.s.sin. Take them into the drawing-room and let them tell you about it.'

In turn we shook hands with Maggie Buckley, and, as requested, she took us into the drawing-room. I formed an immediate favourable opinion of her.

It was, I think, her appearance of calm good sense that so attracted me. A quiet girl, pretty in the old-fashioned sense-certainly not smart. Her face was innocent of make-up and she wore a simple, rather shabby, black evening dress. She had frank blue eyes, and a pleasant slow voice.

'Nick has been telling me the most amazing things,' she said. 'Surely she must be exaggerating? Who ever would want to harm Nick? She can't have an enemy in the world.'

Incredulity showed strongly in her voice. She was looking at Poirot in a somewhat unflattering fashion. I realized that to a girl like Maggie Buckley, foreigners were always suspicious.

'Nevertheless, Miss Buckley, I a.s.sure you that it is the truth,' said Poirot quietly. She made no reply, but her face remained unbelieving.

'Nick seems quite fey tonight,' she remarked. 'I don't know what's the matter with her. She seems in the wildest spirits.'

That word-fey! It sent a shiver through me. Also, something in the intonation of her voice had set me wondering.

'Are you Scotch, Miss Buckley?' I asked, abruptly. 'My mother was Scottish,' she explained.

She viewed me, I noticed, with more approval than she viewed Poirot. I felt that my statement of the case would carry more weight with her than Poirot's would.

'Your cousin is behaving with great bravery,' I said. 'She's determined to carry on as usual.'

'It's the only way, isn't it?' said Maggie. 'I mean-whatever one's inward feelings are-it is no good making a fuss about them. That's only uncomfortable for everyone else.' She paused and then added in a soft voice: 'I'm very fond of Nick. She's been good to me always.'

We could say nothing more for at that moment Frederica Rice drifted into the room. She was wearing a gown of Madonna blue and looked very fragile and ethereal. Lazarus soon followed her and then Nick danced in. She was wearing a black frock, and round her was wrapped a marvellous old Chinese shawl of vivid lacquer red.

'h.e.l.lo, people,' she said. 'c.o.c.ktails?'

We all drank, and Lazarus raised his gla.s.s to her.

'That's a marvellous shawl, Nick,' he said. 'It's an old one, isn't it?'

'Yes-brought back by Great-Great-Great-Uncle Timothy from his travels.'

'It's a beauty-a real beauty. You wouldn't find another to match it if you tried.'

'It's warm,' said Nick. 'It'll be nice when we're watching the fireworks. And it's gay. I-I hate black.'

'Yes,' said Frederica. 'I don't believe I've ever seen you in a black dress before, Nick. Why did you get it?'

'Oh! I don't know.' The girl flung aside with a petulant gesture, but I had caught a curious curl of her lips as though of pain. 'Why does one do anything?'

We went in to dinner. A mysterious manservant had appeared-hired, I presume, for the occasion. The food was indifferent. The champagne, on the other hand, was good.

'George hasn't turned up,' said Nick. 'A nuisance his having to go back to Plymouth last night. He'll get over this evening sometime or other, I expect. In time for the dance anyway. I've got a man for Maggie. Presentable, if not pa.s.sionately interesting.'

A faint roaring sound drifted in through the window.

'Oh! curse that speedboat,' said Lazarus. 'I get so tired of it.'

'That's not the speedboat,' said Nick. 'That's a sea-plane.'

'I believe you're right.'

'Of course I'm right. The sound's quite different.'

'When are you going to get your Moth, Nick?'

'When I can raise the money,' laughed Nick.

'And then, I suppose you'll be off to Australia like that girl-what's her name?'

'I'd love to-'

'I admire her enormously,' said Mrs Rice, in her tired voice. 'What marvellous nerve! All by herself too.'

'I admire all these flying people,' said Lazarus. 'If Michael Seton had succeeded in his flight round the world he'd have been the hero of the day-and rightly so. A thousand pities he's come to grief. He's the kind of man England can't afford to lose.'

'He may still be all right,' said Nick.

'Hardly. It's a thousand to one against by now. Poor Mad Seton.' 'They always called him Mad Seton, didn't they?' asked Frederica. Lazarus nodded.

'He comes of rather a mad family,' he said. 'His uncle, Sir Matthew Seton, who died about a week ago-he was as mad as a hatter.'

'He was the mad millionaire who ran bird sanctuaries, wasn't he?' asked Frederica.

'Yes. Used to buy up islands. He was a great woman-hater. Some girl chucked him once, I believe, and he took to Natural History by way of consoling himself.'

'Why do you say Michael Seton is dead?' persisted Nick. 'I don't see any reason for giving up hope-yet.'

'Of course, you knew him, didn't you?' said Lazarus. 'I forgot.'

'Freddie and I met him at Le Touquet last year,' said Nick. 'He was too marvellous, wasn't he, Freddie?'

'Don't ask me, darling. He was your conquest, not mine. He took you up once, didn't he?'

'Yes-at Scarborough. It was simply too wonderful.'

'Have you done any flying, Captain Hastings?' Maggie asked of me in polite conversational tones.

I had to confess that a trip to Paris and back was the extent of my acquaintance with air travel.

Suddenly, with an exclamation, Nick sprang up.

'There's the telephone. Don't wait for me. It's getting late. And I've asked lots of people.'