‘No,’ he said, ‘not there.’
Then he paused and slowly his figure stiffened. On either side of the grass was a deep flower border. Poirot’s attention was focused on the right hand border, full of Michaelmas daisies and dahlias. His torch was directed on the front of the bed. Distinct on the soft mould were footprints.
‘Four of them,’ murmured Poirot. ‘Two going toward the window, two coming from it.’
‘A gardener,’ suggested Joan.
‘But no, mademoiselle, but no. Employ your eyes. These shoes are small, dainty, high-heeled, the shoes of a woman. Mademoiselle Diana mentioned having been out in the garden. Do you know if she went downstairs before you did, mademoiselle?’
Joan shook her head.
‘I can’t remember. I was in such a hurry because the gong went, and I thought I’d heard the first one. I do seem to remember that her room door was open as I went past, but I’m not sure. Mrs Lytcham Roche’s was shut, I know.’
‘I see,’ said Poirot.
Something in his voice made Harry look up sharply, but Poirot was merely frowning gently to himself.
In the doorway they met Diana Cleves.
‘The police have gone,’ she said. ‘It’s all—over.’
She gave a deep sigh.
‘May I request one little word with you, mademoiselle?’
She led the way into the morning room, and Poirot followed, shutting the door.
‘Well?’ She looked a little surprised.
‘One little question, mademoiselle. Were you tonight at any time in the flower border outside the study window?’
‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘About seven o’clock and again just before dinner.’
‘I do not understand,’ he said.
‘I can’t see that there is anything to “understand”, as you call it,’ she said coldly. ‘I was picking Michaelmas daisies—for the table. I always do the flowers. That was about seven o’clock.’
‘And afterward—later?’
‘Oh, that! As a matter of fact I dropped a spot of hair oil on my dress—just on the shoulder here. It was just as I was ready to come down. I didn’t want to change the dress. I remembered I’d seen a late rose in bud in the border. I ran out and picked it and pinned it in. See—’ She came close to him and lifted the head of the rose. Poirot saw the minute grease spot. She remained close to him, her shoulder almost brushing his.
‘And what time was this?’
‘Oh, about ten minutes past eight, I suppose.’
‘You did not—try the window?’
‘I believe I did. Yes, I thought it would be quicker to go in that way. But it was fastened.’
‘I see.’ Poirot drew a deep breath. ‘And the shot,’ he said, ‘where were you when you heard that? Still in the flower border?’
‘Oh, no; it was two or three minutes later, just before I came in by the side door.’
‘Do you know what this is, mademoiselle?’
On the palm of his hand he held out the tiny silk rosebud. She examined it coolly.
‘It looks like a rosebud off my little evening bag. Where did you find it?’
‘It was in Mr Keene’s pocket,’ said Poirot dryly. ‘Did you give it to him, mademoiselle?’
‘Did he tell you I gave it to him?’
Poirot smiled.
‘When did you give it to him, mademoiselle?’
‘Last night.’
‘Did he warn you to say that, mademoiselle?’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked angrily.
But Poirot did not answer. He strode out of the room and into the drawing room. Barling, Keene, and Marshall were there. He went straight up to them.
‘Messieurs,’ he said brusquely, ‘will you follow me to the study?’
He passed out into the hall and addressed Joan and Harry.
‘You, too, I pray of you. And will somebody request madame to come? I thank you. Ah! And here is the excellent Digby. Digby, a little question, a very important little question. Did Miss Cleves arrange some Michaelmas daisies before dinner?’
The butler looked bewildered.
‘Yes, sir, she did.’
‘You are sure?’
‘Quite sure, sir.’
‘Très bien. Now—come, all of you.’
Inside the study he faced them.
‘I have asked you to come here for a reason. The case is over, the police have come and gone. They say Mr Lytcham Roche has shot himself. All is finished.’ He paused. ‘But I, Hercule Poirot, say that it is not finished.’
As startled eyes turned to him the door opened and Mrs Lytcham Roche floated into the room.
‘I was saying, madame, that this case is not finished. It is a matter of the psychology. Mr Lytcham Roche, he had the manie de grandeur, he was a king. Such a man does not kill himself. No, no, he may go mad, but he does not kill himself. Mr Lytcham Roche did not kill himself.’ He paused. ‘He was killed.’
‘Killed?’ Marshall gave a short laugh. ‘Alone in a room with the door and window locked?’
‘All the same,’ said Poirot stubbornly, ‘he was killed.’
‘And got up and locked the door or shut the window afterward, I suppose,’ said Diana cuttingly.
‘I will show you something,’ said Poirot, going to the window. He turned the handle of the French windows and then pulled gently.
‘See, they are open. Now I close them, but without turning the handle. Now the window is closed but not fastened. Now!’
He gave a short jarring blow and the handle turned, shooting the bolt down into its socket.
‘You see?’ said Poirot softly. ‘It is very loose, this mechanism. It could be done from outside quite easily.’
He turned, his manner grim.
‘When that shot was fired at twelve minutes past eight, there were four people in the hall. Four people have an alibi. Where were the other three? You, madame? In your room. You, Monsieur Barling. Were you, too, in your room?’
‘I was.’
‘And you, mademoiselle, were in the garden. So you have admitted.’
‘I don’t see—’ began Diana.
‘Wait.’ He turned to Mrs Lytcham Roche. ‘Tell me, madame, have you any idea of how your husband left his money?’
‘Hubert read me his will. He said I ought to know. He left me three thousand a year chargeable on the estate, and the dower house or the town house, whichever I preferred. Everything else he left to Diana, on condition that if she married her husband must take the name.’
‘Ah!’
‘But then he made a codicil thing—a few weeks ago, that was.’
‘Yes, madame?’
‘He still left it all to Diana, but on condition that she married Mr Barling. If she married anyone else, it was all to go to his nephew, Harry Dalehouse.’
‘But the codicil was only made a few weeks ago,’ purred Poirot. ‘Mademoiselle may not have known of that.’ He stepped forward accusingly. ‘Mademoiselle Diana, you want to marry Captain Marshall, do you not? Or is it Mr Keene?’
She walked across the room and put her arm through Marshall’s sound one.
‘Go on,’ she said.
‘I will put the case against you, mademoiselle. You loved Captain Marshall. You also loved money. Your adopted father he would never have consented to your marrying Captain Marshall, but if he dies you are fairly sure that you get everything. So you go out, you step over the flower border to the window which is open, you have with you the pistol which you have taken from the writing table drawer. You go up to your victim talking amiably. You fire. You drop the pistol by his hand, having wiped it and then pressed his fingers on it. You go out again, shaking the window till the bolt drops. You come into the house. Is that how it happened? I am asking you, mademoiselle?’
‘No,’ Diana screamed. ‘No—no!’
He looked at her, then he smiled.
‘No,’ he said, ‘it was not like that. It might have been so—it is plausible—it is possible—but
it cannot have been like that for two reasons. The first reason is that you picked Michaelmas daisies at seven o’clock, the second arises from something that mademoiselle here told me.’ He turned toward Joan, who stared at him in bewilderment. He nodded encouragement.
‘But yes, mademoiselle. You told me that you hurried downstairs because you thought it was the second gong sounding, having already heard the first.’
He shot a rapid glance round the room.
‘You do not see what that means?’ he cried. ‘You do not see. Look! Look!’ He sprang forward to the chair where the victim had sat. ‘Did you notice how the body was? Not sitting square to the desk—no, sitting sideways to the desk, facing the window. Is that a natural way to commit suicide? Jamais, jamais! You write your apologia “sorry” on a piece of paper—you open the drawer, you take out the pistol, you hold it to your head and you fire. That is the way of suicide. But now consider murder! The victim sits at his desk, the murderer stands beside him—talking. And talking still—fires. Where does the bullet go then?’ He paused. ‘Straight through the head, through the door if it is open, and so—hits the gong.
‘Ah! you begin to see? That was the first gong—heard only by mademoiselle, since her room is above.
‘What does our murderer do next? Shuts the door, locks it, puts the key in the dead man’s pocket, then turns the body sideways in the chair, presses the dead man’s fingers on the pistol and then drops it by his side, cracks the mirror on the wall as a final spectacular touch—in short, “arranges” his suicide. Then out through the window, the bolt is shaken home, the murderer steps not on the grass, where footprints must show, but on the flower bed, where they can be smoothed out behind him, leaving no trace. Then back into the house, and at twelve minutes past eight, when he is alone in the drawing room, he fires a service revolver out of the drawing room window and dashes out into the hall. Is that how you did it, Mr Geoffrey Keene?’
Fascinated, the secretary stared at the accusing figure drawing nearer to him. Then, with a gurgling cry, he fell to the ground.
‘I think I am answered,’ said Poirot. ‘Captain Marshall, will you ring up the police?’ He bent over the prostrate form. ‘I fancy he will be still unconscious when they come.’
‘Geoffrey Keene,’ murmured Diana. ‘But what motive had he?’
‘I fancy that as secretary he had certain opportunities—accounts—cheques. Something awakened Mr Lytcham Roche’s suspicions. He sent for me.’
‘Why for you? Why not for the police?’
‘I think, mademoiselle, you can answer that question. Monsieur suspected that there was something between you and that young man. To divert his mind from Captain Marshall, you had flirted shamelessly with Mr Keene. But yes, you need not deny! Mr Keene gets wind of my coming and acts promptly. The essence of his scheme is that the crime must seem to take place at 8:12, when he has an alibi. His one danger is the bullet, which must be lying somewhere near the gong and which he has not had time to retrieve. When we are all on our way to the study he picks that up. At such a tense moment he thinks no one will notice. But me, I notice everything! I question him. He reflects a little minute and then he plays the comedy! He insinuates that what he picked up was the silk rosebud, he plays the part of the young man in love shielding the lady he loves. Oh, it was very clever, and if you had not picked Michaelmas daisies—’
‘I don’t understand what they have to do with it.’
‘You do not? Listen—there were only four footprints in the bed, but when you were picking the flowers you must have made many more than that. So in between your picking the flowers and your coming to get the rosebud someone must have smoothed over the bed. Not a gardener—no gardener works after seven. Then it must be someone guilty—it must be the murderer—the murder was committed before the shot was heard.’
‘But why did nobody hear the real shot?’ asked Harry.
‘A silencer. They will find that and the revolver thrown into the shrubbery.’
‘What a risk!’
‘Why a risk? Everyone was upstairs dressing for dinner. It was a very good moment. The bullet was the only contretemps, and even that, as he thought, passed off well.’
Poirot picked it up. ‘He threw it under the mirror when I was examining the window with Mr Dalehouse.’
‘Oh!’ Diana wheeled on Marshall. ‘Marry me, John, and take me away.’
Barling coughed. ‘My dear Diana, under the terms of my friend’s will—’
‘I don’t care,’ the girl cried. ‘We can draw pictures on pavements.’
‘There’s no need to do that,’ said Harry. ‘We’ll go halves, Di. I’m not going to bag things because Uncle had a bee in his bonnet.’
Suddenly there was a cry. Mrs Lytcham Roche had sprung to her feet.
‘M. Poirot—the mirror—he—he must have deliberately smashed it.’
‘Yes, madame.’
‘Oh!’ She stared at him. ‘But it is unlucky to break a mirror.’
‘It has proved very unlucky for Mr Geoffrey Keene,’ said Poirot cheerfully.
Sing a Song of Sixpence
Sir Edward Palliser, K.C., lived at No 9 Queen Anne’s Close. Queen Anne’s Close is a cul-de-sac. In the very heart of Westminster it manages to have a peaceful old-world atmosphere far removed from the turmoil of the twentieth century. It suited Sir Edward Palliser admirably.
Sir Edward had been one of the most eminent criminal barristers of his day and now that he no longer practised at the Bar he had amused himself by amassing a very fine criminological library. He was also the author of a volume of Reminiscences of Eminent Criminals.
On this particular evening Sir Edward was sitting in front of his library fire sipping some very excellent black coffee, and shaking his head over a volume of Lombroso. Such ingenious theories and so completely out of date.
The door opened almost noiselessly and his well-trained manservant approached over the thick pile carpet, and murmured discreetly:
‘A young lady wishes to see you, sir.’
‘A young lady?’
Sir Edward was surprised. Here was something quite out of the usual course of events. Then he reflected that it might be his niece, Ethel—but no, in that case Armour would have said so.
He inquired cautiously.
‘The lady did not give her name?’
‘No, sir, but she said she was quite sure you would wish to see her.’
‘Show her in,’ said Sir Edward Palliser. He felt pleasurably intrigued.
A tall, dark girl of close on thirty, wearing a black coat and skirt, well cut, and a little black hat, came to Sir Edward with outstretched hand and a look of eager recognition on her face. Armour withdrew, closing the door noiselessly behind him.
‘Sir Edward—you do know me, don’t you? I’m Magdalen Vaughan.’
‘Why, of course.’ He pressed the outstretched hand warmly.
He remembered her perfectly now. That trip home from America on the Siluric! This charming child—for she had been little more than a child. He had made love to her, he remembered, in a discreet elderly man-of-the-world fashion. She had been so adorably young—so eager—so full of admiration and hero worship—just made to captivate the heart of a man nearing sixty. The remembrance brought additional warmth into the pressure of his hand.
‘This is most delightful of you. Sit down, won’t you.’ He arranged an armchair for her, talking easily and evenly, wondering all the time why she had come. When at last he brought the easy flow of small talk to an end, there was a silence.
Her hand closed and unclosed on the arm of the chair, she moistened her lips. Suddenly she spoke—abruptly.
‘Sir Edward—I want you to help me.’
He was surprised and murmured mechanically:
‘Yes?’
She went on, speaking more intensely:
‘You said that if ever I needed help—that if there was anything in the world you could do for me—you would do it.’
Yes, he
had said that. It was the sort of thing one did say—particularly at the moment of parting. He could recall the break in his voice—the way he had raised her hand to his lips.
‘If there is ever anything I can do—remember, I mean it …’
Yes, one said that sort of thing … But very, very rarely did one have to fulfil one’s words! And certainly not after—how many?—nine or ten years. He flashed a quick glance at her—she was still a very good-looking girl, but she had lost what had been to him her charm—that look of dewy untouched youth. It was a more interesting face now, perhaps—a younger man might have thought so—but Sir Edward was far from feeling the tide of warmth and emotion that had been his at the end of that Atlantic voyage.
His face became legal and cautious. He said in a rather brisk way:
‘Certainly, my dear young lady. I shall be delighted to do anything in my power—though I doubt if I can be very helpful to anyone in these days.’
If he was preparing his way of retreat she did not notice it. She was of the type that can only see one thing at a time and what she was seeing at this moment was her own need. She took Sir Edward’s willingness to help for granted.
‘We are in terrible trouble, Sir Edward.’
‘We? You are married?’
‘No—I meant my brother and I. Oh! and William and Emily too, for that matter. But I must explain. I have—I had an aunt—Miss Crabtree. You may have read about her in the papers. It was horrible. She was killed—murdered.’
‘Ah!’ A flash of interest lit up Sir Edward’s face. ‘About a month ago, wasn’t it?’
The girl nodded.
‘Rather less than that—three weeks.’
‘Yes, I remember. She was hit on the head in her own house. They didn’t get the fellow who did it.’
Again Magdalen Vaughan nodded.
‘They didn’t get the man—I don’t believe they ever will get the man. You see—there mightn’t be any man to get.’
‘What?’
‘Yes—it’s awful. Nothing’s come out about it in the papers. But that’s what the police think. They know nobody came to the house that night.’