“Ah, Mr. Guthrie.”
Inspector Morton smiled.
“Yes, M. Poirot. We’re checking up on him. After all, it would be easy, wouldn’t it, to come along with a plausible tale of having been a friend of Mrs. Lansquenet’s. Mrs. Banks wasn’t to know if he was or he wasn’t. He could have dropped that little parcel, you know. It’s easy to make a thing look as though it’s been through the post. Lamp black a little smudged, makes quite a good postmark cancellation mark over a stamp.”
He paused and then added:
“And there are other possibilities.”
Poirot nodded.
“You think—?”
“Mr. George Crossfield was down in that part of the world—but not until the next day. Meant to attend the funeral, but had a little engine trouble on the way. Know anything about him, M. Poirot?”
“A little. But not as much as I would like to know.”
“Like that, is it? Quite a little bunch interested in the late Mr. Abernethie’s will, I understand. I hope it doesn’t mean going after all of them.”
“I have accumulated a little information. It is at your disposal. Naturally I have no authority to ask these people questions. In fact, it would not be wise for me to do so.”
“I shall go slowly myself. You don’t want to fluster your bird too soon. But when you do fluster it, you want to fluster it well.”
“A very sound technique. For you then, my friend, the routine—with all the machinery you have at your disposal. It is slow—but sure. For myself—”
“Yes, M. Poirot?”
“For myself, I go North. As I have told you, it is people in whom I interest myself. Yes—a little preparatory camouflage—and I go North.
“I intend,” added Hercule Poirot, “to purchase a country mansion for foreign refugees. I represent U.N.A.R.C.O.”
“And what’s U.N.A.R.C.O.?”
“United Nations Aid for Refugee Centre Organization. It sounds well, do you not think?”
Inspector Morton grinned.
Fourteen
Hercule Poirot said to a grim-faced Janet:
“Thank you very much. You have been most kind.”
Janet, her lips still fixed in a sour line, left the room. These foreigners! The questions they asked. Their impertinence! All very well to say that he was a specialist interested in unsuspected heart conditions such as Mr. Abernethie must have suffered from. That was very likely true—gone very sudden the master had, and the doctor had been surprised. But what business was it of some foreign doctor coming along and nosing around?
All very well for Mrs. Leo to say: “Please answer Monsieur Pontarlier’s questions. He has a good reason for asking.”
Questions. Always questions. Sheets of them sometimes to fill in as best you could—and what did the Government or anyone else want to know about your private affairs for? Asking your age at that census—downright impertinent and she hadn’t told them, either! Cut off five years she had. Why not? If she only felt fifty-four, she’d call herself fifty-four!
At any rate Monsieur Pontarlier hadn’t wanted to know her age. He’d had some decency. Just questions about the medicines the master had taken, and where they were kept, and if, perhaps, he might have taken too much of them if he was feeling not quite the thing—or if he’d been forgetful. As though she could remember all that rubbish—the master knew what he was doing! And asking if any of the medicines he took were still in the house. Naturally they’d all been thrown away. Heart condition—and some long word he’d used. Always thinking of something new they were, these doctors. Look at them telling old Rogers he had a disc or some such in his spine. Plain lumbago, that was all that was the matter with him. Her father had been a gardener and he’d suffered from lumbago. Doctors!
The self-appointed medical man sighed and went downstairs in search of Lanscombe. He had not got very much out of Janet but he had hardly expected to do so. All he had really wanted to do was to check such information as could unwillingly be extracted from her with that given him by Helen Abernethie and which had been obtained from the same source—but with much less difficulty, since Janet was ready to admit that Mrs. Leo had a perfect right to ask such questions and indeed Janet herself had enjoyed dwelling at length on the last few weeks of her master’s life. Illness and death were congenial subjects to her.
Yes, Poirot thought, he could have relied on the information that Helen had got for him. He had done so really. But by nature and long habit he trusted nobody until he himself had tried and proved them.
In any case the evidence was slight and unsatisfactory. It boiled down to the fact that Richard Abernethie had been prescribed vitamin oil capsules. That these had been in a large bottle which had been nearly finished at the time of his death. Anybody who had wanted to, could have operated on one or more of those capsules with a hypodermic syringe and could have rearranged the bottle so that the fatal dose would only be taken some weeks after that somebody had left the house. Or someone might have slipped into the house on the day before Richard Abernethie died and have doctored a capsule then—or, which was more likely—have substituted something else for a sleeping tablet in the little bottle that stood beside the bed. Or again he might have quite simply tampered with the food or drink.
Hercule Poirot had made his own experiments. The front door was kept locked, but there was a side door giving on the garden which was not locked until evening. At about quarter past one, when the gardeners had gone to lunch and when the household was in the dining room, Poirot had entered the grounds, come to the side door, and mounted the stairs to Richard Abernethie’s bedroom without meeting anybody. As a variant he had pushed through a baize door and slipped into the larder. He had heard voices from the kitchen at the end of the passage but no one had seen him.
Yes, it could have been done. But had it been done? There was nothing to indicate that that was so. Not that Poirot was really looking for evidence—he wanted only to satisfy himself as to possibilities. The murder of Richard Abernethie could only be a hypothesis. It was Cora Lansquenet’s murder for which evidence was needed. What he wanted was to study the people who had been assembled for the funeral that day, and to form his own conclusions about them. He already had his plan, but first he wanted a few more words with old Lanscombe.
Lanscombe was courteous but distant. Less resentful than Janet, he nevertheless regarded this upstart foreigner as the materialization of the Writing on the Wall. This was What We are Coming to!
He put down the leather with which he was lovingly polishing the Georgian teapot and straightened his back.
“Yes, sir?” he said politely.
Poirot sat down gingerly on a pantry stool.
“Mrs. Abernethie tells me that you hoped to reside in the lodge by the north gate when you retired from service here?”
“That is so, sir. Naturally all that is changed now. When the propety is sold—”
Poirot interrupted deftly:
“It might still be possible. There are cottages for the gardeners. The lodge is not needed for the guests or their attendants. It might be possible to make an arrangement of some kind.”
“Well, thank you, sir, for the suggestion. But I hardly think— The majority of the—guests would be foreigners, I presume?”
“Yes, they will be foreigners. Amongst those who fled from Europe to this country are several who are old and infirm. There can be no future for them if they return to their own countries, for these persons, you understand, are those whose relatives there have perished. They cannot earn their living here as an able-bodied man or woman can do. Funds have been raised and are being administered by the organization which I represent to endow various country homes for them. This place is, I think, eminently suitable. The matter is practically settled.”
Lanscombe sighed.
“You’ll understand, sir, that it’s sad for me to think that this won’t be a private dwelling house any longer. But I know how things are nowadays. None of the family
could afford to live here—and I don’t think the young ladies and gentlemen would even want to do so. Domestic help is too difficult to obtain these days, and even if obtained is expensive and unsatisfactory. I quite realize that these fine mansions have served their turn.” Lanscombe sighed again. “If it has to be an—an institution of some kind, I’ll be glad to think that it’s the kind you’re mentioning. We were Spared in This Country, sir, owing to our Navy and Air Force and our brave young men and being fortunate enough to be an island. If Hitler had landed here we’d all have turned out and given him short shrift. My sight isn’t good enough for shooting, but I could have used a pitchfork, sir, and I intended to do so if necessary. We’ve always welcomed the unfortunate in this country, sir, it’s been our pride. We shall continue so to do.”
“Thank you, Lanscombe,” said Poirot gently. “Your master’s death must have been a great blow to you.”
“It was, sir. I’d been with the master since he was quite a young man. I’ve been very fortunate in my life, sir. No one could have had a better master.”
“I have been conversing with my friend and—er—colleague, Dr. Larraby. We were wondering if your master could have had any extra worry—any unpleasant interview—on the day before he died? You do not remember if any visitors came to the house that day?”
“I think not, sir. I do not recall any.”
“No one called at all just about that time?”
“The vicar was here to tea the day before. Otherwise some nuns called for a subscription—and a young man came to the back door and wanted to sell Marjorie some brushes and saucepan cleaners. Very persistent he was. Nobody else.”
A worried expression had appeared on Lanscombe’s face. Poirot did not press him further. Lanscombe had already unburdened himself to Mr. Entwhistle. He would be far less forthcoming with Hercule Poirot.
With Marjorie, on the other hand, Poirot had had instant success. Marjorie had none of the conventions of “good service.” Marjorie was a first-class cook and the way to her heart lay through her cooking. Poirot had visited her in the kitchen, praised certain dishes with discernment, and Marjorie, realizing that here was someone who knew what he was talking about, hailed him immediately as a fellow spirit. He had no difficulty in finding out exactly what had been served the night before Richard Abernethie had died. Marjorie, indeed, was inclined to view the matter as, “It was the night I made that chocolate soufflé that Mr. Abernethie died. Six eggs I’d saved up for it. The dairyman he’s a friend of mine. Got hold of some cream too. Better not ask how. Enjoyed it, Mr. Abernethie did.” The rest of the meal was likewise detailed. What had come out from the dining room had been finished in the kitchen. Ready as Marjorie was to talk, Poirot had learned nothing of value from her.
He went now to fetch his overcoat and a couple of scarves, and thus padded against the North Country air he went out on the terrace and joined Helen Abernethie, who was clipping some late roses.
“Have you found out anything fresh?” she asked.
“Nothing. But I hardly expected to do so.”
“I know. Ever since Mr. Entwhistle told me you were coming, I’ve been ferreting around, but there’s really been nothing.”
She paused and said hopefully:
“Perhaps it is all a mare’s nest?”
“To be attacked with a hatchet?”
“I wasn’t thinking of Cora.”
“But it is of Cora that I think. Why was it necessary for someone to kill her? Mr. Entwhistle has told me that on that day, at the moment that she came out suddenly with her gaffe, you yourself felt that something was wrong. That is so?”
“Well—yes, but I don’t know—”
Poirot swept on.
“How ‘wrong’? Unexpected? Surprising? Or—what shall we say—uneasy? Sinister?”
“Oh no, not sinister. Just something that wasn’t—oh, I don’t know. I can’t remember and it wasn’t important.”
“But why cannot you remember—because something else put it out of your head—something more important?”
“Yes—yes—I think you’re right there. It was the mention of murder, I suppose. That swept away everything else.”
“It was, perhaps, the reaction of some particular person to the word ‘murder’?”
“Perhaps… But I don’t remember looking at anyone in particular. We were all staring at Cora.”
“It may have been something you heard—something dropped perhaps…or broken….”
Helen frowned in an effort of remembrance.
“No… I don’t think so….”
“Ah well, some day it will come back. And it may be of no consequence. Now tell me, Madame, of those there, who knew Cora best?”
Helen considered.
“Lanscombe, I suppose. He remembers her from a child. The housemaid, Janet, only came after she had married and gone away.”
“And next to Lanscombe?”
Helen said thoughtfully: “I suppose—I did. Maude hardly knew her at all.”
“Then, taking you as the person who knew her best, why do you think she asked that question as she did?”
Helen smiled.
“It was very characteristic of Cora!”
“What I mean is, was it a bêtise pure and simple? Did she just blurt out what was in her mind without thinking? Or was she being malicious—amusing herself by upsetting everyone?”
Helen reflected.
“You can’t ever be quite sure about a person, can you? I never have known whether Cora was just ingenuous—or whether she counted, childishly, on making an effect. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I was thinking: Suppose this Mrs. Cora says to herself ‘What fun it would be to ask if Richard was murdered and see how they all look!’ That would be like her, yes?”
Helen looked doubtful.
“It might be. She certainly had an impish sense of humour as a child. But what difference does it make?”
“It would underline the point that it is unwise to make jokes about murder,” said Poirot drily.
Helen shivered.
“Poor Cora.”
Poirot changed the subject.
“Mrs. Timothy Abernethie stayed the night after the funeral?”
“Yes.”
“Did she talk to you at all about what Cora had said?”
“Yes, she said it was outrageous and just like Cora!”
“She didn’t take it seriously?”
“Oh no. No, I’m sure she didn’t.”
The second “no,” Poirot thought, had sounded suddenly doubtful. But was not that almost always the case when you went back over something in your mind?
“And you, Madame, did you take it seriously?”
Helen Abernethie, her eyes looking very blue and strangely young under the sideways sweep of crisp grey hair, said thoughtfully:
“Yes, M. Poirot, I think I did.”
“Because of your feeling that something was wrong?”
“Perhaps.”
He waited—but as she said nothing more, he went on:
“There had been an estrangement, lasting many years, between Mrs. Lansquenet and her family?”
“Yes. None of us liked her husband and she was offended about it, and so the estrangement grew.”
“And then, suddenly, your brother-in-law went to see her. Why?”
“I don’t know—I suppose he knew, or guessed, that he hadn’t very long to live and wanted to be reconciled—but I really don’t know.”
“He didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me?”
“Yes. You were here, staying with him, just before he went there. He didn’t even mention his intention to you?”
He thought a slight reserve came into her manner.
“He told me that he was going to see his brother Timothy—which he did. He never mentioned Cora at all. Shall we go in? It must be nearly lunchtime.”
She walked beside him carrying the flowers she had picked. As they went in by the s
ide door, Poirot said:
“You are sure, quite sure, that during your visit, Mr. Abernethie said nothing to you about any member of the family which might be relevant?”
A faint resentment in her manner, Helen said:
“You are speaking like a policeman.”
“I was a policeman—once. I have no status—no right to question you. But you want the truth—or so I have been led to believe?”
They entered the green drawing room. Helen said with a sigh:
“Richard was disappointed in the younger generation. Old men usually are. He disparaged them in various ways—but there was nothing—nothing, do you understand—that could possibly suggest a motive for murder.”
“Ah,” said Poirot. She reached for a Chinese bowl, and began to arrange the roses in it. When they were disposed to her satisfaction she looked round for a place to put it.
“You arrange flowers admirably, Madame,” said Hercule. “I think that anything you undertook you would manage to do with perfection.”
“Thank you. I am fond of flowers. I think this would look well on that green malachite table.”
There was a bouquet of wax flowers under a glass shade on the malachite table. As she lifted it off, Poirot said casually:
“Did anyone tell Mr. Abernethie that his niece Susan’s husband had come near to poisoning a customer when making up a prescription? Ah, pardon!”
He sprang forward.
The Victorian ornament had slipped from Helen’s fingers. Poirot’s spring forward was not quick enough. It dropped on the floor and the glass shade broke. Helen gave an expression of annoyance.