And, rather pleased with his retort, he left the room.
Eleven
POIROT GIVES A SHERRY PARTY
I
Sitting in a comfortable armchair in his slightly florid suite at the Ritz, Hercule Poirot listened.
Egg was perched on the arm of a chair, Sir Charles stood in front of the fireplace, Mr. Satterthwaite sat a little farther away observing the group.
“It’s failure all along the line,” said Egg.
Poirot shook his head gently.
“No, no, you exaggerate. As regards a link with Mr. Babbington, you have drawn the blank—yes; but you have collected other suggestive information.”
“The Wills woman knows something,” said Sir Charles. “I’ll swear she knows something.”
“And Captain Dacres, he too has not the clear conscience. And Mrs. Dacres was desperately in want of money, and Sir Bartholomew spoilt her chance of laying hold of some.”
“What do you think of young Manders’s story?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite.
“It strikes me as peculiar and as being highly uncharacteristic of the late Sir Bartholomew Strange.”
“You mean it’s a lie?” asked Sir Charles bluntly.
“There are so many kinds of lies,” said Hercule Poirot.
He was silent for a minute or two, then he said:
“This Miss Wills, she has written a play for Miss Sutcliffe?”
“Yes. The first night is Wednesday next.”
“Ah!”
He was silent again. Egg said:
“Tell us: What shall we do now?”
The little man smiled at her.
“There is only one thing to do—think.”
“Think?” cried Egg. Her voice was disgusted.
Poirot beamed on her.
“But yes, exactly that. Think! With thought, all problems can be solved.”
“Can’t we do something?”
“For you the action, eh, mademoiselle? But certainly, there are still things you can do. There is, for instance, this place, Gilling, where Mr. Babbington lived for so many years. You can make inquiries there. You say that this Miss Milray’s mother lives at Gilling and is an invalid. An invalid knows everything. She hears everything and forgets nothing. Make your inquiries of her, it may lead to something—who knows?”
“Aren’t you going to do anything?” demanded Egg persistently.
Poirot twinkled.
“You insist that I, too, shall be active? Eh bien. It shall be as you wish. Only me, I shall not leave this place. I am very comfortable here. But I will tell you what I will do: I will give the party—the Sherry Party—that is fashionable, is it not?”
“A Sherry Party?”
“Précisément, and to it I will ask Mrs. Dacres, Captain Dacres, Miss Sutcliffe, Miss Wills, Mr. Manders and your charming mother, mademoiselle.”
“And me?”
“Naturally, and you. The present company is included.”
“Hurrah,” said Egg. “You can’t deceive me, M. Poirot. Something will happen at that party. It will, won’t it?”
“We shall see,” said Poirot. “But do not expect too much, mademoiselle. Now leave me with Sir Charles, for there are a few things about which I want to ask his advice.”
As Egg and Mr. Satterthwaite stood waiting for the lift, Egg said ecstatically:
“It’s lovely—just like detective stories. All the people will be there, and then he’ll tell us which of them did it.”
“I wonder,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.
II
The Sherry Party took place on Monday evening. The invitation had been accepted by all. The charming and indiscreet Miss Sutcliffe laughed mischievously as she glanced round.
“Quite the spider’s parlour, M. Poirot. And here all we poor little flies have walked in. I’m sure you’re going to give us the most marvellous résumé of the case and then suddenly you’ll point at me and say, ‘Thou art the woman,’ and everyone will say, ‘She done it,’ and I shall burst into tears and confess because I’m too terribly suggestible for words. Oh, M. Poirot, I’m so frightened of you.”
“Quelle histoire,” cried Poirot. He was busy with a decanter and glasses. He handed her a glass of sherry with a bow. “This is a friendly little party. Do not let us talk of murders and bloodshed and poison. Là, là! these things, they spoil the palate.”
He handed a glass to the grim Miss Milray, who had accompanied Sir Charles and was standing with a forbidding expression on her face.
“Voilà,” said Poirot as he finished dispensing hospitality. “Let us forget the occasion on which we first met. Let us have the party spirit. Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die. Ah, malheur, I have again mentioned death. Madame,” he bowed to Mrs. Dacres, “may I be permitted to wish you good luck and congratulate you on your very charming gown.”
“Here’s to you, Egg,” said Sir Charles.
“Cheerio,” said Freddie Dacres.
Everybody murmured something. There was an air of forced gaiety about the proceedings. Everyone was determined to appear gay and unconcerned. Only Poirot himself seemed naturally so. He rambled on happily….
“The sherry, I prefer it to the cocktail—and a thousand times to the whisky. Ah, quel horreur, the whisky. By drinking the whisky, you ruin, absolutely ruin, the palate. The delicate wines of France, to appreciate them, you must never never—ah qu’est-ce qu’il y a—?”
A strange sound had interrupted him—a kind of choking cry. Every eye went to Sir Charles as he stood swaying, his face convulsed. The glass dropped from his hand onto the carpet, he took a few steps blindly, then collapsed.
There was a moment’s stupefied silence, then Angela Sutcliffe screamed and Egg started forward.
“Charles,” cried Egg. “Charles.”
She fought her way blindly forward. Mr. Satterthwaite gently held her back.
“Oh, dear God,” cried Lady Mary. “Not another!”
Angela Sutcliffe cried out:
“He’s been poisoned, too…This is awful. Oh, my God, this is too awful….”
And suddenly collapsing onto a sofa, she began to sob and laugh—a horrible sound.
Poirot had taken charge of the situation. He was kneeling by the prostrate man. The others drew back while he made his examination. He rose to his feet, mechanically dusting the knees of his trousers. He looked round at the assembly. There was complete silence, except for the smothered sobs of Angela Sutcliffe.
“My friends,” began Poirot.
He got no further, for Egg spat out at him:
“You fool. You absurd playacting little fool! Pretending to be so great and so wonderful, and to know all about everything. And now you let this happen. Another murder. Under your very nose…If you’d let the whole thing alone this wouldn’t have happened…It’s you who have murdered Charles—you—you—you….”
She stopped, unable to get out the words.
Poirot nodded his head gravely and sadly.
“It is true, mademoiselle. I confess it. It is I who have murdered Sir Charles. But I, mademoiselle, am a very special kind of murderer. I can kill—and I can restore to life.” He turned and in a different tone of voice, an apologetic everyday voice, he said:
“A magnificent performance, Sir Charles, I congratulate you. Perhaps you would now like to take your curtain.”
With a laugh the actor sprang to his feet and bowed mockingly.
Egg gave a great gasp.
“M. Poirot, you—you beast.”
“Charles,” cried Angela Sutcliffe. “You complete devil….”
“But why—?”
“How—?”
“What on earth—?”
By means of his upraised hand, Poirot obtained silence.
“Messieurs, mesdames. I demand pardon of you all. This little farce was necessary to prove to you all, and incidentally, to prove to myself a fact which my reason already told me is true.
“Listen. On this tray of glasses I placed
in one glass a teaspoonful of plain water. That water represented pure nicotine. These glasses are of the same kind as those possessed by Sir Charles Cartwright and by Sir Bartholomew Strange. Owing to the heavy cut glass, a small quantity of a colourless liquid is quite undetectable. Imagine, then, the port glass of Sir Bartholomew Strange. After it was put on the table somebody introduced into it a sufficient quantity of pure nicotine. That might have been done by anybody. The butler, the parlourmaid, or one of the guests who slipped into the dining room on his or her way downstairs. Dessert arrived, the port is taken round, the glass is filled. Sir Bartholomew drinks—and dies.
“Tonight we have played a third tragedy—a sham tragedy—I asked Sir Charles to play the part of the victim. This he did magnificently. Now suppose for a minute that this was not a farce, but truth. Sir Charles is dead. What will be the steps taken by the police?”
Miss Sutcliffe cried:
“Why, the glass, of course.” She nodded to where the glass lay on the floor as it had fallen from Sir Charles’s hand. “You only put water in, but if it had been nicotine—”
“Let us suppose it was nicotine.” Poirot touched the glass gently with his toe. “You are of opinion that the police would analyse the glass, and that traces of nicotine would be found?”
“Certainly.”
Poirot shook his head gently.
“You are wrong. No nicotine would be found.”
They stared at him.
“You see,” he smiled, “that is not the glass from which Sir Charles drank.” With an apologetic grin he extended a glass from the tail pocket of his coat. “This is the glass he used.”
He went on:
“It is, you see, the simple theory of the conjuring trick. The attention cannot be in two places at once. To do my conjuring trick I need the attention focused elsewhere. Well, there is a moment, a psychological moment. When Sir Charles falls—dead—every eye in the room is on his dead body. Everyone crowds forward to get near him, and no one, no one at all, looks at Hercule Poirot, and in that moment I exchange the glasses and no one sees….
“So you see, I prove my point…There was such a moment at Crow’s Nest, there was such a moment at Melfort Abbey—and so, there was nothing in the cocktail glass and nothing in the port glass….”
Egg cried:
“Who changed them?”
Looking at her, Poirot replied:
“That, we have still to find out….”
“You don’t know?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
Rather uncertainly, the guests made signs of departure. Their manner was a little cold. They felt they had been badly fooled.
With a gesture of the hand, Poirot arrested them.
“One little moment, I pray of you. There is one thing more that I have to say. Tonight, admittedly, we have played the comedy. But the comedy may be played in earnest—it may become a tragedy. Under certain conditions the murderer may strike a third time…I speak now to all of you here present. If anyone of you knows something—something that may bear in any way on this crime, I implore that person to speak now. To keep knowledge to oneself at this juncture may be dangerous—so dangerous that death may be the result of silence. Therefore I beg again—if anyone knows anything, let that person speak now….”
It seemed to Sir Charles that Poirot’s appeal was addressed especially to Miss Wills. If so, it had no result. Nobody spoke or answered.
Poirot sighed. His hand fell.
“Be it so, then. I have given warning. I can do no more. Remember, to keep silence is dangerous….”
But still nobody spoke.
Awkwardly the guests departed.
Egg, Sir Charles and Mr. Satterthwaite were left.
Egg had not yet forgiven Poirot. She sat very still, her cheeks flushed and her eyes angry. She wouldn’t look at Sir Charles.
“That was a damned clever bit of work, Poirot,” said Sir Charles appreciatively.
“Amazing,” said Mr. Satterthwaite with a chuckle. “I wouldn’t have believed that I wouldn’t have seen you do that exchange.”
“That is why,” said Poirot, “I could take no one into any confidence. The experiment could only be fair this way.”
“Was that the only reason you planned this—to see whether it could be done unnoticed?”
“Well, not quite, perhaps. I had one other aim.”
“Yes?”
“I wanted to watch the expression on one person’s face when Sir Charles fell dead.”
“Which person’s?” said Egg sharply.
“Ah, that is my secret.”
“And you did watch that person’s face?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite.
“Yes.”
“Well?”
Poirot did not reply. He merely shook his head.
“Won’t you tell us what you saw there?”
Poirot said slowly:
“I saw an expression of the utmost surprise….”
Egg drew her breath in sharply.
“You mean,” she said, “that you know who the murderer is?”
“You can put it that way if you like, mademoiselle.”
“But then—but then—you know everything?”
Poirot shook his head.
“No; on the contrary I know nothing at all. For, you see, I do not know why Stephen Babbington was killed. Until I know that I can prove nothing, I can know nothing…It all hinges on that—the motive for Stephen Babbington’s death….”
There was a knock at the door and a page entered with a telegram on a tray.
Poirot opened it. His face changed. He handed the telegram to Sir Charles. Leaning over Sir Charles’s shoulder, Egg read it aloud:
“Please come and see me at once can give you valuable information as to Bartholomew Strange’s death—Margaret Rushbridger.”
“Mrs. de Rushbridger!” cried Sir Charles. “We were right after all. She has got something to do with the case.”
Twelve
DAY AT GILLING
I
At once an excited discussion sprang up. An A.B.C. was produced. It was decided that an early train would be better than going by car.
“At last,” said Sir Charles, “we’re going to get that particular part of the mystery cleared up.”
“What do you think the mystery is?” asked Egg.
“I can’t imagine. But it can’t fail to throw some light on the Babbington affair. If Tollie got those people together on purpose, as I feel pretty sure he did, then the ‘surprise’ he talked of springing on them had something to do with this Rushbridger woman. I think we can assume that, don’t you, M. Poirot?”
Poirot shook his head in a perplexed manner.
“This telegram complicates the affair,” he murmured. “But we must be quick—extremely quick.”
Mr. Satterthwaite did not see the need for extreme haste, but he agreed politely.
“Certainly, we will go by the first train in the morning. Er—that is to say, is it necessary for us all to go?”
“Sir Charles and I had arranged to go down to Gilling,” said Egg.
“We can postpone that,” said Sir Charles.
“I don’t think we ought to postpone anything,” said Egg. “There is no need for all four of us to go to Yorkshire. It’s absurd. Mass formation. M. Poirot and Mr. Satterthwaite go to Yorkshire and Sir Charles and I go to Gilling.”
“I’d rather like to look into this Rushbridger business,” said Sir Charles with a trace of wistfulness. “You see, I—er—talked to the Matron before—got my foot in, so to speak.”
“That’s just why you’d better keep away,” said Egg. “You involved yourself in a lot of lies, and now this Rushbridger woman has come to herself you’ll be exposed as a thorough-paced liar. It’s far far more important that you should come to Gilling. If we want to see Miss Milray’s mother she’ll open out to you much more than she would to anyone else. You’re her daughter’s employer, and she’ll have confidence in you.”
&nbs
p; Sir Charles looked into Egg’s glowing, earnest face.
“I’ll come to Gilling,” he said. “I think you’re quite right.”
“I know I’m right,” said Egg.
“In my opinion an excellent arrangement,” said Poirot briskly. “As mademoiselle says, Sir Charles is preeminently the person to interview this Mrs. Milray. Who knows, you may learn from her facts of much more importance than those we shall learn in Yorkshire.”
Matters were arranged on this basis, and the following morning Sir Charles picked up Egg in his car at a quarter to ten. Poirot and Mr. Satterthwaite had already left London by train.
It was a lovely crisp morning, with just a touch of frost in the air. Egg felt her spirits rising as they turned and twisted through the various shortcuts which Sir Charles’s experience had discovered south of the Thames.
At last, however, they were flying smoothly along the Folkestone road. After passing through Maidstone, Sir Charles consulted a map, and they turned off from the main road and were shortly winding through country lanes. It was about a quarter to twelve when they at last reached their objective.
Gilling was a village which the world had left behind. It had an old church, a vicarage, two or three shops, a row of cottages, three or four new council houses and a very attractive village green.
Miss Milray’s mother lived in a tiny house on the other side of the green to the church.
As the car drew up Egg asked:
“Does Miss Milray know you are going to see her mother?”
“Oh, yes. She wrote to prepare the old lady.”
“Do you think that was a good thing?”
“My dear child, why not?”
“Oh, I don’t know…You didn’t bring her down with you, though.”
“As a matter of fact, I thought she might cramp my style. She’s so much more efficient than I am—she’d probably try to prompt me.”
Egg laughed.
Mrs. Milray turned out to be almost ludicrously unlike her daughter. Where Miss Milray was hard, she was soft, where Miss Milray was angular, she was round. Mrs. Milray was an immense dumpling of a woman immovably fixed in an armchair conveniently placed so that she could, from the window, observe all that went on in the world outside.