‘Go on digging, Tommy.’
It was some time before a second tin rewarded their search. As before, Tuppence unsealed it.
‘Well?’ demanded Tommy anxiously.
‘Potatoes again!’
‘Damn!’ said Tommy, and set to once more.
‘The third time is lucky,’ said Tuppence consolingly.
‘I believe the whole thing’s a mare’s nest,’ said Tommy gloomily, but he continued to dig.
At last a third tin was brought to light.
‘Potatoes aga—’ began Tuppence, then stopped. ‘Oh, Tommy, we’ve got it. It’s only potatoes on top. Look!’
She held up a big old-fashioned velvet bag.
‘Cut along home,’ cried Tommy. ‘It’s icy cold. Take the bag with you. I must shovel back the earth. And may a thousand curses light upon your head, Tuppence, if you open that bag before I come!’
‘I’ll play fair. Ouch! I’m frozen.’ She beat a speedy retreat.
On arrival at the inn she had not long to wait. Tommy was hard upon her heels, perspiring freely after his digging and the final brisk run.
‘Now then,’ said Tommy, ‘the private inquiry agents make good! Open the loot, Mrs Beresford.’
Inside the bag was a package done up in oil silk and a heavy chamois leather bag. They opened the latter first. It was full of gold sovereigns. Tommy counted them.
‘Two hundred pounds. That was all they would let her have, I suppose. Cut open the package.’
Tuppence did so. It was full of closely folded banknotes. Tommy and Tuppence counted them carefully. They amounted to exactly twenty thousand pounds.
‘Whew!’ said Tommy. ‘Isn’t it lucky for Monica that we’re both rich and honest? What’s that done up in tissue paper?’
Tuppence unrolled the little parcel and drew out a magnificent string of pearls, exquisitely matched.
‘I don’t know much about these things,’ said Tommy slowly. ‘But I’m pretty sure that those pearls are worth another five thousand pounds at least. Look at the size of them. Now I see why the old lady kept that cutting about pearls being a good investment. She must have realised all her securities and turned them into notes and jewels.’
‘Oh, Tommy, isn’t it wonderful? Darling Monica. Now she can marry her nice young man and live happily ever afterwards, like me.’
‘That’s rather sweet of you, Tuppence. So you are happy with me?’
‘As a matter of fact,’ said Tuppence, ‘I am. But I didn’t mean to say so. It slipped out. What with being excited, and Christmas Eve, and one thing and another—’
‘If you really love me,’ said Tommy, ‘will you answer me one question?’
‘I hate these catches,’ said Tuppence, ‘but—well—all right.’
‘Then how did you know that Monica was a clergyman’s daughter?’
‘Oh, that was just cheating,’ said Tuppence happily. ‘I opened her letter making an appointment, and a Mr Deane was father’s curate once, and he had a little girl called Monica, about four or five years younger than me. So I put two and two together.’
‘You are a shameless creature,’ said Tommy. ‘Hullo, there’s twelve o’clock striking. Happy Christmas, Tuppence.’
‘Happy Christmas, Tommy. It’ll be a Happy Christmas for Monica too—and all owing to US. I am glad. Poor thing, she has been so miserable. Do you know, Tommy, I feel all queer and choky about the throat when I think of it.’
‘Darling Tuppence,’ said Tommy.
‘Darling Tommy,’ said Tuppence. ‘How awfully sentimental we are getting.’
‘Christmas comes but once a year,’ said Tommy sententiously. ‘That’s what our great-grandmothers said, and I expect there’s a lot of truth in it still.’
The Plymouth Express
Alec Simpson, RN, stepped from the platform at Newton Abbot into a first-class compartment of the Plymouth Express. A porter followed him with a heavy suitcase. He was about to swing it up to the rack, but the young sailor stopped him.
‘No—leave it on the seat. I’ll put it up later. Here you are.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ The porter, generously tipped, withdrew.
Doors banged; a stentorian voice shouted: ‘Plymouth only. Change for Torquay. Plymouth next stop.’ Then a whistle blew, and the train drew slowly out of the station.
Lieutenant Simpson had the carriage to himself. The December air was chilly, and he pulled up the window. Then he sniffed vaguely, and frowned. What a smell there was! Reminded him of that time in hospital, and the operation on his leg. Yes, chloroform; that was it!
He let the window down again, changing his seat to one with its back to the engine. He pulled a pipe out of his pocket and lit it. For a little time he sat inactive, looking out into the night and smoking.
At last he roused himself, and opening the suitcase, took out some papers and magazines, then closed the suitcase again and endeavoured to shove it under the opposite seat—without success. Some obstacle resisted it. He shoved harder with rising impatience, but it still stuck out half-way into the carriage.
‘Why the devil won’t it go in?’ he muttered, and hauling it out completely, he stooped down and peered under the seat . . .
A moment later a cry rang out into the night, and the great train came to an unwilling halt in obedience to the imperative jerking of the communication cord.
‘Mon ami,’ said Poirot, ‘you have, I know, been deeply interested in this mystery of the Plymouth Express. Read this.’
I picked up the note he flicked across the table to me. It was brief and to the point.
Dear Sir,
I shall be obliged if you will call upon me at your earliest convenience.
Yours faithfully,
EBENEZER HALLIDAY
The connection was not clear to my mind, and I looked inquiringly at Poirot.
For answer he took up the newspaper and read aloud: “A sensational discovery was made last night. A young naval officer returning to Plymouth found under the seat of his compartment the body of a woman, stabbed through the heart. The officer at once pulled the communication cord, and the train was brought to a standstill. The woman, who was about thirty years of age, and richly dressed, has not yet been identified.’
‘And later we have this: ‘The woman found dead in the Plymouth Express has been identified as the Honourable Mrs Rupert Carrington.’ You see now, my friend? Or if you do not I will add this—Mrs Rupert Carrington was, before her marriage, Flossie Halliday, daughter of old man Halliday, the steel king of America.’
‘And he has sent for you? Splendid!’
‘I did him a little service in the past—an affair of bearer bonds. And once, when I was in Paris for a royal visit, I had Mademoiselle Flossie pointed out to me. La jolie petite pensionnaire! She had the joli dot too! It caused trouble. She nearly made a bad affair.’
‘How was that?’
‘A certain Count de la Rochefour. Un bien mauvais sujet! A bad hat, as you would say. An adventurer pure and simple, who knew how to appeal to a romantic young girl. Luckily her father got wind of it in time. He took her back to America in haste. I heard of her marriage some years later, but I know nothing of her husband.’
‘H’m,’ I said. ‘The Honourable Rupert Carrington is no beauty, by all accounts. He’d pretty well run through his own money on the turf, and I should imagine old man Halliday’s dollars came along in the nick of time. I should say that for a good-looking, well-mannered, utterly unscrupulous young scoundrel, it would be hard to find his mate!’
‘Ah, the poor little lady! Elle n’est pas bien tombée!’
‘I fancy he made it pretty obvious at once that it was her money, and not she, that had attracted him. I believe they drifted apart almost at once. I have heard rumours lately that there was to be a definite legal separation.’
‘Old man Halliday is no fool. He would tie up her money pretty tight.’
‘I dare say. Anyway, I know as a fact that the Honourable Rupert is
said to be extremely hard up.’
‘Aha! I wonder—’
‘You wonder what?’
‘My good friend, do not jump down my throat like that. You are interested, I see. Suppose you accompany me to see Mr Halliday. There is a taxi-stand at the corner.’
A few minutes sufficed to whirl us to the superb house in Park Lane rented by the American magnate. We were shown into the library, and almost immediately we were joined by a large stout man, with piercing eyes and an aggressive chin.
‘M. Poirot?’ said Mr Halliday. ‘I guess I don’t need to tell you what I want you for. You’ve read the papers, and I’m never one to let the grass grow under my feet. I happened to hear you were in London, and I remembered the good work you did over those bombs. Never forget a name. I’ve the pick of Scotland Yard, but I’ll have my own man as well. Money no object. All the dollars were made for my little girl—and now she’s gone, I’ll spend my last cent to catch the damned scoundrel that did it! See? So it’s up to you to deliver the goods.’
Poirot bowed.
‘I accept, monsieur, all the more willingly that I saw your daughter in Paris several times. And now I will ask you to tell me the circumstances of her journey to Plymouth and any other details that seem to you to bear upon the case.’
‘Well, to begin with,’ responded Halliday, ‘she wasn’t going to Plymouth. She was going to join a house-party at Avonmead Court, the Duchess of Swansea’s place. She left London by the twelve-fourteen from Paddington, arriving at Bristol (where she had to change) at two-fifty. The principal Plymouth expresses, of course, run via Westbury, and do not go near Bristol at all. The twelve-fourteen does a non-stop run to Bristol, afterwards stopping at Weston, Taunton, Exeter and Newton Abbot. My daughter travelled alone in her carriage, which was reserved as far as Bristol, her maid being in a third class carriage in the next coach.’
Poirot nodded, and Mr Halliday went on: ‘The party at Avonmead Court was to be a very gay one, with several balls, and in consequence my daughter had with her nearly all her jewels—amounting in value, perhaps, to about a hundred thousand dollars.’
‘Un moment,’ interrupted Poirot. ‘Who had charge of the jewels? Your daughter, or the maid?’
‘My daughter always took charge of them herself, carrying them in a small blue morocco case.’
‘Continue, monsieur.’
‘At Bristol the maid, Jane Mason, collected her mistress’s dressing-bag and wraps, which were with her, and came to the door of Flossie’s compartment. To her intense surprise, my daughter told her that she was not getting out at Bristol, but was going on farther. She directed Mason to get out the luggage and put it in the cloakroom. She could have tea in the refreshment-room, but she was to wait at the station for her mistress, who would return to Bristol by an up-train in the course of the afternoon. The maid, although very much astonished, did as she was told. She put the luggage in the cloakroom and had some tea. But up-train after up-train came in, and her mistress did not appear. After the arrival of the last train, she left the luggage where it was, and went to a hotel near the station for the night. This morning she read of the tragedy, and returned to town by the first available train.’
‘Is there nothing to account for your daughter’s sudden change of plan?’
‘Well there is this: According to Jane Mason, at Bristol, Flossie was no longer alone in her carriage. There was a man in it who stood looking out of the farther window so that she could not see his face.’
‘The train was a corridor one, of course?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which side was the corridor?’
‘On the platform side. My daughter was standing in the corridor as she talked to Mason.’
‘And there is no doubt in your mind—excuse me!’ He got up, and carefully straightened the inkstand which was a little askew. ‘Je vous demande pardon,’ he continued, re-seating himself. ‘It affects my nerves to see anything crooked. Strange, is it not? I was saying, monsieur, that there is no doubt in your mind as to this probably unexpected meeting being the cause of your daughter’s sudden change of plan?’
‘It seems the only reasonable supposition.’
‘You have no idea as to who the gentleman in question might be?’
The millionaire hesitated for a moment, and then replied: ‘No—I do not know at all.’
‘Now—as to the discovery of the body?’
‘It was discovered by a young naval officer who at once gave the alarm. There was a doctor on the train. He examined the body. She had been first chloroformed, and then stabbed. He gave it as his opinion that she had been dead about four hours, so it must have been done not long after leaving Bristol—probably between there and Weston, possibly between Weston and Taunton.’
‘And the jewel-case?’
‘The jewel-case, M. Poirot, was missing.’
‘One thing more, monsieur. Your daughter’s fortune—to whom does it pass at her death?’
‘Flossie made a will soon after her marriage, leaving everything to her husband.’ He hesitated for a minute, and then went on: ‘I may as well tell you, Monsieur Poirot, that I regard my son-in-law as an unprincipled scoundrel, and that, by my advice, my daughter was on the eve of freeing herself from him by legal means—no difficult matter. I settled her money upon her in such a way that he could not touch it during her lifetime, but although they have lived entirely apart for some years, she had frequently acceded to his demands for money, rather than face an open scandal. However, I was determined to put an end to this. At last Flossie agreed, and my lawyers were instructed to take proceedings.’
‘And where is Monsieur Carrington?’
‘In town. I believe he was away in the country yesterday, but he returned last night.’
Poirot considered a little while. Then he said: ‘I think that is all, monsieur.’
‘You would like to see the maid, Jane Mason?’
‘If you please.’
Halliday rang the bell, and gave a short order to the footman.
A few minutes later Jane Mason entered the room, a respectable, hard-featured woman, as emotionless in the face of tragedy as only a good servant can be.
‘You will permit me to put a few questions? Your mistress, she was quite as usual before starting yesterday morning? Not excited or flurried?’
‘Oh no, sir!’
‘But at Bristol she was quite different?’
‘Yes, sir, regular upset—so nervous she didn’t seem to know what she was saying.’
‘What did she say exactly?’
‘Well, sir, as near as I can remember, she said: ‘Mason, I’ve got to alter my plans. Something has happened—I mean, I’m not getting out here after all. I must go on. Get out the luggage and put it in the cloakroom; then have some tea, and wait for me in the station.’
“Wait for you here, ma’am?’ I asked.
“Yes, yes. Don’t leave the station. I shall return by a later train. I don’t know when. It mayn’t be until quite late.’
“Very well, ma’am,’ I says. It wasn’t my place to ask questions, but I thought it very strange.’
‘It was unlike your mistress, eh?’
‘Very unlike her, sir.’
‘What do you think?’
‘Well, sir, I thought it was to do with the gentleman in the carriage. She didn’t speak to him, but she turned round once or twice as though to ask him if she was doing right.’
‘But you didn’t see the gentleman’s face?’
‘No, sir; he stood with his back to me all the time.’
‘Can you describe him at all?’
‘He had on a light fawn overcoat, and a travelling-cap. He was tall and slender, like and the back of his head was dark.’
‘You didn’t know him?’
‘Oh no, I don’t think so, sir.’
‘It was not your master, Mr Carrington, by any chance?’
Mason looked rather startled.
‘Oh, I don’t think so, sir!�
�
‘But you are not sure?’
‘It was about the master’s build, sir—but I never thought of it being him. We so seldom saw him . . . I couldn’t say it wasn’t him!’
Poirot picked up a pin from the carpet, and frowned at it severely; then he continued: ‘Would it be possible for the man to have entered the train at Bristol before you reached the carriage?’
Mason considered.
‘Yes, sir, I think it would. My compartment was very crowded, and it was some minutes before I could get out—and then there was a very large crowd on the platform, and that delayed me too. But he’d only have had a minute or two to speak to the mistress, that way. I took it for granted that he’d come along the corridor.’
‘That is more probable, certainly.’
He paused, still frowning.
‘You know how the mistress was dressed, sir?’
‘The papers give a few details, but I would like you to confirm them.’
‘She was wearing a white fox fur toque, sir, with a white spotted veil, and a blue frieze coat and skirt—the shade of blue they call electric.’
‘H’m, rather striking.’
‘Yes,’ remarked Mr Halliday. ‘Inspector Japp is in hopes that that may help us to fix the spot where the crime took place. Anyone who saw her would remember her.’
‘Précisément!—Thank you, mademoiselle.’
The maid left the room.
‘Well!’ Poirot got up briskly. ‘That is all I can do here—except, monsieur, that I would ask you to tell me everything, but everything!’
‘I have done so.’
‘You are sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Then there is nothing more to be said. I must decline the case.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you have not been frank with me.’
‘I assure you—’
‘No, you are keeping something back.’
There was a moment’s pause, and then Halliday drew a paper from his pocket and handed it to my friend.
‘I guess that’s what you’re after, Monsieur Poirot—though how you know about it fairly gets my goat!’
Poirot smiled, and unfolded the paper. It was a letter written in thin sloping handwriting. Poirot read it aloud.
Midwinter Murder Page 15