‘I put that,’ said Nick, with some pride. ‘I remember putting that, and I said pay all debts and testamentary expenses. I remembered that out of a book I’d read.’
‘You did not use a will form, then?’
‘No, there wasn’t time for that. I was just going off to the nursing home, and besides Mr Croft said will forms were very dangerous. It was better to make a simple will and not try to be too legal.’
‘M. Croft? He was there?’
‘Yes. It was he who asked me if I’d made one. I’d never have thought of it myself. He said if you died in—in—’
‘Intestate,’ I said.
‘Yes, that’s it. He said if you died intestate, the Crown pinched a lot and that would be a pity.’
‘Very helpful, the excellent M. Croft!’
‘Oh, he was,’ said Nick warmly. ‘He got Ellen in and her husband to witness it. Oh! of course! What an idiot I’ve been!’
We looked at her inquiringly.
‘I’ve been a perfect idiot. Letting you hunt round End House. Charles has got it, of course! My cousin, Charles Vyse.’
‘Ah! so that is the explanation.’
‘Mr Croft said a lawyer was the proper person to have charge of it.’
‘Très correct, ce bon M. Croft.’
‘Men are useful sometimes,’ said Nick. ‘A lawyer or the Bank—that’s what he said. And I said Charles would be best. So we stuck it in an envelope and sent it off to him straight away.’
She lay back on her pillows with a sigh.
‘I’m sorry I’ve been so frightfully stupid. But it is all right now. Charles has got it, and if you really want to see it, of course he’ll show it to you.’
‘Not without an authorization from you,’ said Poirot, smiling.
‘How silly.’
‘No, Mademoiselle. Merely prudent.’
‘Well, I think it’s silly.’ She took a piece of paper from a little stack that lay beside her bed. ‘What shall I say? Let the dog see the rabbit?’
‘Comment?’
I laughed at his startled face.
He dictated a form of words, and Nick wrote obediently.
‘Thank you, Mademoiselle,’ said Poirot, as he took it.
‘I’m sorry to have given you such a lot of trouble. But I really had forgotten. You know how one forgets things almost at once?’
‘With order and method in the mind one does not forget.’
‘I’ll have to have a course of some kind,’ said Nick. ‘You’re giving me quite an inferiority complex.’
‘That is impossible. Au revoir, Mademoiselle.’ He looked round the room. ‘Your flowers are lovely.’
‘Aren’t they? The carnations are from Freddie and the roses from George and the lilies from Jim Lazarus. And look here—’
She pulled the wrapping from a large basket of hothouse grapes by her side.
Poirot’s face changed. He stepped forward sharply.
‘You have not eaten any of them?’
‘No. Not yet.’
‘Do not do so. You must eat nothing, Mademoiselle, that comes in from outside. Nothing. You comprehend?’
‘Oh!’
She stared at him, the colour ebbing slowly from her face.
‘I see. You think—you think it isn’t over yet. You think they’re still trying?’ she whispered.
He took her hand.
‘Do not think of it. You are safe here. But remember—nothing that comes in from outside.’
I was conscious of that white frightened face on the pillow as we left the room.
Poirot looked at his watch.
‘Bon. We have just time to catch M. Vyse at his office before he leaves it for lunch.’
On arrival we were shown into Charles Vyse’s office after the briefest of delays.
The young lawyer rose to greet us. He was as formal and unemotional as ever.
‘Good morning, M. Poirot. What can I do for you?’
Without more ado Poirot presented the letter Nick had written. He took it and read it, then gazed over the top of it in a perplexed manner.
‘I beg your pardon. I really am at a loss to understand?’
‘Has not Mademoiselle Buckley made her meaning clear?’
‘In this letter,’ he tapped it with his finger-nail, ‘she asks me to hand over to you a will made by her and entrusted to my keeping in February last.’
‘Yes, Monsieur.’
‘But, my dear sir, no will has been entrusted to my keeping!’
‘Comment?’
‘As far as I know my cousin never made a will. I certainly never made one for her.’
‘She wrote this herself, I understand, on a sheet of notepaper and posted it to you.’
The lawyer shook his head.
‘In that case all I can say is that I never received it.’
‘Really, M. Vyse—’
‘I never received anything of the kind, M. Poirot.’
There was a pause, then Poirot rose to his feet.
‘In that case, M. Vyse, there is nothing more to be said. There must be some mistake.’
‘Certainly there must be some mistake.’
He rose also.
‘Good day, M. Vyse.’
‘Good day, M. Poirot.’
‘And that is that,’ I remarked, when we were out in the street once more.
‘Précisément.’
‘Is he lying, do you think?’
‘Impossible to tell. He has the good poker face, M. Vyse, besides looking as though he had swallowed one. One thing is clear, he will not budge from the position he has taken up. He never received the will. That is his point.’
‘Surely Nick will have a written acknowledgment of its receipt.’
‘Cette petite, she would never bother her head about a thing like that. She despatched it. It was off her mind. Voilà. Besides, on that very day, she went into a nursing home to have her appendix out. She had her emotions, in all probability.’
‘Well, what do we do now?’
‘Parbleu, we go and see M. Croft. Let us see what he can remember about this business. It seems to have been very much his doing.’
‘He didn’t profit by it in any way,’ I said, thoughtfully.
‘No. No, I cannot see anything in it from his point of view. He is probably merely the busybody—the man who likes to arrange his neighbour’s affairs.’
Such an attitude was indeed typical of Mr Croft, I felt. He was the kindly know all who causes so much exasperation in this world of ours.
We found him busy in his shirt sleeves over a steaming pot in the kitchen. A most savoury smell pervaded the little lodge.
He relinquished his cookery with enthusiasm, being clearly eager to talk about the murder.
‘Half a jiffy,’ he said. ‘Walk upstairs. Mother will want to be in on this. She’d never forgive us for talking down here. Cooee—Milly. Two friends coming up.’
Mrs Croft greeted us warmly and was eager for news of Nick. I liked her much better than her husband.
‘That poor dear girl,’ she said. ‘In a nursing home, you say? Had a complete breakdown, I shouldn’t wonder. A dreadful business, M. Poirot—perfectly dreadful. An innocent girl like that shot dead. It doesn’t bear thinking about—it doesn’t indeed. And no lawless wild part of the world either. Right here in the heart of the old country. Kept me awake all night, it did.’
‘It’s made me nervous about going out and leaving you, old lady,’ said her husband, who had put on his coat and joined us. ‘I don’t like to think of your having been left all alone here yesterday evening. It gives me the shivers.’
‘You’re not going to leave me again, I can tell you,’ said Mrs Croft. ‘Not after dark, anyway. And I’m thinking I’d like to leave this part of the world as soon as possible. I shall never feel the same about it. I shouldn’t think poor Nicky Buckley could ever bear to sleep in that house again.’
It was a little difficult to reach the object of our visit. Both Mr
and Mrs Croft talked so much and were so anxious to know all about everything. Were the poor dead girl’s relations coming down? When was the funeral? Was there to be an inquest? What did the police think? Had they any clue yet? Was it true that a man had been arrested in Plymouth?
Then, having answered all these questions, they were insistent on offering us lunch. Only Poirot’s mendacious statement that we were obliged to hurry back to lunch with the Chief Constable saved us.
At last a momentary pause occurred and Poirot got in the question he had been waiting to ask.
‘Why, of course,’ said Mr Croft. He pulled the blind cord up and down twice, frowning at it abstractedly. ‘I remember all about it. Must have been when we first came here. I remember. Appendicitis—that’s what the doctor said—’
‘And probably not appendicitis at all,’ interrupted Mrs Croft. ‘These doctors—they always like cutting you up if they can. It wasn’t the kind you have to operate on anyhow. She’d had indigestion and one thing and another, and they’d X-rayed her and they said out it had better come. And there she was, poor little soul, just going off to one of those nasty Homes.’
‘I just asked her,’ said Mr Croft, ‘if she’d made a will. More as a joke than anything else.’
‘Yes?’
‘And she wrote it out then and there. Talked about getting a will form at the post office—but I advised her not to. Lot of trouble they cause sometimes, so a man told me. Anyway, her cousin is a lawyer. He could draw her out a proper one afterwards if everything was all right—as, of course, I knew it would be. This was just a precautionary matter.’
‘Who witnessed it?’
‘Oh! Ellen, the maid, and her husband.’
‘And afterwards? What was done with it?’
‘Oh! we posted it to Vyse. The lawyer, you know.’
‘You know that it was posted?’
‘My dear M. Poirot, I posted it myself. Right in this box here by the gate.’
‘So if M. Vyse says he never got it—’
Croft stared.
‘Do you mean that it got lost in the post? Oh! but surely that’s impossible.’
‘Anyway, you are certain that you posted it.’
‘Certain sure,’ said Mr Croft, heartily. ‘I’ll take my oath on that any day.’
‘Ah! well,’ said Poirot. ‘Fortunately it does not matter. Mademoiselle is not likely to die just yet awhile.’
‘Et voilà!’ said Poirot, when we were out of earshot and walking down to the hotel. ‘Who is lying? M. Croft? Or M. Charles Vyse? I must confess I see no reason why M. Croft should be lying. To suppress the will would be of no advantage to him—especially when he had been instrumental in getting it made. No, his statement seems clear enough and tallies exactly with what was told us by Mademoiselle Nick. But all the same—’
‘Yes?’
‘All the same, I am glad that M. Croft was doing the cooking when we arrived. He left an excellent impression of a greasy thumb and first finger on a corner of the newspaper that covered the kitchen table. I managed to tear it off unseen by him. We will send it to our good friend Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard. There is just a chance that he might know something about it.’
‘Yes?’
‘You know, Hastings, I cannot help feeling that our genial M. Croft is a little too good to be genuine.’
‘And now,’ he added. ‘Le déjeuner. I faint with hunger.’
Chapter 15
Strange Behaviour of Frederica
Poirot’s inventions about the Chief Constable were proved not to have been so mendacious after all. Colonel Weston called upon us soon after lunch.
He was a tall man of military carriage with considerable good-looks. He had a suitable reverence for Poirot’s achievements, with which he seemed to be well acquainted.
‘Marvellous piece of luck for us having you down here, M. Poirot,’ he said again and again.
His one fear was that he should be compelled to call in the assistance of Scotland Yard. He was anxious to solve the mystery and catch the criminal without their aid. Hence his delight at Poirot’s presence in the neighbourhood.
Poirot, so far as I could judge, took him completely into his confidence.
‘Deuced odd business,’ said the Colonel. ‘Never heard of anything like it. Well, the girl ought to be safe enough in a nursing home. Still, you can’t keep her there for ever!’
‘That, M. le Colonel, is just the difficulty. There is only one way of dealing with it.’
‘And that is?’
‘We must lay our hands on the person responsible.’
‘If what you suspect is true, that isn’t going to be so easy.’
‘Ah! je le sais bien.’
‘Evidence! Getting evidence is going to be the devil.’
He frowned abstractedly.
‘Always difficult, these cases, where there’s no routine work. If we could get hold of the pistol—’
‘In all probability it is at the bottom of the sea. That is, if the murderer had any sense.’
‘Ah!’ said Colonel Weston. ‘But often they haven’t. You’d be surprised at the fool things people do. I’m not talking of murders—we don’t have many murders down in these parts, I’m glad to say—but in ordinary police court cases. The sheer damn foolishness of these people would surprise you.’
‘They are of a different mentality, though,’
‘Yes—perhaps. If Vyse is the chap, well, we’ll have our work cut out. He’s a cautious man and a sound lawyer. He’ll not give himself away. The woman—well, there would be more hope there. Ten to one she’ll try again. Women have no patience.’
He rose.
‘Inquest tomorrow morning. Coroner will work in with us and give away as little as possible. We want to keep things dark at present.’
He was turning towards the door when he suddenly came back.
‘Upon my soul, I’d forgotten the very thing that will interest you most, and that I want your opinion about.’
Sitting down again, he drew from his pocket a torn scrap of paper with writing on it and handed it to Poirot.
‘My police found this when they were searching the grounds. Nor far from where you were all watching the fireworks. It’s the only suggestive thing they did find.’
Poirot smoothed it out. The writing was large and straggling.
‘…must have money at once. If not you…what will happen. I’m warning you.’
Poirot frowned. He read and re-read it.
‘This is interesting,’ he said. ‘I may keep it?’
‘Certainly. There are no finger-prints on it. I’ll be glad if you can make anything of it.’
Colonel Weston got to his feet again.
‘I really must be off. Inquest tomorrow, as I said. By the way, you are not being called as witness—only Captain Hastings. Don’t want the newspaper people to get wise to your being on the job.’
‘I comprehend. What of the relations of the poor young lady?’
‘The father and mother are coming from Yorkshire today. They’ll arrive about half-past five. Poor souls. I’m heartily sorry for them. They are taking the body back with them the following day.’
He shook his head.
‘Unpleasant business. I’m not enjoying this, M. Poirot.’
‘Who could, M. le Colonel? It is, as you say, an unpleasant business.’
When he had gone, Poirot examined the scrap of paper once more.
‘An important clue?’ I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders.
‘How can one tell? There is a hint of blackmail about it! Someone of our party that night was being pressed for money in a very unpleasant way. Of course, it is possible that it was one of the strangers.’
He looked at the writing through a little magnifying glass.
‘Does this writing look at all familiar to you, Hastings?’
‘It reminds me a little of something—Ah! I have it—that note of Mrs Rice’s.’
‘Yes,
’ said Poirot, slowly. ‘There are resemblances. Decidedly there are resemblances. It is curious. Yet I do not think that this is the writing of Madame Rice. Come in,’ he said, as a knock came at the door.
It was Commander Challenger.
‘Just looked in,’ he explained. ‘Wanted to know if you were any further forward.’
‘Parbleu,’ said Poirot. ‘At this moment I am feeling that I am considerably further back. I seem to progress en reculant.’
‘That’s bad. But I don’t really believe it, M. Poirot. I’ve been hearing all about you and what a wonderful chap you are. Never had a failure, they say.’
‘That is not true,’ said Poirot. ‘I had a bad failure in Belgium in 1893. You recollect, Hastings? I recounted it to you. The affair of the box of chocolates.’
‘I remember,’ I said.
And I smiled, for at the time that Poirot told me that tale, he had instructed me to say ‘chocolate box’ to him if ever I should fancy he was growing conceited! He was then bitterly offended when I used the magical words only a minute and a quarter later.
‘Oh, well,’ said Challenger, ‘that is such a long time ago it hardly counts. You are going to get to the bottom of this, aren’t you?’
‘That I swear. On the word of Hercule Poirot. I am the dog who stays on the scent and does not leave it.’
‘Good. Got any ideas?’
‘I have suspicions of two people.’
‘I suppose I mustn’t ask you who they are?’
‘I should not tell you! You see, I might possibly be in error.’
‘My alibi is satisfactory, I trust,’ said Challenger, with a faint twinkle.
Poirot smiled indulgently at the bronzed face in front of him. ‘You left Devonport at a few minutes past 8.30. You arrived here at five minutes past ten—twenty minutes after the crime had been committed. But the distance from Devonport is only just over thirty miles, and you have often done it in an hour since the road is good. So, you see, your alibi is not good at all!’
‘Well, I’m—’
‘You comprehend, I inquire into everything. Your alibi, as I say, is not good. But there are other things beside alibis. You would like, I think, to marry Mademoiselle Nick?’
Peril at End House: A Hercule Poirot Mystery Page 15