The sailor’s face flushed.
‘I’ve always wanted to marry her,’ he said huskily.
‘Precisely. Eh bien—Mademoiselle Nick was engaged to another man. A reason, perhaps, for killing the other man. But that is unnecessary—he dies the death of a hero.’
‘So it is true—that Nick was engaged to Michael Seton? There’s a rumour to that effect all over the town this morning.’
‘Yes—it is interesting how soon news spreads. You never suspected it before?’
‘I knew Nick was engaged to someone—she told me so two days ago. But she didn’t give me a clue as to whom it was.’
‘It was Michael Seton. Entre nous, he has left her, I fancy, a very pretty fortune. Ah! assuredly, it is not a moment for killing Mademoiselle Nick—from your point of view. She weeps for her lover now, but the heart consoles itself. She is young. And I think, Monsieur, that she is very fond of you…’
Challenger was silent for a moment or two.
‘If it should be…’ he murmured.
There was a tap on the door.
It was Frederica Rice.
‘I’ve been looking for you,’ she said to Challenger. ‘They told me you were here. I wanted to know if you’d got my wrist-watch back yet.’
‘Oh, yes, I called for it this morning.’
He took it from his pocket and handed it to her. It was a watch of rather an unusual shape—round, like a globe, set on a strap of plain black moiré. I remembered that I had seen one much the same shape on Nick Buckley’s wrist.
‘I hope it will keep better time now.’
‘It’s rather a bore. Something is always going wrong with it.’
‘It is for beauty, Madame, and not for utility,’ said Poirot.
‘Can’t one have both?’ She looked from one to the other of us. ‘Am I interrupting a conference?’
‘No, indeed, Madame. We were talking gossip—not the crime. We were saying how quickly news spreads—how that everyone now knows that Mademoiselle Nick was engaged to that brave airman who perished.’
‘So Nick was engaged to Michael Seton!’ exclaimed Frederica.
‘It surprises you, Madame?’
‘It does a little. I don’t know why. Certainly I did think he was very taken with her last autumn. They went about a lot together. And then, after Christmas, they both seemed to cool off. As far as I know, they hardly met.’
‘The secret, they kept it very well.’
‘That was because of old Sir Matthew, I suppose. He was really a little off his head, I think.’
‘You had no suspicion, Madame? And yet Mademoiselle was such an intimate friend.’
‘Nick’s a close little devil when she likes,’ murmured Frederica. ‘But I understand now why she’s been so nervy lately. Oh! and I ought to have guessed from something she said only the other day.’
‘Your little friend is very attractive, Madame.’
‘Old Jim Lazarus used to think so at one time,’ said Challenger, with his loud, rather tactless laugh.
‘Oh! Jim—’ She shrugged her shoulders, but I thought she was annoyed.
She turned to Poirot.
‘Tell me, M. Poirot, did you—’
She stopped. Her tall figure swayed and her face turned whiter still. Her eyes were fixed on the centre of the table.
‘You are not well, Madame.’
I pushed forward a chair, helped her to sink into it. She shook her head, murmured, ‘I’m all right,’ and leaned forward, her face between her hands. We watched her awkwardly.
She sat up in a minute.
‘How absurd! George, darling, don’t look so worried. Let’s talk about murders. Something exciting. I want to know if M. Poirot is on the track.’
‘It is early to say, Madame,’ said Poirot, noncommittally.
‘But you have ideas—yes?’
‘Perhaps. But I need a great deal more evidence.’
‘Oh!’ She sounded uncertain.
Suddenly she rose.
‘I’ve got a head. I think I’ll go and lie down. Perhaps tomorrow they’ll let me see Nick.’
She left the room abruptly. Challenger frowned.
‘You never know what that woman’s up to. Nick may have been fond of her, but I don’t believe she was fond of Nick. But there, you can’t tell with women. It’s darling—darling—darling—all the time—and “damn you” would probably express it much better. Are you going out, M. Poirot?’ For Poirot had risen and was carefully brushing a speck off his hat.
‘Yes, I am going into the town.’
‘I’ve got nothing to do. May I come with you.’
‘Assuredly. It will be a pleasure.’
We left the room. Poirot, with an apology, went back.
‘My stick,’ he explained, as he rejoined us.
Challenger winced slightly. And indeed the stick, with its embossed gold band, was somewhat ornate.
Poirot’s first visit was to a florist.
‘I must send some flowers to Mademoiselle Nick,’ he explained.
He proved difficult to suit.
In the end he chose an ornate gold basket to be filled with orange carnations. The whole to be tied up with a large blue bow.
The shopwoman gave him a card and he wrote on it with a flourish: ‘With the Compliments of Hercule Poirot.’
‘I sent her some flowers this morning,’ said Challenger. ‘I might send her some fruit.’
‘Inutile!’ said Poirot.
‘What?’
‘I said it was useless. The eatable—it is not permitted.’
‘Who says so?’
‘I say so. I have made the rule. It has already been impressed on Mademoiselle Nick. She understands.’
‘Good Lord!’ said Challenger.
He looked thoroughly startled. He stared at Poirot curiously.
‘So that’s it, is it?’ he said. ‘You’re still—afraid.’
Chapter 16
Interview with Mr Whitfield
The inquest was a dry proceeding—mere bare bones. There was evidence of identification, then I gave evidence of the finding of the body. Medical evidence followed.
The inquest was adjourned for a week.
The St Loo murder had jumped into prominence in the daily press. It had, in fact, succeeded ‘Seton Still Missing. Unknown Fate of Missing Airman.’
Now that Seton was dead and due tribute had been paid to his memory, a new sensation was due. The St Loo Mystery was a godsend to papers at their wits’ end for news in the month of August.
After the inquest, having successfully dodged reporters, I met Poirot, and we had an interview with the Rev. Giles Buckley and his wife.
Maggie’s father and mother were a charming pair, completely unworldly and unsophisticated.
Mrs Buckley was a woman of character, tall and fair and showing very plainly her northern ancestry. Her husband was a small man, grey-haired, with a diffident appealing manner.
Poor souls, they were completely dazed by the misfortune that had overtaken them and robbed them of a well-beloved daughter. ‘Our Maggie’, as they called her.
‘I can scarcely realize it even now,’ said Mr Buckley. ‘Such a dear child, M. Poirot. So quiet and unselfish—always thinking of others. Who could wish to harm her?’
‘I could hardly understand the telegram,’ said Mrs Buckley. ‘Why it was only the morning before that we had seen her off.’
‘In the midst of life we are in death,’ murmured her husband.
‘Colonel Weston has been very kind,’ said Mrs Buckley. ‘He assures us that everything is being done to find the man who did this thing. He must be a madman. No other explanation is possible.’
‘Madame, I cannot tell you how I sympathize with you in your loss—and how I admire your bravery!’
‘Breaking down would not bring Maggie back to us,’ said Mrs Buckley, sadly.
‘My wife is wonderful,’ said the clergyman. ‘Her faith and courage are greater than mine. It is al
l so—so bewildering, M. Poirot.’
‘I know—I know, Monsieur.’
‘You are a great detective, M. Poirot?’ said Mrs Buckley.
‘It has been said, Madame.’
‘Oh! I know. Even in our remote country village we have heard of you. You are going to find out the truth, M. Poirot?’
‘I shall not rest until I do, Madame.’
‘It will be revealed to you, M. Poirot,’ quavered the clergyman. ‘Evil cannot go unpunished.’
‘Evil never goes unpunished, Monsieur. But the punishment is sometimes secret.’
‘What do you mean by that, M. Poirot?’
Poirot only shook his head.
‘Poor little Nick,’ said Mrs Buckley. ‘I am really sorriest of all for her. I had a most pathetic letter. She says she feels she asked Maggie down here to her death.’
‘That is morbid,’ said Mr Buckley.
‘Yes, but I know how she feels. I wish they would let me see her. It seems so extraordinary not to let her own family visit her.’
‘Doctors and nurses are very strict,’ said Poirot, evasively. ‘They make the rules—so—and nothing will change them. And doubtless they fear for her the emotion—the natural emotion—she would experience on seeing you.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Mrs Buckley, doubtfully. ‘But I don’t hold with nursing homes. Nick would do much better if they let her come back with me—right away from this place.’
‘It is possible—but I fear they will not agree. It is long since you have seen Mademoiselle Buckley?’
‘I haven’t seen her since last autumn. She was at Scarborough. Maggie went over and spent the day with her and then she came back and spent a night with us. She’s a pretty creature—though I can’t say I like her friends. And the life she leads—well, it’s hardly her fault, poor child. She’s had no upbringing of any kind.’
‘It is a strange house—End House,’ said Poirot thoughtfully.
‘I don’t like it,’ said Mrs Buckley. ‘I never have. There’s something all wrong about that house. I disliked old Sir Nicholas intensely. He made me shiver.’
‘Not a good man, I’m afraid,’ said her husband. ‘But he had a curious charm.’
‘I never felt it,’ said Mrs Buckley. ‘There’s an evil feeling about that house. I wish we’d never let our Maggie go there.’
‘Ah! wishing,’ said Mr Buckley, and shook his head.
‘Well,’ said Poirot. ‘I must not intrude upon you any longer. I only wished to proffer to you my deep sympathy.’
‘You have been very kind, M. Poirot. And we are indeed grateful for all you are doing.’
‘You return to Yorkshire—when?’
‘Tomorrow. A sad journey. Goodbye, M. Poirot, and thank you again.’
‘Very simple delightful people,’ I said, after we had left.
Poirot nodded.
‘It makes the heart ache, does it not, mon ami? A tragedy so useless—so purposeless. Cette jeune fille—Ah! but I reproach myself bitterly. I, Hercule Poirot, was on the spot and I did not prevent the crime!’
‘Nobody could have prevented it.’
‘You speak without reflection, Hastings. No ordinary person could have prevented it—but of what good is it to be Hercule Poirot with grey cells of a finer quality than other people’s, if you do not manage to do what ordinary people cannot?’
‘Well, of course,’ I said. ‘If you are going to put it like that—’
‘Yes, indeed. I am abased, downhearted—completely abased.’
I reflected that Poirot’s abasement was strangely like other people’s conceit, but I prudently forebore from making any remark.
‘And now,’ he said, ‘en avant. To London.’
‘London?’
‘Mais oui. We shall catch the two o’clock train very comfortably. All is peaceful here. Mademoiselle is safe in the nursing home. No one can harm her. The watch-dogs, therefore, can take leave of absence. There are one or two little pieces of information that I require.’
Our first proceeding on arriving in London was to call upon the late Captain Seton’s solicitors, Messrs Whitfield, Pargiter & Whitfield.
Poirot had arranged for an appointment beforehand, and although it was past six o’clock, we were soon closeted with Mr Whitfield, the head of the firm.
He was a very urbane and impressive person. He had in front of him a letter from the Chief Constable and another from some high official at Scotland Yard.
‘This is all very irregular and unusual, M.—ah—Poirot,’ he said, as he polished his eyeglasses.
‘Quite so, M. Whitfield. But then murder is also irregular—and, I am glad to say, sufficiently unusual.’
‘True. True. But rather far-fetched—to make a connection between this murder and my late client’s bequest—eh?’
‘I think not.’
‘Ah! you think not. Well—under the circumstances—and I must admit that Sir Henry puts it very strongly in his letter—I shall be—er—happy to do anything that is in my power.’
‘You acted as legal adviser to the late Captain Seton?’
‘To all the Seton family, my dear sir. We have done so—our firm have done so, I mean—for the last hundred years.’
‘Parfaitement. The late Sir Matthew Seton made a will?’
‘We made it for him.’
‘And he left his fortune—how?’
‘There were several bequests—one to the Natural History Museum—but the bulk of his large—his, I may say, very large fortune—he left to Captain Michael Seton absolutely. He had no other near relations.’
‘A very large fortune, you say?’
‘The late Sir Matthew was the second richest man in England,’ replied Mr Whitfield, composedly.
‘He had somewhat peculiar views, had he not?’ Mr Whitfield looked at him severely.
‘A millionaire, M. Poirot, is allowed to be eccentric. It is almost expected of him.’
Poirot received his correction meekly and asked another question.
‘His death was unexpected, I understand?’
‘Most unexpected. Sir Matthew enjoyed remarkably good health. He had an internal growth, however, which no one had suspected. It reached a vital tissue and an immediate operation was necessary. The operation was, as always on these occasions, completely successful. But Sir Matthew died.’
‘And his fortune passed to Captain Seton.’
‘That is so.’
‘Captain Seton had, I understand, made a will before leaving England?’
‘If you can call it a will—yes,’ said Mr Whitfield, with strong distaste.
‘It is legal?’
‘It is perfectly legal. The intention of the testator is plain and it is properly witnessed. Oh, yes, it is legal.’
‘But you do not approve of it?’
‘My dear sir, what are we for?’
I had often wondered. Having once had occasion to make a perfectly simple will myself. I had been appalled at the length and verbiage that resulted from my solicitor’s office.
‘The truth of the matter was,’ continued Mr Whitfield, ‘that at the time Captain Seton had little or nothing to leave. He was dependent on the allowance he received from his uncle. He felt, I suppose, that anything would do.’
And had thought correctly, I whispered to myself.
‘And the terms of this will?’ asked Poirot.
‘He leaves everything of which he dies possessed to his affianced wife, Miss Magdala Buckley absolutely. He names me as his executor.
‘Then Miss Buckley inherits?’
‘Certainly Miss Buckley inherits.’
‘And if Miss Buckley had happened to die last Monday?’
‘Captain Seton having predeceased her, the money would go to whomever she had named in her will as residuary legatee—or failing a will to her next of kin.’
‘I may say,’ added Mr Whitfield, with an air of enjoyment, ‘that death duties would have been enormous. Enormous! Three deaths, remembe
r, in rapid succession.’ He shook his head. ‘Enormous!’
‘But there would have been something left?’ murmured Poirot, meekly.
‘My dear sir, as I told you, Sir Matthew was the second richest man in England.’
Poirot rose.
‘Thank you, Mr Whitfield, very much for the information that you have given me.’
‘Not at all. Not at all. I may say that I shall be in communication with Miss Buckley—indeed, I believe the letter has already gone. I shall be happy to be of any service I can to her.’
‘She is a young lady,’ said Poirot, ‘who could do with some sound legal advice.’
‘There will be fortune hunters, I am afraid,’ said Mr Whitfield, shaking his head.
‘It seems indicated,’ agreed Poirot. ‘Good day, Monsieur.’
‘Goodbye, M. Poirot. Glad to have been of service to you. Your name is—ah!—familiar to me.’
He said this kindly—with an air of one making a valuable admission.
‘It is all exactly as you thought, Poirot,’ I said, when we were outside.
‘Mon ami, it was bound to be. It could not be any other way. We will go now to the Cheshire Cheese where Japp meets us for an early dinner.’
We found Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard awaiting us at the chosen rendezvous. He greeted Poirot with every sign of warmth.
‘Years since I’ve seen you, Moosior Poirot. Thought you were growing vegetable marrows in the country.’
‘I tried, Japp, I tried. But even when you grow vegetable marrows you cannot get away from murder.’
He sighed. I knew of what he was thinking—that strange affair at Fernley Park. How I regretted that I had been far away at that time.
‘And Captain Hastings too,’ said Japp. ‘How are you, sir?’
‘Very fit, thanks,’ I said.
‘And now there are more murders?’ continued Japp, facetiously.
‘As you say—more murders.’
‘Well, you mustn’t be depressed, old cock,’ said Japp. ‘Even if you can’t see your way clear—well—you can’t go about at your time of life and expect to have the success you used to do. We all of us get stale as the years go by. Got to give the young ’uns a chance, you know.’
‘And yet the old dog is the one who knows the tricks,’ murmured Poirot. ‘He is cunning. He does not leave the scent.’
Peril at End House: A Hercule Poirot Mystery Page 16