Hercule Poirot replied, "I do not know. But I can at least come down
and see for myself."
It was Hugh Chandler's magnificent physique that impressed Hercule
Poirot more than anything else. Tall, magnificently proportioned, with
a terrific chest and shoulders, and a tawny head of hair. There was a
tremendous air of strength and virility about him.
On their arrival at Diana's house, she had at once rung up Admiral
Chandler, and they had forthwith gone over to Lyde Manor where they had
found tea waiting on the long terrace. And with the tea, three men.
There was Admiral Chandler, white-haired, looking older than his years,
his shoulders bowed as though by an over-heavy but'den, and his eyes
dark and ))rooding. A contrast to him was his friend Colonel Frobisher,
a dried-up, tough little man with reddish hair turning gray at the
temples. A restless, irascible, snappy little iuan, rather like a
terner-but the possessor of a pair of extremely shrewd eyes. He had a
lial)it of drawing down his brows over his eyes and lowering his head,
thrusting it forward, while those same shrewd little eyes studied you
piercingly. The third man was Hugh.
"Fine specimen, eh?" said Colonel Frobisher.
He spoke in a low voice, having noted Poirot's close scrutiny of the
young man.
Hercule Poirot nodded Is head. J-le and Frobisher were sitting close
together. The oilier tl--ee had their chairs on the far side of the tea
table and were chatting together in an animated but slightly artificial
manner.
Poirot murmured, "Yes, he is niagnificent-magnificent.
He is the young Bull-yes, one might say the Bull dedicated to
Poseidon.... A perfect specimen of healthy manhood."
"Looks fit enough, doesn't he?"
Frobisher sighed. His shrewd little eyes stole sideways, considering
Hercule I'loirot.
Presently he said, "I know who you are, you know."
"Ah, that, it is no secret!"
Poirot waved a royal hand. He was not incognito, the gesture seemed to
say. He was traveling as Himself.
After a minute or two, Frobisher asked, "Did the girl get you down-over
this business?"
"The business-?"
"The business of young Hugh.... Yes, I see you know all about it. But
I can't quite see why she wetit to you.
Sliouldn't have thotight this sort of thing was in your line
-nieantersay, it's for-c a nieclical show."
"All kinds of tl,,s are in my line. You would be surprised."
"Imean I can't see quite what she expected you could do.
"Miss Maberly," said Poirot, "is a fighter."
Colonel Frobisher nodded a warm assent.
"Yes, she's a fighter all right. She's a fine kid. She won't give up.
All the same, you know, there are some things that you can't fight."
His face looked suddenly old and tired.
Poirot dropped Is voice still lower. He murmured discreetly, "There
is-insanity, I understand, in the family?"
Frobisher nodded.
"Only crops up now and again," he murmured. "Skips a generation or two.
Hugh's gran(Ilather was the last."
Poirot threw a qnick glance in the direction of the other three. Diana
was fiolding the conversation well, lauglng and bantering Hugh. You
would have said that the three of them had not a care in the world.
"What form did the madness take?" Poirot asked softly.
"-I'Iie old I)oy becztme pretty violent in the end. He was perfectly
all right up to thirty-normal as could be. Then
be began to go a bit queer. It was some time before people noticed it.
Then a lot of runiors began going around. People started talking
properly. 'Things happened that were hushed up. But-well"-he raised
his shoulders-"ended up as mad as a hatter, poor devill Homicidall Had
to be certified."
He paused for a moment and then added: "He lived to be quite an old man,
I believe.... That's what Hugh is afraid of, of course. That's why he
doesn't want to see a doctor. He's afraid of being shut up and living
shut up for years. Can't say I blame him. I'd feel the same."
"And Admiral Chandler, how does he feel?"
"It's broken him up completely," Frobisher spoke shortly.
"He is very fond of his son?"
"Wrapped up in the boy. You see, his wife was drowned in a boating
accident when the boy was only ten years old.
Since then he's lived for nothing but the child."
"Was he very devoted to his wife?"
"Worshiped her. Everybody worshipqd her. She wasshe was one of the
loveliest women I've ever known." He paused a moment and then said
jerkily, "Care to see her portrait?"
"I should like to see it very much."
Frobisher pushed back his chair and rose.
Aloud he said, "Going to show M. Poirot one or two things, Charles.
He's a bit of a connoisseur."
The Admiral raised a vague hand. Frobisher tramped along the terrace
and Poirot followed him. For a moment Di,-.na's face dropped its mask
of gaiety and looked an agonized question. Hugh, too, raised his head,
and looked steadily at the small man with the big black mustache.
Poirot followed Frobisher into the house. It was so dim at first
coining in out of the sunlight that he could hardly distinguish one
article from another. But he realized that the house was full of old
and beautiful things.
Colonel Frobisher led the way to the picture gallery. On the paneled
walls hung portraits of dead and gone Chandlers. Faces stern an(i gay,
itien in court dress or in naval ufoi-ni, women in satin and bearls.
Finally Frobisher stopped under a portrait at the end of the gallery.
"Painted by Orpen," he said gruffly.
They stood looking up at a tall woman, her hand on a greyhound's collar.
A woman with auburn hair and an expression of radiant vitality.
"Boy's the spitting image of her," said Frobisher. "Don't you think
so?"
"In some things, yes."
"He hasn't got lier delicacy-her femininity, of course.
He's a masculine edition-but in all the essential things-" He broke off.
"Pity lie inherited from the Chandlers the one thing he could well have
done without."
"They were silent. There was melancholy in the air all around them-as
though dead and gone (,handlers sighed for the taitit that lay in their
blood and which, remorselessly, from time to time they passed on.
Her(:ule Poirot turned his head to look at his companion. George
Frobisher was still gazing up at the beautiful wonian on the wall above
him.
Poirot said softly, "You knew her well. . .
Frobisher spoke jerkily.
"We were boy and girl together. I went off as a suhaltern to India when
she was sixteen. When I got back-she was married to Charles Chandler."
"You knew him well also?"
"Charles is one of my oldest friends. He's my best friend -always has
been."
"Did you see much of them-after the marriage?"
"Used to spend most of my leaves liere. Like a second home to me, this
place. Charles and Caroline always kept my room here-ready and
>
waiting." He squared his shoulders, sti(l(lenly thrust his he;to forward
ptigtiaciously.
"That's why ll here now-to stand by in case I'm wanted.
If Charles needs )lie-I'm here."
Again the stia(low of tragedy crept over them.
"And what do you think-about all tls?" Poirot asked.
Frobisher stood stiffly. His brows came down over his eyes.
"What I think is, the least said the better. And to be frank, I don't
see what you're doing in the business, M.
Poirot. I don't see why Diana roped you in and got you down here."
"You are aware that Diana Maberly's engagement to Hugh Chandler has been
broken off?"
"Yes, I know that."
"And you know the reason for it?"
Frobisher replied stiffly, "Idon't know anything about that. Young
people manage these things between them.
Not my business to butt in."
Poirot said, "Hugh Chandler told Diana that it was not right that they
should marry, because he was going out of his mind."
He saw the beads of perspiration break out on Frobisher's forehead.
Frobisher said, "Have you got to talk about the damned thing? What do
you think you can do? Hugh's done the right thing, poor devil. It's
not his fault, it's hereditygerm plasm-brain cells.. . . But once he
knew, well, what else could he do but break the engagement? It's one of
those things that just has to be done."
"If I could be convinced of that-"
"You can take it from me."
"But you have told me nothing."
"I tell you I don't want to talk about it."
"Why did Admiral Chandler force his son to leave the Navy?"
"Because it was the only thing to be done."
"Why?"
Frobisher shook an obstinate head.
Poirot murmured softly, "Was it to do with some sheep being killed?"
The other man said angrily, "So you've heard about that?"
"Diana told me."
"'I'liat girl had far better keep her mouth shut."
"She did not think it was conclusive."
"She doesn't know."
"What doesn't she know?"
Unwillingly, jerkingly, angrily, Frobisher spoke:
"Oh, well, if you must have it.... Chandler heard a noise that night.
Thought it might be someone got in the house. Went out to investigate.
Light in the boy's room. Chandler went in. Hugh asleep on bed-dead
asleep -in his clothes. Blood on the clothes. Basin in the room full
of blood. His father couldn't wake him. Next morning heard about sheep
being found with their throats cut.
Questioned liugh. Boy didn't know anything about it.
Didn't remember going out-and his shoes found by the side door caked in
mud. Couldn't explain the blood in the basin. Couldn't explain
anything. Poor devil didn't know, you understand.
"Charles came to me, talked it over. What was the best thing to be
done? -Then it happened again-three nights later. After that-well, you
can see for yourself. The boy had got to leave the service. If he was
here, under Charles' eye, Charles could watch over him. Couldn't afford
to have a scandal in the Navy. It was the only thing to be done."
Poirot asked, "And since then?"
Frobisher said fiercely, "I'm not answering any more questions. Don't
you think Hugh knows his own business best?"
Hercule Poirot did not answer. He was always loath to admit that anyone
could know better than Hercule Poirot.
As they came into the hall, they met Admiral Chandler coming in. He
stood for a moment, a dark figure silhouetted against the bright light
outside.
He said in a low, gruff voice, "Oh, there you both are.
M. Poirot, I would like a word with you. Come into my study."
Frobisher went out through the open door, and Poirot followed the
Admiral. He had rather the feeling of having bec summoned to the
quarter-deck to give an account of himself.
The Admiral motioned Poirot to take one of the big easy chairs and
himself sat down in the other. Poirot, while with Frobisher, had been
impressed by the other's restlessness, nervousness, and irritability-all
the signs of intense mental strain. With Admiral Chandler he felt a
sense of hopelessness, of quiet deep despair.
With a deep sigh Chandler said, "I can't help being sorry Diana has
brought you into this. Poor child, I know how hard it is for her.
But-well-it is our own private tragedy, and I think you understand, M.
Poirot, that we don't want outsiders."
"I can understand your feeling, certainly."
"Diana, poor child, can't believe it. I couldn't at first.
Probably wouldn't believe it now if I didn't know -" He paused.
"Know what?"
"-That it's in the blood. The taint, I mean."
"And yet you agreed to the engagement?"
Admiral Chandler flushed.
"You nican, I should have put my foot down then? But at the time I'd no
idea. Hugh takes after his mothernothing about him to remind you of the
Chandlers. I hoped he'd taken after her in every way. From his
childhood upward, there's never been a trace of abnormality about him
until now. I couldn't know that- Dash it all, there's a trace of
insanity in nearly every old familyl"
Poirot said softly, "You have not consulted a doctor?"
Chandler roared, "No, and I'm not going tol The boy's safe enough here
with me to look after him. They shan't shut him up between four walls
like a wild beast."
"He is safe here, you say. But are others safe?"
"What do you mean by that?"
Poirot did not reply. He looked steadily into Admiral Chandler's sad
dark eyes.
The Admiral said bitterly, "Each man to his trade.
You're looking for a criminall My boy's not a criminal, M. Iloirot."
"Not yet."
"What do you niean by 'not yet?"'
"These things increase. Those sheep-"
"Who told you about the sheep?"
"Diana Maberly. And also your friend, Colonel Frobisher."
"George would have done better to keep his mouth shut."
"He is a very old friend of yours, is he not?"
"My best friend," the Admiral said gruffly.
"And he was a friend of-your wife's, too?"
Chandler smiled.
"Yes. George was in love with Caroline, I believe. When she was very
young. He's never married. I believe that's the reason. Ah, well, I
was the lucky one-or so I thought.
I carried her off-only to lose her."
He sighed and his shoulders sagged.
Poirot said, "Colonel Frobisher was with you when your wife
was-drowned?"
Chandler nodded.
"Yes, he was with us down in Cornwall when it happened. She and I were
out in the boat together-he happened to stay at home that day. I've
never understood how that boat came to capsize. Must have sprung a
sudden leak.
We were right out in the bay-strong tide running. I held her up as long
as I could." His voice broke. "Her body was washed up two days later.
Thank the Lord we hadn't taken little Hugh out with usl At least, that's
what I thought at the time. Now-well-better for Hugh, poor d
evil,
perhaps, if he had been with us. if it had all been finished and done
for then."
Again there came that deep, hopeless sigh.
"We're the last of the Chandlers, M. Poirot. There will be no more
Chandlers at Lyde after we're gone. When Hugh got engaged to Diana, I
hoped-well, it's no good talking of that. Thank God they didn't marry.
That's all I can sayl"
Hercule Poirot sat on a seat in the rose garden. Beside him sat Hugh
Chandler. Diana Maberly had just left them.
The yeting man turned a handsome, tortured face towai-(l his (:opztton.
He said, "You've got to make her understand, M. Poirot."
He paused for a minute and then went on: "You see, Di's a fighter. Slie
won't give in. She won't accept what she's (lare(i well got to accept.
She-she will go on believing tlt I'-s;me."
"XVle yovi yourself are quite certain that you are-pardoll e-itise?"
-I-lie yotitig man winced. He said, "I'm not actually hopelessly off my
head yet-but it's getting worse. Diana doesn't ktiow, bless her. She's
only seen me when I amall right."
"A(i wtien you are-all wrong, what happens?"
HLigli (."I(Iler took a long breath. "Then he said, "For one tlng-I
(I?earn. A(i when I dream, I am mad. Last night, for stance-I w;tsn't
a man any longer. I was first of tll ;t I)till- :a(l ))till-racing
about in blazing sunlight -tasting (IList ;tnd blood in my mouth-dust
and blood.
... Ati(i then I -,vas a clog-a great slavering dog. I had
hydrol)hol)i;t-cldre scattered and fled as I came-men tried to shoot
me-someone set down a great bowl of water for me and I couldn't (Irink.
I couldn't (Irink."
He paused. "I woke up. And I knew it was true. I went over to the
washstand. My mouth was parched-horribly parclied-a(I (Iry. I was
thirsty. But I couldn't drink, M.
Poirot.... I couldn't swallow.... Oh, my God, I wasn't able to (Irk. .
. ."
Her(:tile iloirot made a gentle murmur. Hugh Chandler went oti. His
hands were clenched on his knees. His face was tl-tist forward, his
eyes were half closed as though he saw sometlilg corning toward him.
"Ati(I thei-c itre things that aren't dreams. Things that I see wlie
I'm wide awake. SI)ecters, fi-ightful slial)es. They leer ;it me. And
soetes I'ni ai)le to fly, to le:we my bed a(i fly tl-OLigll the air, to
ride the winds-and fiends bear me copatiyl"
"'I'clia, telia," said Hercule Poirot.
It was a gentle, deprecating little noise.
Hugh Chandler turned to him.
"Oh, there isn't any doubt. It's in my blood. It's my family heritage.
I can't escaj)e. Thank God I found it out in timel Before I'd married
Diana. Suppose we'd had a child and handed on tls frightful thing to
himl"
He laid a hand on Poirot's arm.
"You must make her understand. You must tell her.
She's got to forget. She's got to. There will be someone else some
day. There's young Steve Graham-he's crazy about her and he's an
awfully good chap. She'd be happy with him-and safe. I want her-to be
happy. Graham's hard up, of course, and so are her people, but when I'm
gone they'll be all right."
Hercule's voice interrupted him.
"Why will they be 'all right' when you are gone?"
Hugh Chandler smiled. It was a gentle, lovable smile.
He said, "There's my mother's money. She was an heiress, you know. It
Mrs McGinty's Dead / the Labours of Hercules (Agatha Christie Collected Works) Page 15