Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories

by Agatha Christie

  Godfrey Burrows shrugged his shoulders.

  “I’m only telling you my impressions.”

  “Yes, yes, they are very valuable. After all, you are probably one of the last people who saw Sir Gervase alive.”

  “Snell was the last person to see him.”

  “To see him, yes, but not to speak to him.”

  Burrows did not reply.

  Major Riddle said:

  “What time was it when you went up to dress for dinner?”

  “About five minutes past seven.”

  “What did Sir Gervase do?”

  “I left him in the study.”

  “How long did he usually take to change?”

  “He usually gave himself a full three quarters of an hour.”

  “Then, if dinner was at a quarter past eight, he would probably have gone up at half past seven at the latest?”

  “Very likely.”

  “You yourself went to change early?”

  “Yes, I thought I would change and then go to the library and look up the references I wanted.”

  Poirot nodded thoughtfully. Major Riddle said:

  “Well, I think that’s all for the moment. Will you send Miss What’s-her-name along?”

  Little Miss Lingard tripped in almost immediately. She was wearing several chains which tinkled a little as she sat down and looked inquiringly from one to the other of the two men.

  “This is all very—er—sad, Miss Lingard,” began Major Riddle.

  “Very sad indeed,” said Miss Lingard decorously.

  “You came to this house—when?”

  “About two months ago. Sir Gervase wrote to a friend of his in the Museum—Colonel Fotheringay it was—and Colonel Fotheringary recommended me. I have done a good deal of historical research work.”

  “Did you find Sir Gervase difficult to work for?”

  “Oh, not really. One had to humour him a little, of course. But then I always find one has to do that with men.”

  With an uneasy feeling that Miss Lingard was probably humouring him at this moment, Major Riddle went on:

  “Your work here was to help Sir Gervase with the book he was writing?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did it involve?”

  For a moment, Miss Lingard looked quite human. Her eyes twinkled as she replied:

  “Well, actually, you know, it involved writing the book! I looked up all the information and made notes, and arranged the material. And then, later, I revised what Sir Gervase had written.”

  “You must have had to exercise a good deal of tact, mademoiselle,” said Poirot.

  “Tact and firmness. One needs them both,” said Miss Lingard.

  “Sir Gervase did not resent your—er—firmness?”

  “Oh not at all. Of course I put it to him that he mustn’t be bothered with all the petty detail.”

  “Oh, yes, I see.”

  “It was quite simple, really,” said Miss Lingard. “Sir Gervase was perfectly easy to manage if one took him the right way.”

  “Now, Miss Lingard, I wonder if you know anything that can throw light on this tragedy?”

  Miss Lingard shook her head.

  “I’m afraid I don’t. You see, naturally he wouldn’t confide in me at all. I was practically a stranger. In any case I think he was far too proud to speak to anyone of family troubles.”

  “But you think it was family troubles that caused him to take his life?”

  Miss Lingard looked rather surprised.

  “But of course! Is there any other suggestion?”

  “You feel sure that there were family troubles worrying him?”

  “I know that he was in great distress of mind.”

  “Oh, you know that?”

  “Why, of course.”

  “Tell me, mademoiselle, did he speak to you of the matter?”

  “Not explicitly.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Let me see. I found that he didn’t seem to be taking in what I was saying—”

  “One moment. Pardon. When was this?”

  “This afternoon. We usually worked from three to five.”

  “Pray go on.”

  “As I say, Sir Gervase seemed to be finding it hard to concentrate—in fact, he said as much, adding that he had several grave matters preying on his mind. And he said—let me see—something like this—(of course, I can’t be sure of the exact words): ‘It’s a terrible thing, Miss Lingard, when a family has been one of the proudest in the land, that dishonour should be brought on it.’ ”

  “And what did you say to that?”

  “Oh, just something soothing. I think I said that every generation had its weaklings—that that was one of the penalties of greatness—but that their failings were seldom remembered by posterity.”

  “And did that have the soothing effect you hoped?”

  “More or less. We got back to Sir Roger Chevenix-Gore. I had found a most interesting mention of him in a contemporary manuscript. But Sir Gervase’s attention wandered again. In the end he said he would not do any more work that afternoon. He said he had had a shock.”

  “A shock?”

  “That is what he said. Of course, I didn’t ask any questions. I just said, ‘I am sorry to hear it, Sir Gervase.’ And then he asked me to tell Snell that M. Poirot would be arriving and to put off dinner until eight fifteen, and send the car to meet the seven-fifty train.”

  “Did he usually ask you to make these arrangements?”

  “Well—no—that was really Mr. Burrows’s business. I did nothing but my own literary work. I wasn’t a secretary in any sense of the word.”

  Poirot asked:

  “Do you think Sir Gervase had a definite reason for asking you to make these arrangements, instead of asking Mr. Burrows to do so?”

  Miss Lingard considered.

  “Well, he may have had . . . I did not think of it at the time. I thought it was just a matter of convenience. Still, it’s true now I come to think of it, that he did ask me not to tell anyone that M. Poirot was coming. It was to be a surprise, he said.”

  “Ah! he said that, did he? Very curious, very interesting. And did you tell anyone?”

  “Certainly not, M. Poirot. I told Snell about dinner and to send the chauffeur to meet the seven-fifty as a gentleman was arriving by it.”

  “Did Sir Gervase say anything else that may have had a bearing on the situation?”

  Miss Lingard thought.

  “No—I don’t think so—he was very much strung up—I do remember that just as I was leaving the room, he said, ‘Not that it’s any good his coming now. It’s too late.’ ”

  “And you have no idea at all what he meant by that?”

  “N—no.”

  Just the faintest suspicion of indecision about the simple negative. Poirot repeated with a frown:

  “ ‘Too late.’ That is what he said, is it? ‘Too late.’ ”

  Major Riddle said:

  “You can give us no idea, Miss Lingard, as to the nature of the circumstance that so distressed Sir Gervase?”

  Miss Lingard said slowly:

  “I have an idea that it was in some way connected with Mr. Hugo Trent.”

  “With Hugo Trent? Why do you think that?”

  “Well, it was nothing definite, but yesterday afternoon we were just touching on Sir Hugo de Chevenix (who, I’m afraid, didn’t bear too good a character in the Wars of the Roses), and Sir Gervase said, ‘My sister would choose the family name of Hugo for her son! It’s always been an unsatisfactory name in our family. She might have known no Hugo would turn out well.’ ”

  “What you tell us there is suggestive,” said Poirot. “Yes, it suggests a new idea to me.”

  “Sir Gervase said nothing more definite than that?” asked Major Riddle.

  Miss Lingard shook her head.

  “No, and of course it wouldn’t have done for me to say anything. Sir Gervase was really just talking to himself. He wasn’t really speaki
ng to me.”

  “Quite so.”

  Poirot said:

  “Mademoiselle, you, a stranger, have been here for two months. It would be, I think, very valuable if you were to tell us quite frankly your impressions of the family and household.”

  Miss Lingard took off her pince-nez and blinked reflectively.

  “Well, at first, quite frankly, I felt as though I’d walked straight into a madhouse! What with Lady Chevenix-Gore continually seeing things that weren’t there, and Sir Gervase behaving like—like a king—and dramatizing himself in the most extraordinary way—well, I really did think they were the queerest people I had ever come across. Of course, Miss Chevenix-Gore was perfectly normal, and I soon found that Lady Chevenix-Gore was really an extremely kind, nice woman. Nobody could be kinder and nicer to me than she has been. Sir Gervase—well, I really think he was mad. His egomania—isn’t that what you call it?—was getting worse and worse every day.”

  “And the others?”

  “Mr. Burrows had rather a difficult time with Sir Gervase, I should imagine. I think he was glad that our work on the book gave him a little more breathing space. Colonel Bury was always charming. He was devoted to Lady Chevenix-Gore and he managed Sir Gervase quite well. Mr. Trent, Mr. Forbes and Miss Cardwell have only been here a few days, so of course I don’t know much about them.”

  “Thank you, mademoiselle. And what about Captain Lake, the agent?”

  “Oh, he’s very nice. Everybody liked him.”

  “Including Sir Gervase?”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve heard him say Lake was much the best agent he’d had. Of course, Captain Lake had his difficulties with Sir Gervase, too—but he managed pretty well on the whole. It wasn’t easy.”

  Poirot nodded thoughtfully. He murmured, “There was something—something—that I had in mind to ask you—some little thing . . . What was it now?”

  Miss Lingard turned a patient face towards him.

  Poirot shook his head vexedly.

  “Tchah! It is on the tip of my tongue.”

  Major Riddle waited a minute or two, then as Poirot continued to frown perplexedly, he took up the interrogation once more.

  “When was the last time you saw Sir Gervase?”

  “At teatime, in this room.”

  “What was his manner then? Normal?”

  “As normal as it ever was.”

  “Was there any sense of strain among the party?”

  “No, I think everybody seemed quite ordinary.”

  “Where did Sir Gervase go after tea?”

  “He took Mr. Burrows with him into the study, as usual.”

  “That was the last time you saw him?”

  “Yes. I went to the small morning room where I worked, and typed a chapter of the book from the notes I had gone over with Sir Gervase, until seven o’clock, when I went upstairs to rest and dress for dinner.”

  “You actually heard the shot, I understand?”

  “Yes, I was in this room. I heard what sounded like a shot and I went out into the hall. Mr. Trent was there, and Miss Cardwell. Mr. Trent asked Snell if there was champagne for dinner, and made rather a joke of it. It never entered our heads to take the matter seriously, I’m afraid. We felt sure it must have been a car backfiring.”

  Poirot said:

  “Did you hear Mr. Trent say, ‘There’s always murder?’ ”

  “I believe he did say something like that—joking, of course.”

  “What happened next?”

  “We all came in here.”

  “Can you remember the order in which the others came down to dinner?”

  “Miss Chevenix-Gore was the first, I think, and then Mr. Forbes. Then Colonel Bury and Lady Chevenix-Gore together, and Mr. Burrows immediately after them. I think that was the order, but I can’t be quite sure because they more or less came in all together.”

  “Gathered by the sound of the first gong?”

  “Yes. Everyone always hustled when they heard that gong. Sir Gervase was a terrible stickler for punctuality in the evening.”

  “What time did he himself usually come down?”

  “He was nearly always in the room before the first gong went.”

  “Did it surprise you that he was not down on this occasion?”

  “Very much.”

  “Ah, I have it!” cried Poirot.

  As the other two looked inquiringly at him he went on:

  “I have remembered what I wanted to ask. This evening, mademoiselle, as we all went along to the study on Snell’s reporting it to be locked, you stooped and picked something up.”

  “I did?” Miss Lingard seemed very surprised.

  “Yes, just as we turned into the straight passage to the study. Something small and bright.”

  “How extraordinary—I don’t remember. Wait a minute—yes, I do. Only I wasn’t thinking. Let me see—it must be in here.”

  Opening her black satin bag, she poured the contents on a table.

  Poirot and Major Riddle surveyed the collection with interest. There were two handkerchiefs, a powder compact, a small bunch of keys, a spectacle case and one other object on which Poirot pounced eagerly.

  “A bullet, by jove!” said Major Riddle.

  The thing was indeed shaped like a bullet, but it proved to be a small pencil.

  “That’s what I picked up,” said Miss Lingard. “I’d forgotten all about it.”

  “Do you know who this belongs to, Miss Lingard?”

  “Oh, yes, it’s Colonel Bury’s. He had it made out of a bullet that hit him—or rather, didn’t hit him, if you know what I mean—in the South African War.”

  “Do you know when he had it last?”

  “Well, he had it this afternoon when they were playing bridge, because I noticed him writing with it on the score when I came in to tea.”

  “Who was playing bridge?”

  “Colonel Bury, Lady Chevenix-Gore, Mr. Trent and Miss Cardwell.”

  “I think,” said Poirot gently, “we will keep this and return it to the colonel ourselves.”

  “Oh, please do. I am so forgetful, I might not remember to so.”

  “Perhaps, mademoiselle, you would be so good as to ask Colonel Bury to come here now?”

  “Certainly. I will go and find him at once.”

  She hurried away. Poirot got up and began walking aimlessly round the room.

  “We begin,” he said, “to reconstruct the afternoon. It is interesting. At half past two Sir Gervase goes over accounts with Captain Lake. He is slightly preoccupied. At three, he discusses the book he is writing with Miss Lingard. He is in great distress of mind. Miss Lingard associates that distress of mind with Hugo Trent on the strength of a chance remark. At teatime his behaviour is normal. After tea, Godfrey Burrows tells us he was in good spirits over something. At five minutes to eight he comes downstairs, goes to his study, scrawls ‘Sorry’ on a sheet of paper, and shoots himself!”

  Riddle said slowly:

  “I see what you mean. It isn’t consistent.”

  “Strange alteration of moods in Sir Gervase Chevenix-Gore! He is preoccupied—he is seriously upset—he is normal—he is in high spirits! There is something very curious here! And then that phrase he used, ‘Too late.’ That I should get here ‘Too late.’ Well, it is true that. I did get here too late—to see him alive.”

  “I see. You really think—?”

  “I shall never know now why Sir Gervase sent for me! That is certain!”

  Poirot was still wandering round the room. He straightened one or two objects on the mantelpiece; he examined a card table that stood against a wall, he opened the drawer of it and took out the bridge-markers. Then he wandered over to the writing table and peered into the wastepaper basket. There was nothing in it but a paper bag. Poirot took it out, smelt it, murmured “Oranges” and flattened it out, reading the name on it. “Carpenter and Sons, Fruiterers, Hamborough St. Mary.” He was just folding it neatly into squares when Colonel Bury entered the ro
om.

  IX

  The Colonel dropped into a chair, shook his head, sighed and said:

  “Terrible business, this, Riddle. Lady Chevenix-Gore is being wonderful—wonderful. Grand woman! Full of courage!”

  Coming softly back to his chair, Poirot said:

  “You have known her very many years, I think?”

  “Yes, indeed, I was at her coming out dance. Wore rosebuds in her hair, I remember. And a white, fluffy dress . . . Wasn’t anyone to touch her in the room!”

  His voice was full of enthusiasm. Poirot held out the pencil to him.

  “This is yours, I think?”

  “Eh? What? Oh, thank you, had it this afternoon when we were playing bridge. Amazing, you know, I held a hundred honours in spades three times running. Never done such a thing before.”

  “You were playing bridge before tea, I understand?” said Poirot. “What was Sir Gervase’s frame of mind when he came in to tea?”

  “Usual—quite usual. Never dreamed he was thinking of making away with himself. Perhaps he was a little more excitable than usual, now I come to think of it.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Why, then! Teatime. Never saw the poor chap alive again.”

  “You didn’t go to the study at all after tea?”

  “No, never saw him again.”

  “What time did you come down to dinner?”

  “After the first gong went.”

  “You and Lady Chevenix-Gore came down together?”

  “No, we—er—met in the hall. I think she’d been into the dining room to see to the flowers—something like that.”

  Major Riddle said:

  “I hope you won’t mind, Colonel Bury, if I ask you a somewhat personal question. Was there any trouble between you and Sir Gervase over the question of the Paragon Synthetic Rubber Company?”

  Colonel Bury’s face became suddenly purple. He spluttered a little.

  “Not at all. Not at all. Old Gervase was an unreasonable sort of fellow. You’ve got to remember that. He always expected everything he touched to turn out trumps! Didn’t seem to realize that the whole world was going through a period of crisis. All stocks and shares bound to be affected.”

  “So there was a certain amount of trouble between you?”

  “No trouble. Just damned unreasonable of Gervase!”

  “He blamed you for certain losses he had sustained?”