by Mark Place
Blunt stared. ‘What are you driving at?’
‘In plain language, I want to know who benefits by your death.’
Blunt grinned. ‘Chiefly the St Edward’s Hospital, the Cancer Hospital, and the Royal Institute for the Blind.’
‘Ah!’
‘In addition, I have left a sum of money to my niece by marriage, Mrs Julia Olivera; an equivalent sum, but in trust, to her daughter, Jane Olivera, and also a substantial provision for my only surviving relative, a second cousin, Helen Montressor, who was left very badly off and who occupies a small cottage on the estate here.’
He paused and then said: ‘This, M. Poirot, is strictly in confidence.’
‘Naturally, Monsieur, naturally.’
Alistair Blunt added sarcastically: ‘I suppose you do not suggest, M. Poirot, that either Julia or Jane Olivera or my cousin Helen Montressor, are planning to murder me for my money?’
‘I suggest nothing—nothing at all.’
Blunt’s slight irritation subsided. He said: ‘And you’ll take on that other commission for me?’
‘The finding of Miss Sainsbury Seale? Yes, I will.’
Alistair Blunt said heartily: ‘Good man.’
VII
In leaving the room Poirot almost cannoned into a tall figure outside the door. He said: ‘I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle.’
Jane Olivera drew apart a little. She said. ‘Do you know what I think of you, M. Poirot?’
‘Eh bien—Mademoiselle—’ She did not give time to finish. The question, indeed, had but a rhetorical value. All that it meant was that Jane Olivera was about to answer it herself. ‘You’re a spy, that’s what you are! A miserable, low, snooping spy, nosing round and making trouble!’
‘I assure you, Mademoiselle—’
‘I know just what you’re after! And I know now just what lies you tell! Why don’t you admit it straight out? Well, I’ll tell you this—you won’t find out anything—anything at all! There’s nothing to find out! No one’s going to harm a hair on my precious uncle’s head. He’s safe enough. He’ll always be safe. Safe and smug and prosperous—and full of platitudes! He’s just a stodgy John Bull, that’s what he is—without an ounce of imagination or vision.’
She paused, then, her agreeable, husky voice deepening, she said venomously: ‘I loathe the sight of you—you bloody little bourgeois detective!’ She swept away from him in a whirl of expensive model drapery. Hercule Poirot remained, his eyes very wide open, his eyebrows raised and his hand thoughtfully caressing his moustaches. The epithet bourgeois was, he admitted, well applied to him. His outlook on life was essentially bourgeois, and always had been, but the employment of it as an epithet of contempt by the exquisitely turned out Jane Olivera gave him, as he expressed it to himself, furiously to think. He went, still thinking, into the drawing room. Mrs Olivera was playing patience. She looked up as Poirot entered, surveyed him with the cold look she might have bestowed upon a black beetle and murmured distantly: ‘Red knave on black queen.’
Chilled, Poirot retreated. He reflected mournfully: ‘Alas, it would seem that nobody loves me!’
He strolled out of the window into the garden. It was an enchanting evening with a smell of night-scented stocks in the air. Poirot sniffed happily and strolled along a path that ran between two herbaceous borders. He turned a corner and two dimly-seen figures sprang apart. It would seem that he had interrupted a pair of lovers. Poirot hastily turned and retraced his steps. Even out here, it would seem, his presence was detrop. He passed Alistair Blunt’s window and Alistair Blunt was dictating to Mr Selby. There seemed definitely only one place for Hercule Poirot. He went up to his bedroom. He pondered for some time on various fantastic aspects of the situation. Had he or had he not made a mistake in believing the voice on the telephone to be that of Mrs Olivera? Surely the idea was absurd! He recalled the melodramatic revelations of quiet little Mr Barnes. He speculated on the mysterious whereabouts of Mr Q.X.912, alias Albert Chapman. He remembered, with a spasm of annoyance, the anxious look in the eyes of the maidservant, Agnes— It was always the same way—people would keep things back! Usually quite unimportant things, but until they were cleared out of the way, impossible to pursue a straight path. At the moment the path was anything but straight! And the most unaccountable obstacle in the way of clear thinking and orderly progress was what he described to himself as the contradictory and impossible problem of Miss Sainsbury Seale. For, if the facts that Hercule Poirot had observed were true facts—then nothing whatever made sense! Hercule Poirot said to himself, with astonishment in the thought: ‘Is it possible that I am growing old?’
Eleven, Twelve, Men must Delve
I
After passing a troubled night, Hercule Poirot was up and about early on the next day. The weather was perfect and he retraced his steps of last night. The herbaceous borders were in full beauty and though Poirot himself leaned to a more orderly type of flower arrangement—a neat arrangement of beds of scarlet geraniums such as are seen at Ostend—he nevertheless realized that here was the perfection of the English garden spirit. He pursued his way through a rose garden, where the neat lay-out of the beds delighted him—and through the winding ways of an alpine rock garden, coming at last to the walled kitchen gardens.
Here he observed a sturdy woman clad in a tweed coat and skirt, black browed, with short cropped black hair who was talking in a slow, emphatic Scots voice to what was evidently the head gardener. The head gardener, Poirot observed, did not appear to be enjoying the conversation. A sarcastic inflection made itself heard in Miss Helen Montressor’s voice, and Poirot escaped nimbly down a side path. A gardener who had been, Poirot shrewdly suspected, resting on his spade, began digging with fervour. Poirot approached nearer. The man, a young fellow, dug with ardour, his back to Poirot who paused to observe him. ‘Good-morning,’ said Poirot amiably.
A muttered ‘Morning, sir,’ was the response, but the man did not stop working. Poirot was a little surprised. In his experience a gardener, though anxious to appear zealously at work as you approached, was usually only too willing to pause and pass the time of day when directly addressed. It seemed, he thought, a little unnatural. He stood there for some minutes, watching the toiling figure. Was there, or was there not, something a little familiar about the turn of those shoulders? Or could it be, thought Hercule Poirot, that he was getting into a habit of thinking that both voices and shoulders were familiar when they were really nothing of the kind? Was he, as he had feared last night, growing old? He passed thoughtfully onward out of the walled garden and paused to regard a rising slope of shrubbery outside. Presently, like some fantastic moon, a round object rose gently over the top of the kitchen garden wall. It was the egg-shaped head of Hercule Poirot, and the eyes of Hercule Poirot regarded with a good deal of interest the face of the young gardener who had now stopped digging and was passing a sleeve across his wet face. ‘Very curious and very interesting,’ murmured Hercule Poirot as he discreetly lowered his head once more. He emerged from the shrubbery and brushed off some twigs and leaves that were spoiling the neatness of his apparel.
Yes, indeed, very curious and interesting that Frank Carter, who had a secretarial job in the country, should be working as a gardener in the employment of Alistair Blunt. Reflecting on these points, Hercule Poirot heard a gong in the distance and retraced his steps towards the house. On the way there he encountered his host talking to Miss Montressor who had just emerged from the kitchen garden by the farther door. Her voice rose clear and distinct: ‘It’s verra kind of you, Alistairr, but I would preferr not to accept any invitations this week while your Amerrican relations are with you!’
Blunt said: ‘Julia’s rather a tactless woman, but she doesn’t mean—’
Miss Montressor said calmly: ‘In my opinion her manner to me is verra insolent, and I will not put up with insolence—from American women or any others!’
Miss Montressor moved away, Poirot came up to find Alistair Blunt looking
as sheepish as most men look who are having trouble with their female relations. He said ruefully: ‘Women really are the devil! Good-morning, M. Poirot. Lovely day, isn’t it?’
They turned towards the house and Blunt said with a sigh: ‘I do miss my wife!’
In the dining-room, he remarked to the redoubtable Julia:
‘I’m afraid, Julia, you’ve rather hurt Helen’s feelings.’
Mrs Olivera said grimly: ‘The Scotch are always touchy.’
Alistair Blunt looked unhappy.
Hercule Poirot said: ‘You have a young gardener, I noticed, whom I think you must have taken on recently.’
‘I dare say,’ said Blunt. ‘Yes, Burton, my third gardener, left about three weeks ago, and we took this fellow on instead.’
‘Do you remember where he came from?’
‘I really don’t. MacAlister engaged him. Somebody or other asked me to give him a trial, I think. Recommended him warmly. I’m rather surprised, because MacAlister says he isn’t much good. He wants to sack him again.’
‘What is his name?’
‘Dunning—Sunbury—something like that.’
‘Would it be a great impertinence to ask what you pay him?’
‘Not at all. Two pounds fifteen, I think it is.’
‘Not more?’
‘Certainly not more—might be a bit less.’
‘Now that,’ said Poirot, ‘is very curious.’
Alistair Blunt looked at him inquiringly. But Jane Olivera, rustling the paper, distracted the conversation. ‘A lot of people seem to be out for your blood, Uncle Alistair!’
‘Oh, you’re reading the debate in the House. That’s all right. Only Archerton—he’s always tilting at windmills. And he’s got the most crazy ideas of finance. If we let him have his way, England would be bankrupt in a week.’
Jane said: ‘Don’t you ever want to try anything new?’
‘Not unless it’s an improvement to the old, my dear.’
‘But you’d never think it would be. You’d always say, “This would never work”—without even trying.’
‘Experimentalists can do a lot of harm.’
‘Yes, but how can you be satisfied with things as they are? All the waste and the inequality and the unfairness. Something must be done about it!’
‘We get along pretty well in this country, Jane, all things considered.’
Jane said passionately: ‘What’s needed is a new heaven and a new earth! And you sit there eating kidneys!’ She got up and went out by the french window into the garden. Alistair looked mildly surprised and a little uncomfortable. He said: ‘Jane has changed a lot lately. Where does she get all these ideas?’
‘Take no notice of what Jane says,’ said Mrs Olivera. ‘Jane’s a very silly girl. You know what girls are—they go to these queer parties in studios where the young men have funny ties and they come home and talk a lot of nonsense.’
‘Yes, but Jane was always rather a hard-boiled young woman.’
‘It’s just a fashion, Alistair, these things are in the air!’
Alistair Blunt said: ‘Yes, they’re in the air all right.’
He looked a little worried. Mrs Olivera rose and Poirot opened the door for her. She swept out frowning to herself. Alistair Blunt said suddenly: ‘I don’t like it, you know! Everybody’s talking this sort of stuff! And it doesn’t mean anything! It’s all hot air! I find myself up against it the whole time—a new heaven and a new earth. What does it mean? They can’t tell you themselves! They’re just drunk on words.’
He smiled suddenly, rather ruefully. ‘I’m one of the last of the Old Guard, you know.’
Poirot said curiously: ‘If you were—removed, what would happen?’
‘Removed! What a way of putting it!’ His face grew suddenly grave. ‘I’ll tell you. A lot of damned fools would try a lot of very costly experiments. And that would be the end of stability—of common sense, of solvency. In fact, of this England of ours as we know it…’
Poirot nodded his head. He was essentially in sympathy with the banker. He, too, approved of solvency. And he began to realize with a new meaning just exactly what Alistair Blunt stood for. Mr Barnes had told him, but he had hardly taken it in then. Quite suddenly, he was afraid…
II
‘I’ve finished my letters,’ said Blunt, appearing later in the morning. ‘Now, M. Poirot, I’m going to show you my garden.’
The two men went out together and Blunt talked eagerly of his hobby. The rock garden, with its rare alpine plants, was his greatest joy and they spent some time there while Blunt pointed out certain minute and rare species. Hercule Poirot, his feet encased in his best patent leather shoes, listened patiently, shifting his weight tenderly from one foot to the other and wincing slightly as the heat of the sun caused the illusion that his feet were gigantic puddings! His host strolled on, pointing out various plants in the wide border. Bees were humming and from near at hand came the monotonous clicking of a pair of shears trimming a laurel hedge. It was all very drowsy and peaceful. Blunt paused at the end of the border, looking back. The clip of the shears was quite close by, though the clipper was concealed from view. ‘Look at the vista down from here, Poirot. The Sweet Williams are particularly fine this year. I don’t know when I’ve seen them so good—and those are Russell lupins. Marvellous colours.’
Crack! The shot broke the peace of the morning. Something sang angrily through the air. Alistair Blunt turned bewildered to where a faint thread of smoke was rising from the middle of the laurels. There was a sudden outcry of angry voices, the laurels heaved as two men struggled together. A high-pitched American voice sang out resolutely: ‘I’ve got you, you damned scoundrel! Drop that gun!’
Two men struggled out into the open. The young gardener who had dug so industriously that morning was writhing in the powerful grip of a man nearly a head taller. Poirot recognized the latter at once. He had already guessed from the voice. Frank Carter snarled: ‘Let go of me! It wasn’t me, I tell you! I never did.’
Howard Raikes said: ‘Oh, no? Just shooting at the birds, I suppose!’ He stopped—looking at the newcomers.
‘Mr Alistair Blunt? This guy here has just taken a pot-shot at you. I caught him right in the act.’
Frank Carter cried out: ‘It’s a lie! I was clipping the hedge. I heard a shot and the gun fell right here at my feet. I picked it up—that’s only natural, that is, and then this bloke jumped on me.’
Howard Raikes said grimly: ‘The gun was in your hand and it had just been fired!’ With a final gesture, he tossed the pistol to Poirot.
‘Let’s see what the dick’s got to say about it! Lucky I got hold of you in time. I guess there are several more shots in that automatic of yours.’ Poirot murmured: ‘Precisely.’
Blunt was frowning angrily. He said sharply: ‘Now then Dunnon—Dunbury—what’s your name?’
Hercule Poirot interrupted. He said: ‘This man’s name is Frank Carter.’
Carter turned on him furiously. ‘You’ve had it in for me all along! You came spying on me that Sunday. I tell you, it’s not true. I never shot at him.’
Hercule Poirot said gently: ‘Then, in that case, who did?’
He added: ‘There is no one else here but ourselves, you see.’
III
Jane Olivera came running along the path. Her hair streamlined back behind her. Her eyes were wide with fear. She gasped: ‘Howard?’ Howard Raikes said lightly: ‘Hallo, Jane. I’ve just been saving your uncle’s life.’
‘Oh!’ She stopped. ‘You have?’
‘Your arrival certainly seems to have been very opportune, Mr—er—’ Blunt hesitated. ‘This is Howard Raikes, Uncle Alistair. He’s a friend of mine.’ Blunt looked at Raikes—he smiled.
‘Oh!’ he said. ‘So you are Jane’s young man! I must thank you.’ With a puffing noise as of a steam engine at high pressure Julia Olivera appeared on the scene. She panted out: ‘I heard a shot. Is Alistair—Why—’ She stared blankly at Howa
rd Raikes. ‘You? Why, why, how dare you?’
Jane said in an icy voice: ‘Howard has just saved Uncle Alistair’s life, mother.’
‘What? I—I—’
‘This man tried to shoot Uncle Alistair and Howard grabbed him and took the pistol away from him.’
Frank Carter said violently:
‘You’re bloody liars, all of you.’
Mrs Olivera, her jaw dropping, said blankly: ‘Oh!’ It took her a minute or two to readjust her poise. She turned first to Blunt.
‘My dear Alistair! How awful! Thank God you’re safe. But it must have been a frightful shock. I—I feel quite faint myself. I wonder—do you think I could have just a little brandy?’
Blunt said quickly: ‘Of course. Come back to the house.’
She took his arm, leaning on it heavily.
Blunt looked over his shoulder at Poirot and Howard Raikes. ‘Can you bring that fellow along?’ he asked. ‘We’ll ring up the police and hand him over.’ Frank Carter opened his mouth, but no words came. He was dead white, and his knees were wilting. Howard Raikes hauled him along with an unsympathetic hand. ‘Come on you’ he said. Frank Carter murmured hoarsely and unconvincingly: ‘It’s all a lie…’
Howard Raikes looked at Poirot. ‘You’ve got precious little to say for yourself for a high-toned sleuth! Why don’t you throw your weight about a bit?’
‘I am reflecting, Mr Raikes.’
‘I guess you’ll need to reflect! I should say you’ll lose your job over this! It isn’t thanks to you that Alistair Blunt is still alive at this minute.’
‘This is your second good deed of the kind, is it not, Mr Raikes?’
‘What the hell do you mean?’
‘It was only yesterday, was it not, that you caught and held the man whom you believed to have shot at Mr Blunt and the Prime Minister?’ Howard Raikes said: ‘Er—yes. I seem to be making a kind of habit of it.’
‘But there is a difference,’ Hercule Poirot pointed out. ‘Yesterday, the man you caught and held was not the man who fired the shot in question. You made a mistake.’