Peril at End House

by Agatha Christie

  ‘H. Commander Challenger.—Why did Mademoiselle Nick tell him she was engaged to someone else? What necessitated her having to tell him that? She told no one else. Had he proposed to her? What are his relations with his uncle?’

  ‘His uncle, Poirot?’

  ‘Yes, the doctor. That rather questionable character. Did any private news of Michael Seton’s death come through to the Admiralty before it was announced publicly?’

  ‘I don’t quite see what you’re driving at Poirot. Even if Challenger knew beforehand about Seton’s death, it does not seem to get us anywhere. It provides no earthly motive for killing the girl he loved.’

  ‘I quite agree. What you say is perfectly reasonable. But these are just things I should like to know. I am still the dog, you see, nosing about for the things that are not very nice!’

  ‘I. M. Vyse.—Why did he say what he did about his cousin’s fanatical devotion to End House? What possible motive could he have in saying that? Did he, or did he not, receive the will? Is he, in fact, an honest man—or is he not an honest man?

  ‘And now J.—Eh bien, J. is what I put down before—a giant question mark. Is there such a person, or is there not—

  ‘Mon Dieu! my friend, what have you?’

  I had started from my chair with a sudden shriek. With a shaking hand I pointed at the window.

  ‘A face, Poirot!’ I cried. ‘A face pressed against the glass. A dreadful face! It’s gone now—but I saw it.’

  Poirot strode to the window and pushed it open. He leant out.

  ‘There is no one there now,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘You are sure you did not imagine it, Hastings?’

  ‘Quite sure. It was a horrible face.’

  ‘There is a balcony, of course. Anyone could reach there quite easily if they wanted to hear what we were saying. When you say a dreadful face, Hastings, just what do you mean?’

  ‘A white, staring face, hardly human.’

  ‘Mon ami, that is the fever. A face, yes. An unpleasant face, yes. But a face hardly human—no. What you saw was the effect of a face pressed closely against the glass—that allied to the shock of seeing it there at all.’

  ‘It was a dreadful face,’ I said, obstinately.

  ‘It was not the face of—anyone you know?’

  ‘No, indeed.’

  ‘H’m—it might have been, though! I doubt if you would recognize it under these circumstances. I wonder now—yes, I very much wonder…’

  He gathered up his papers thoughtfully.

  ‘One thing at least is to the good. If the owner of that face overheard our convesation we did not mention that Mademoiselle Nick was alive and well. Whatever else our visitor may have heard, that at least escaped him.’

  ‘But surely,’ I said, ‘the results of this—eh—brilliant manoeuvre of yours have been slightly disappointing up to date. Nick is dead and no startling developments have occurred!’

  ‘I did not expect them yet awhile. Twenty-four hours, I said. Mon ami, tomorrow, if I am not mistaken, certain things will arise. Otherwise—otherwise I am wrong from start to finish. There is the post, you see. I have hopes of tomorrow’s post.’

  I awoke in the morning feeling weak but with the fever abated. I also felt hungry. Poirot and I had breakfast served in our sitting-room.

  ‘Well?’ I said, maliciously, as he sorted his letters. ‘Has the post done what you expected of it?’

  Poirot, who had just opened two envelopes which patently contained bills, did not reply. I thought he looked rather cast down and not his usual cock-a-hoop self.

  I opened my own mail. The first was a notice of a spiritualist meeting.

  ‘If all else fails, we must go to the spiritualists,’ I remarked. ‘I often wonder that more tests of this kind aren’t made. The spirit of the victim comes back and names the murderer. That would be a proof.’

  ‘It would hardly help us,’ said Poirot, absently. ‘I doubt if Maggie Buckley knew whose hand it was shot her down. Even if she could speak she would have nothing of value to tell us. Tiens! that is odd.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘You talk of the dead speaking, and at that moment I open this letter.’

  He tossed it across to me. It was from Mrs Buckley and ran as follows:

  ‘Langley Rectory.

  ‘Dear Monsieur Poirot,—On my return here I found a letter written by my poor child on her arrival at St Loo. There is nothing in it of interest to you, I’m afraid, but I thought perhaps you would care to see it.

  ‘Thanking you for your kindness,

  ‘Yours sincerely,

  ‘Jean Buckley.’

  The enclosure brought a lump to my throat. It was so terribly commonplace and so completely untouched by any apprehension of tragedy:

  ‘Dear Mother,—I arrived safely. Quite a comfortable journey. Only two people in the carriage all the way to Exeter.

  ‘It is lovely weather here. Nick seems very well and gay—a little restless, perhaps, but I cannot see why she should have telegraphed for me in the way she did. Tuesday would have done just as well.

  ‘No more now. We are going to have tea with some neighbours. They are Australians and have rented the lodge. Nick says they are kind but rather awful. Mrs Rice and Mr Lazarus are coming to stay. He is the art dealer. I will post this in the box by the gate, then it will catch the post. Will write to-morrow.

  ‘Your loving daughter,

  ‘Maggie.’

  ‘P.S.—Nick says there is a reason for her wire. She will tell me after tea. She is very queer and jumpy.’

  ‘The voice of the dead,’ said Poirot, quietly. ‘And it tells us—nothing.’

  ‘The box by the gate,’ I remarked idly. ‘That’s where Croft said he posted the will.’

  ‘Said so—yes. I wonder. How I wonder!’

  ‘There is nothing else of interest among your letters?’

  ‘Nothing. Hastings, I am very unhappy. I am in the dark. Still in the dark. I comprehend nothing.’

  At that moment the telephone rang. Poirot went to it.

  Immediately I saw a change come over his face. His manner was very restrained, nevertheless he could not disguise from my eyes his intense excitement.

  His own contributions to the conversation were entirely non-committal so that I could not gather what it was all about.

  Presently, however, with a ‘Très bien. Jevous remercie,’ he put back the receiver and came back to where I was sitting. His eyes were sparkling with excitement.

  ‘Mon ami,’ he said. ‘What did I tell you? Things have begun to happen.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘That was M. Charles Vyse on the telephone. He informs me that this morning, throught the post, he has received a will signed by his cousin, Miss Buckley, and dated the 25th February last.’

  ‘What? The will?’

  ‘Evidemment.’

  ‘It has turned up?’

  ‘Just at the right moment, n’est-ce pas?’

  ‘Do you think he is speaking the truth?’

  ‘Or do I think he has had the will all along? Is that what you would say? Well, it is all a little curious. But one thing is certain; I told you that, if Mademoiselle Nick were supposed to be dead, we should have developments—and sure enough here they are!’

  ‘Extraordinary,’I said. ‘You were right. I suppose this is the will making Frederica Rice residuary legatee?’

  ‘M. Vyse said nothing about the contents of the will. He was far too correct. But there seems very little reason to doubt that this is the same will. It is witnessed, he tells me, by Ellen Wilson and her husband.’

  ‘So we are back at the old problem,’ I said. ‘Frederica Rice.’

  ‘The enigma!’

  ‘Frederica Rice,’ I murmured, inconsequently. ‘It’s a pretty name.’

  ‘Prettier than what her friends call her. Freddie’—he made a face—‘ce n’est pas joli—for a young lady.’

  ‘There aren’t many abbreviations of Frederica,�
�� I said. ‘It’s not like Margaret where you can have half a dozen—Maggie, Margot, Madge, Peggie—’

  ‘True. Well, Hastings, are you happier now? That things have begun to happen?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Tell me—did you expect this to happen?’

  ‘No—not exactly. I had formulated nothing very precise to myself. All I had said was that given a certain result, the causes of that result must make themselves evident.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, respectfully.

  ‘What was it that I was going to say just as that telephone rang?’ mused Poirot. ‘Oh, yes, that letter from Mademoiselle Maggie. I wanted to look at it once again. I have an idea in the back of my mind that something in it struck me as rather curious.’

  I picked it up from where I had tossed it, and handed it to him.

  He read it over to himself. I moved about the room, looking out of the window and observing the yachts racing on the bay.

  Suddenly an exclamation startled me. I turned round. Poirot was holding his head in his hands and rocking himself to and fro, apparently in an agony of woe.

  ‘Oh!’ he groaned. ‘But I have been blind—blind.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Complex, I have said? Complicated? Mais non. Of a simplicity extreme—extreme. And miserable one that Iam, I saw nothing—nothing.’

  ‘Good gracious, Poirot, what is this light that has suddenly burst upon you?’

  ‘Wait—wait—do not speak! I must arrange my ideas. Rearrange them in the light of this discovery so stupendous.’

  Seizing his list of questions, he ran over them silently, his lips moving busily. Once or twice he nodded his head emphatically.

  Then he laid them down and leaning back in his chair he shut his eyes. I thought at last that he had gone to sleep.

  Suddenly he sighed and opened his eyes.

  ‘But yes!’ he said. ‘It all fits in! All the things that have puzzled me. All the things that have seemed to me a little unnatural. They all have their place.’

  ‘You mean—you know everything?’

  ‘Nearly everything. All that matters. In some respects I have been right in my deductions. In other ways ludicrously far from the truth. But now it is all clear. I shall send today a telegram asking two questions—but the answers to them I know already—I know here!’ He tapped his forehead.

  ‘And when you receive the answers?’ I asked, curiously.

  He sprang to his feet.

  ‘My friend, do you remember that Mademoiselle Nick said she wanted to stage a play at End House? Tonight, we stage such a play in End House. But it will be a play produced by Hercule Poirot. Mademoiselle Nick will have a part to play in it.’ He grinned suddenly.

  ‘You comprehend, Hastings, there will be a ghost in this play. Yes, a ghost. End House has never seen a ghost. It will have one tonight. No’—as I tried to ask a question—‘I will say no more. Tonight, Hastings, we will produce our comedy—and reveal the truth. But now, there is much to do—much to do.’

  He hurried from the room.

  Chapter 19

  Poirot Produces a Play

  It was a curious gathering that met that night at End House.

  I had hardly seen Poirot all day. He had been out for dinner but had left me a message that I was to be at End House at nine o’clock. Evening dress, he had added, was not necessary.

  The whole thing was like a rather ridiculous dream.

  On arrival I was ushered into the dining-room and when I looked round I realized that every person on Poirot’s list from A. to I. (J. was necessarily excluded, being in the Mrs Harris-like position of ‘there ain’t no such person’) was present.

  Even Mrs Croft was there in a kind of invalid chair. She smiled and nodded at me.

  ‘This is a surprise, isn’t it?’ she said, cheerfully. ‘It makes a change for me, I must say. I think I shall try and get out now and again. All M. Poirot’s idea. Come and sit by me, Captain Hastings. Somehow I feel this is rather a gruesome business—but Mr Vyse made a point of it.’

  ‘Mr Vyse?’ I said, rather surprised.

  Charles Vyse was standing by the mantelpiece. Poirot was beside him talking earnestly to him in an under-tone.

  I looked round the room. Yes, they were all there. After showing me in (I had been a minute or two late) Ellen had taken her place on a chair just beside the door. On another chair, sitting painfully straight and breathing hard, was her husband. The child, Alfred, squirmed uneasily between his father and mother.

  The rest sat round the dining-table. Frederica in her black dress, Lazarus beside her, George Challenger and Croft on the other side of the table. I sat a little away from it near Mrs Croft. And now Charles Vyse, a final nod of the head, took his place at the head of the table, and Poirot slipped unobtrusively into a seat next to Lazarus.

  Clearly the producer, as Poirot had styled himself, did not propose to take a prominent part in the play. Charles Vyse was apparently in charge of the proceedings. I wondered what surprises Poirot had in store for him.

  The young lawyer cleared his throat and stood up. He looked just the same as ever, impassive, formal and unemotional.

  ‘This is rather an unconventional gathering we have here tonight,’ he said. ‘But the circumstances are very peculiar. I refer, of course, to the circumstances surrounding the death of my cousin, Miss Buckley. There will have, of course, to be an autopsy—there seems to be no doubt that she met her death by poison, and that that poison was administered with the intent to kill. This is police business and I need not go into it. The police would doubtless prefer me not to do so.

  ‘In an ordinary case, the will of a deceased person is read after the funeral, but in deference to M. Poirot’s special wish, I am proposing to read it before the funeral takes place. In fact, I am proposing to read it here and now. That is why everyone has been asked to come here. As I said just now, the circumstances are unusual and justify a departure from precedent.

  ‘The will itself came into my possession in a somewhat unusual manner. Although dated last February, it only reached me by post this morning. However, it is undoubtedly in the handwriting of my cousin—I have no doubt on that point, and though a most informal document, it is properly attested.’

  He paused and cleared his throat once more.

  Every eye was upon his face.

  From a long envelope in his hand, he drew out an enclosure. It was, as we could see, an ordinary piece of End House notepaper with writing on it.

  ‘It is quite short,’ said Vyse. He made a suitable pause, then began to read:

  ‘This is the last Will and Testament of Magdala Buckley. I direct that all my funeral expenses should be paid and I appoint my cousin Charles Vyse as my executor. I leave everything of which I die possessed to Mildred Croftin grateful recognition of the services rendered by her to my father, Philip Buckley, which services nothing can ever repay.

  ‘Signed—Magdala Buckley,

  ‘Witnesses—Ellen Wilson, William Wilson.’

  I was dumbfounded! So I think was everyone else. Only Mrs Croft nodded her head in quiet understanding.

  ‘It’s true,’ she said, quietly. ‘Not that I ever meant to let on about it. Philip Buckley was out in Australia, and if it hadn’t been for me—well, I’m not going into that. A secret it’s been and a secret it had better remain. She knew about it, though. Nick did, I mean. Her father must have told her. We came down here because we wanted to have a look at the place. I’d always been curious about this End House Philip Buckley talked of. And that dear girl knew all about it, and couldn’t do enough for us. Wanted us to come and live with her, she did. But we wouldn’t do that. And so she insisted on our having the lodge—and not a penny of rent would she take. We pretended to pay it, of course, so as not to cause talk, but she handed it back to us. And now—this! Well, if anyone says there is no gratitude in the world, I’ll tell them they’re wrong! This proves it.’

  There was still an amazed silence. Poirot looke
d at Vyse.

  ‘Had you any idea of this?’

  Vyse shook his head.

  ‘I knew Philip Buckley had been in Australia. But I never heard any rumours of a scandal there.’

  He looked inquiringly at Mrs Croft.

  She shook her head.

  ‘No, you won’t get a word out of me. I never have said a word and I never shall. The secret goes to the grave with me.’

  Vyse said nothing. He sat quietly tapping the table with a pencil.

  ‘I presume, M. Vyse’—Poirot leaned forward—‘that as next of kin you could contest that will? There is, I understand, a vast fortune at stake which was not the case when the will was made.’

  Vyse looked at him coldly.

  ‘The will is perfectly valid. I should not dream of contesting my cousin’s disposal of her property.’

  ‘You’re an honest fellow,’ said Mrs Croft, approvingly. ‘And I’ll see you don’t lose by it.’

  Charles sank a little from this well-meant but slightly embarrassing remark.

  ‘Well, Mother,’ said Mr Croft, with an elation he could not quite keep out of his voice. ‘This is a surprise! Nick didn’t tell me what she was doing.’

  ‘The dear sweet girl,’ murmured Mrs Croft, putting her handkerchief to her eyes. ‘I wish she could look down and see us now. Perhaps she does—who knows?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ agreed Poirot.

  Suddenly an idea seemed to strike him. He looked round.

  ‘An idea! We are all here seated round a table. Let us hold a séance.’

  ‘A séance?’ said Mrs Croft, somewhat shocked. ‘But surely—’

  ‘Yes, yes, it will be most interesting. Hastings, here, has pronounced mediumistic powers.’ (Why fix on me, I thought.) ‘To get through a message from the other world—the opportunity is unique! I feel the conditions are propitious. You feel the same, Hastings.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said resolutely, playing up.

  ‘Good. I knew it. Quick, the lights.’

  In another minute he had risen and switched them off. The whole thing had been rushed on the company before they had had the energy to protest had they wanted to do so. As a matter of fact they were, I think, still dazed with astonishment over the will.