Our arrival there took place about 8 am. A local police officer had met us at the station and had put us au courant of the situation.
Sir Carmichael Clarke, it seemed, had been in the habit of taking a stroll after dinner every evening. When the police rang up—at some time after eleven—it was ascertained that he had not returned. Since his stroll usually followed the same course, it was not long before a search party discovered his body. Death was due to a crashing blow with some heavy instrument on the back of the head. An open A B C had been placed face downwards on the dead body.
We arrived at Combeside (as the house was called) at about eight o’clock. The door was opened by an elderly butler whose shaking hands and disturbed face showed how much the tragedy had affected him.
“Good morning, Deveril,” said the police officer.
“Good morning, Mr. Wells.”
“These are the gentlemen from London, Deveril.”
“This way, gentlemen.” He ushered us into a long dining room where breakfast was laid. “I’ll get Mr. Franklin.”
A minute or two later a big fair-haired man with a sunburnt face entered the room.
This was Franklin Clarke, the dead man’s only brother.
He had the resolute competent manner of a man accustomed to meeting with emergencies.
“Good morning, gentlemen.”
Inspector Wells made the introductions.
“This is Inspector Crome of the CID, Mr. Hercule Poirot and—er—Captain Hayter.”
“Hastings,” I corrected coldly.
Franklin Clarke shook hands with each of us in turn and in each case the handshake was accompanied by a piercing look.
“Let me offer you some breakfast,” he said. “We can discuss the position as we eat.”
There were no dissentient voices and we were soon doing justice to excellent eggs and bacon and coffee.
“Now for it,” said Franklin Clarke. “Inspector Wells gave me a rough idea of the position last night—though I may say it seemed one of the wildest tales I have ever heard. Am I really to believe, Inspector Crome, that my poor brother is the victim of a homicidal maniac, that this is the third murder that has occurred and that in each case an A B C railway guide has been deposited beside the body?”
“That is substantially the position, Mr. Clarke.”
“But why? What earthly benefit can accrue from such a crime—even in the most diseased imagination?”
Poirot nodded his head in approval.
“You go straight to the point, Mr. Franklin,” he said.
“It’s not much good looking for motives at this stage, Mr. Clarke,” said Inspector Crome. “That’s a matter for an alienist—though I may say that I’ve had a certain experience of criminal lunacy and that the motives are usually grossly inadequate. There is a desire to assert one’s personality, to make a splash in the public eye—in fact, to be a somebody instead of a nonentity.”
“Is that true, M. Poirot?”
Clarke seemed incredulous. His appeal to the older man was not too well received by Inspector Crome, who frowned.
“Absolutely true,” replied my friend.
“At any rate such a man cannot escape detection long,” said Clarke thoughtfully.
“Vous croyez? Ah, but they are cunning—ces gens là! And you must remember such a type has usually all the outer signs of insignificance—he belongs to the class of person who is usually passed over and ignored or even laughed at!”
“Will you let me have a few facts, please, Mr. Clarke,” said Crome, breaking in on the conversation.
“Certainly.”
“Your brother, I take it, was in his usual health and spirits yesterday? He received no unexpected letters? Nothing to upset him?”
“No. I should say he was quite his usual self.”
“Not upset and worried in any way.”
“Excuse me, inspector. I didn’t say that. To be upset and worried was my poor brother’s normal condition.”
“Why was that?”
“You may not know that my sister-in-law, Lady Clarke, is in very bad health. Frankly, between ourselves, she is suffering from an incurable cancer, and cannot live very much longer. Her illness has preyed terribly on my brother’s mind. I myself returned from the East not long ago and I was shocked at the change in him.”
Poirot interpolated a question.
“Supposing, Mr. Clarke, that your brother had been found shot at the foot of a cliff—or shot with a revolver beside him. What would have been your first thought?”
“Quite frankly, I should have jumped to the conclusion that it was suicide,” said Clarke.
“Encore!” said Poirot.
“What is that?”
“A fact that repeats itself. It is of no matter.”
“Anyway, it wasn’t suicide,” said Crome with a touch of curtness. “Now I believe, Mr. Clarke, that it was your brother’s habit to go for a stroll every evening?”
“Quite right. He always did.”
“Every night?”
“Well, not if it was pouring with rain, naturally.”
“And everyone in the house knew of this habit?”
“Of course.”
“And outside?”
“I don’t quite know what you mean by outside. The gardener may have been aware of it or not, I don’t know.”
“And in the village?”
“Strictly speaking, we haven’t got a village. There’s a post office and cottages at Churston Ferrers—but there’s no village or shops.”
“I suppose a stranger hanging round the place would be fairly easily noticed?”
“On the contrary. In August all this part of the world is a seething mass of strangers. They come over every day from Brixham and Torquay and Paignton in cars and buses and on foot. Broadsands, which is down there (he pointed), is a very popular beach and so is Elbury Cove—it’s a well-known beauty spot and people come there and picnic. I wish they didn’t! You’ve no idea how beautiful and peaceful this part of the world is in June and the beginning of July.”
“So you don’t think a stranger would be noticed?”
“Not unless he looked—well, off his head.”
“This man doesn’t look off his head,” said Crome with certainty. “You see what I’m getting at, Mr. Clarke. This man must have been spying out the land beforehand and discovered your brother’s habit of taking an evening stroll. I suppose, by the way, that no strange man came up to the house and asked to see Sir Carmichael yesterday?”
“Not that I know of—but we’ll ask Deveril.”
He rang the bell and put the question to the butler.
“No, sir, no one came to see Sir Carmichael. And I didn’t notice anyone hanging about the house either. No more did the maids, because I’ve asked them.”
The butler waited a moment, then inquired: “Is that all, sir?”
“Yes, Deveril, you can go.”
The butler withdrew, drawing back in the doorway to let a young woman pass.
Franklin Clarke rose as she came in.
“This is Miss Grey, gentlemen. My brother’s secretary.”
My attention was caught at once by the girl’s extraordinary Scandinavian fairness. She had the almost colourless ash hair—light-grey eyes—and transparent glowing pallor that one finds amongst Norwegians and Swedes. She looked about twenty-seven and seemed to be as efficient as she was decorative.
“Can I help you in any way?” she asked as she sat down.
Clarke brought her a cup of coffee, but she refused any food.
“Did you deal with Sir Carmichael’s correspondence?” asked Crome.
“Yes, all of it.”
“I suppose he never received a letter or letters signed A B C?”
“A B C?” She shook her head. “No, I’m sure he didn’t.”
“He didn’t mention having seen anyone hanging about during his evening walks lately?”
“No. He never mentioned anything of the kind.”
“Not exactly hanging about. Of course, there are a lot of people what you might call wandering about at this time of year. One often meets people strolling with an aimless look across the golf links or down the lanes to the sea. In the same way, practically everyone one sees this time of year is a stranger.”
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
Inspector Crome asked to be taken over the ground of Sir Carmichael’s nightly walk. Franklin Clarke led the way through the french window, and Miss Grey accompanied us.
She and I were a little behind the others.
“All this must have been a terrible shock to you all,” I said.
“It seems quite unbelievable. I had gone to bed last night when the police rang up. I heard voices downstairs and at last I came out and asked what was the matter. Deveril and Mr. Clarke were just setting out with lanterns.”
“What time did Sir Carmichael usually come back from his walk?”
“About a quarter to ten. He used to let himself in by the side door and then sometimes he went straight to bed, sometimes to the gallery where his collections were. That is why, unless the police had rung up, he would probably not have been missed till they went to call him this morning.”
“It must have been a terrible shock to his wife?”
“Lady Clarke is kept under morphia a good deal. I think she is in too dazed a condition to appreciate what goes on round her.”
We had come out through a garden gate on to the golf links. Crossing a corner of them, we passed over a stile into a steep, winding lane.
“This leads down to Elbury Cove,” explained Franklin Clarke. “But two years ago they made a new road leading from the main road to Broadsands and on to Elbury, so that now this lane is practically deserted.”
We went on down the lane. At the foot of it a path led between brambles and bracken down to the sea. Suddenly we came out on a grassy ridge overlooking the sea and a beach of glistening white stones. All round dark green trees ran down to the sea. It was an enchanting spot—white, deep green—and sapphire blue.
“How beautiful!” I exclaimed.
Clarke turned to me eagerly.
“Isn’t it? Why people want to go abroad to the Riviera when they’ve got this! I’ve wandered all over the world in my time and, honest to God, I’ve never seen anything as beautiful.”
Then, as though ashamed of his eagerness, he said in a more matter-of-fact tone:
“This was my brother’s evening walk. He came as far as here, then back up the path, and turning to the right instead of the left, went past the farm and across the fields back to the house.”
We proceeded on our way till we came to a spot near the hedge, halfway across the field where the body had been found.
Crome nodded.
“Easy enough. The man stood here in the shadow. Your brother would have noticed nothing till the blow fell.”
The girl at my side gave a quick shiver.
Franklin Clarke said:
“Hold up, Thora. It’s pretty beastly, but it’s no use shirking facts.”
Thora Grey—the name suited her.
We went back to the house where the body had been taken after being photographed.
As we mounted the wide staircase the doctor came out of a room, black bag in hand.
“Anything to tell us, doctor?” inquired Clarke.
The doctor shook his head.
“Perfectly simple case. I’ll keep the technicalities for the inquest. Anyway, he didn’t suffer. Death must have been instantaneous.”
He moved away.
“I’ll just go in and see Lady Clarke.”
A hospital nurse came out of a room farther along the corridor and the doctor joined her.
We went into the room out of which the doctor had come.
I came out again rather quickly. Thora Grey was still standing at the head of the stairs.
There was a queer scared expression on her face.
“Miss Grey—” I stopped. “Is anything the matter?”
She looked at me.
“I was thinking,” she said, “about D.”
“About D?” I stared at her stupidly.
“Yes. The next murder. Something must be done. It’s got to be stopped.”
Clarke came out of the room behind me.
He said:
“What’s got to be stopped, Thora?”
“These awful murders.”
“Yes.” His jaw thrust itself out aggressively. “I want to talk to M. Poirot some time…Is Crome any good?” He shot the words out unexpectedly.
I replied that he was supposed to be a very clever officer.
My voice was perhaps not as enthusiastic as it might have been.
“He’s got a damned offensive manner,” said Clarke. “Looks as though he knows everything—and what does he know? Nothing at all as far as I can make out.”
He was silent for a minute or two. Then he said:
“M. Poirot’s the man for my money. I’ve got a plan. But we’ll talk of that later.”
He went along the passage and tapped at the same door as the doctor had entered.
I hesitated a moment. The girl was staring in front of her.
“What are you thinking of, Miss Grey?”
She turned her eyes towards me.
“I’m wondering where he is now…the murderer, I mean. It’s not twelve hours yet since it happened…Oh! aren’t there any real clairvoyants who could see where he is now and what he is doing….”
“The police are searching—” I began.
My commonplace words broke the spell. Thora Grey pulled herself together.
“Yes,” she said. “Of course.”
In her turn she descended the staircase. I stood there a moment longer conning her words over in my mind.
A B C….
Where was he now…?
Sixteen
NOT FROM CAPTAIN HASTINGS’ PERSONAL NARRATIVE
Mr. Alexander Bonaparte Cust came out with the rest of the audience from the Torquay Palladium, where he had been seeing and hearing that highly emotional film, Not a Sparrow….
He blinked a little as he came out into the afternoon sunshine and peered round him in that lost-dog fashion that was characteristic of him.
He murmured to himself: “It’s an idea….”
Newsboys passed along crying out:
“Latest…Homicidal Maniac at Churston….”
They carried placards on which was written:
CHURSTON MURDER. LATEST.
Mr. Cust fumbled in his pocket, found a coin, and bought a paper. He did not open it at once.
Entering the Princess Gardens, he slowly made his way to a shelter facing Torquay harbour. He sat down and opened the paper.
There were big headlines:
SIR CARMICHAEL CLARKE MURDERED.
TERRIBLE TRAGEDY AT CHURSTON.
WORK OF A HOMICIDAL MANIAC.
And below them:
Only a month ago England was shocked and startled by the murder of a young girl, Elizabeth Barnard, at Bexhill. It may be remembered that an A B C railway guide figured in the case. An A B C was also found by the dead body of Sir Carmichael Clarke, and the police incline to the belief that both crimes were committed by the same person. Can it be possible that a homicidal murderer is going the round of our seaside resorts?…
A young man in flannel trousers and a bright blue Aertex shirt who was sitting beside Mr. Cust remarked:
“Nasty business—eh?”
Mr. Cust jumped.
“Oh, very—very—”
His hands, the young man noticed, were trembling so that he could hardly hold the paper.
“You never know with lunatics,” said the young man chattily. “They don’t always look barmy, you know. Often they seem just the same as you or me….”
“I suppose they do,” said Mr. Cust.
“It’s a fact. Sometimes it’s the war what unhing
ed them—never been right since.”
“I—I expect you’re right.”
“I don’t hold with wars,” said the young man.
His companion turned on him.
“I don’t hold with plague and sleeping sickness and famine and cancer…but they happen all the same!”
“War’s preventable,” said the young man with assurance.
Mr. Cust laughed. He laughed for some time.
The young man was slightly alarmed.
“He’s a bit batty himself,” he thought.
Aloud he said:
“Sorry, sir, I expect you were in the war.”
“I was,” said Mr. Cust. “It—it—unsettled me. My head’s never been right since. It aches, you know. Aches terribly.”
“Oh! I’m sorry about that,” said the young man awkwardly.
“Sometimes I hardly know what I’m doing….”
“Really? Well, I must be getting along,” said the young man and removed himself hurriedly. He knew what people were once they began to talk about their health.
Mr. Cust remained with his paper.
He read and reread….
People passed to and fro in front of him.
Most of them were talking of the murder….
“Awful…do you think it was anything to do with the Chinese? Wasn’t the waitress in a Chinese café….”
“Actually on the golf links….”
“I heard it was on the beach….”
“—but, darling, we took our tea to Elbury only yesterday….”
“—police are sure to get him….”
“—say he may be arrested any minute now….”
“—quite likely he’s in Torquay…that other woman was who murdered the what do you call ’ems….”
Mr. Cust folded up the paper very neatly and laid it on the seat. Then he rose and walked sedately along towards the town.
Girls passed him, girls in white and pink and blue, in summery frocks and pyjamas and shorts. They laughed and giggled. Their eyes appraised the men they passed.
Not once did their eyes linger for a second on Mr. Cust….
He sat down at a little table and ordered tea and Devonshire cream….
The A.B.C. Murders Page 9