I knew there was no point saying any of this to the Super today, though in a different mood he would have made the same good points himself. I decided to risk only a minor challenge. ‘Didn’t you say Poirot sent this letter of accusation to Rowland Rope’s son, not to Rowland Rope himself?’
‘Well, what if he did?’ Bewes rounded on me angrily. ‘What difference does that make?’
‘How old is John McCrodden?’
‘How old? What the devil are you talking about? Does his age matter?’
‘Is he a man or a young boy?’ I continued patiently.
‘Have you taken leave of your senses, Catchpool? John McCrodden is a grown man.’
‘Then wouldn’t it make more sense for me to ask Poirot to apologize to John McCrodden, not his father? Assuming he’s mistaken and John McCrodden is innocent. I mean, if John is not a minor—’
‘He used to be a miner, but not any more,’ said Bewes. ‘He worked in a mine somewhere up in the north-east.’
‘Ah,’ I said, knowing that my boss’s ability to understand context would return sooner if I said as little as possible.
‘But that, Catchpool, is beside the point. Poor Rowly’s the one we need to worry about. John is blaming him for the whole mess. Poirot must write to Rowly immediately and grovel for all he’s worth. This is a monstrous accusation—an outrageous slur! Please see to it that this happens, Catchpool.’
‘I’ll do my best, sir.’
‘Good.’
‘Can you tell me any more about the particulars of the case, sir? I don’t suppose Rowland Rope mentioned why Poirot has got hold of this idea that—’
‘How the devil should I know why, Catchpool? Man must have lost his grip on his faculties—that’s the only explanation I can think of. You can read the letter for yourself, if you like!’
‘Do you have it?’
‘John tore it into pieces, which he sent to Rowly with a note of accusation of his own. Rowly taped the pieces together and passed the letter on to me. I don’t know why John thinks Rowly’s behind it. Rowly plays a straight bat. Always has. His son, of all people, should know that. If Rowly had something to say to John, he’d say it himself.’
‘I’d like to see the letter if I may, sir.’
Bewes walked over to his desk, opened one of the drawers and grimaced as he pulled out the offending item. He handed it to me. ‘It’s the purest nonsense!’ he said, in case I was unsure of his opinion of the matter. ‘Malicious rubbish!’
‘But Poirot is never malicious,’ I nearly said; I stopped myself just in time.
I read the letter. It was brief: only one paragraph. Nevertheless, given what it sought to communicate, it could have been half the length. In a muddled and artless way, it accused John McCrodden of the murder of Barnabas Pandy and claimed that there was proof to vindicate the accusation. If McCrodden did not immediately confess to this murder, then this proof would be turned over to the police.
My gaze settled upon the signature at the bottom of the letter. In a sloping hand was written the name ‘Hercule Poirot’.
It would have been useful if I could have recalled my friend’s signature, but I could not, despite having seen it once or twice. Perhaps whoever had sent the letter had meticulously copied Poirot’s handwriting. What they had not done was manage to sound at all like the man they hoped to impersonate, nor to write the sort of letter he might have written.
If Poirot believed that John McCrodden had murdered this Barnabas Pandy fellow and successfully passed his death off as an accident, he would have visited McCrodden accompanied by the police. He wouldn’t have sent this letter and allowed McCrodden the chance to escape or to take his own life before Hercule Poirot had looked him in the eye and explained to him the chain of errors that had led to his unmasking. And the nasty, insinuating tone … No, it was impossible. There was no doubt in my mind.
I had not had time to work out what effect my revelation would have upon the Super, but I felt I must tell him at once: ‘Sir, the situation seems not to be exactly what I … or what you … That is to say, I’m not sure that an apology from Poirot …’ I was making a hash of it.
‘What are you trying to say, Catchpool?’
‘The letter is a fake, sir,’ I said. ‘I don’t know who wrote it, but I can tell you for certain that it was not Hercule Poirot.’
CHAPTER 6
Rowland Rope
The Super’s instructions were clear: I was to find Poirot at once and ask him to accompany me to the offices of Rowland Rope’s firm of solicitors, Donaldson & McCrodden. Once there, we were to explain that the letter sent to John McCrodden had not been written by Poirot, and to apologize fulsomely for the distress caused by neither one of us.
Having already wasted too many days in Great Yarmouth, I had urgent work to catch up with and was displeased to have this task assigned to me. Surely a telephone call from Bewes to Rowland Rope would have sufficed? The two were great friends, after all. But no, the Super had insisted that McCrodden Senior was a more than usually cautious man who would require an assurance from Poirot that he had not written the offending letter. Bewes wanted me to be present so that I could report back to him that the matter had been satisfactorily dealt with.
‘This should all be straightened out within an hour or two,’ I thought to myself as I set off for Whitehaven Mansions. Alas, Poirot was not at home. His valet told me he was likely to be en route to Scotland Yard. He was apparently as keen to locate me as I was to find him.
I made my way back to Scotland Yard and discovered that Poirot had been there, asking for me, and even waited a short while, but was now gone. There was no sign of Superintendent Bewes either, so I could not ask him how I ought to proceed. I tried Pleasant’s Coffee House, but Poirot was not there either. In the end, exasperated, I decided to visit Rowland McCrodden’s offices alone. I reasoned that he would prefer to know as soon as possible that his son did not stand accused of murder by Hercule Poirot; the word of a Scotland Yard inspector ought to be enough even for Rowland Rope.
Donaldson & McCrodden Solicitors occupied the top two floors of a tall stucco-fronted terrace on Henrietta Street, next to the Covent Garden Hotel. I was greeted by a smiling young woman with a pink face and dark brown hair cut into a short and severely geometrical style. She wore a white blouse and checked skirt that brought to mind a picnic blanket.
She introduced herself as Miss Mason before asking me a series of questions that prevented me from stating the nature of my business as easily as I might have if I had simply been asked ‘How may I help you?’ Instead, an absurd amount of time was wasted by her ‘And if I might enquire as to your name, sir?’, ‘And if I might ask to whom you wish to speak, sir?’, ‘And might I enquire as to whether you have an appointment, sir?’, ‘And are you able to divulge the purpose of your visit?’ Her method of enquiry ensured that I was only able to utter two words at a time, and all the while she stared with undisguised prurience at the envelope in my hand, which was the letter sent by somebody to John McCrodden, accusing him of murder.
By the time Miss Mason led me along a narrow corridor lined on both sides with leather-bound books about the law, I was tempted to run in the opposite direction rather than follow her anywhere. I noticed—no one could fail to—that she did not so much walk as forward-bounce, on two of the tiniest feet I have ever observed.
We reached a black-painted door with the name ‘Rowland McCrodden’ painted on it in white. Miss Mason knocked and a deep voice said, ‘Come!’ We entered, and were met by a man with curly grey hair, a vast expanse of forehead that seemed to occupy an unreasonable amount of his face, and small beady black eyes that were closer to his chin than eyes should be.
Since McCrodden had agreed to see me, I was expecting to be able to commence our conversation at once, but I had not accounted for Miss Mason’s capability to hinder progress. There ensued a frustrating attempt to persuade McCrodden to allow her to enter my name in his appointments diary. ‘What would
be the point of that?’ asked McCrodden with obvious impatience. He had a thin, reedy voice that brought to mind a woodwind instrument. ‘Inspector Catchpool is already here.’
‘But, sir, the rule is that no one can be admitted without an appointment.’
‘Inspector Catchpool has already been admitted, Miss Mason. There he is—you admitted him!’
‘Sir, if you’re meeting Inspector Catchpool, shouldn’t I make an appointment for, well, now, and record it in—?’
‘No,’ Rowland McCrodden cut her off mid-question. ‘Thank you, Miss Mason, that will be all. Please be seated, Inspector—’ He broke off, blinked several times, then said, ‘What is it, Miss Mason?’
‘I was only going to ask, sir, if Inspector Catchpool might wish to partake of some tea. Or coffee. Or perhaps a glass of water? Or if, indeed, you might wish to—’
‘Not for me,’ said McCrodden. ‘Inspector?’
I could not immediately produce an answer. A cup of tea was exactly what I wanted, but it would necessitate the return of Miss Mason.
‘Why don’t you have a little think, Inspector Catchpool, and I’ll come back in a few moments and—’
‘I’m sure the inspector can make up his mind,’ said McCrodden briskly.
‘Nothing for me, thank you,’ I said with a smile.
Finally, mercifully, Miss Mason withdrew. I was determined to waste no more time, so I pulled the letter out of the envelope, laid it on McCrodden’s desk and told him that there was no question of it having come from Hercule Poirot. McCrodden asked how I could be sure of this, and I explained that both the tone and the message left me in no doubt.
‘So, if Poirot did not write the letter, who did?’ asked McCrodden.
‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’
‘Does Poirot know?’
‘I have not yet had the chance to speak to him.’
‘And why did they pretend to be Hercule Poirot?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Then your general bearing, if I may say so, is erroneous.’
‘I’m not sure I understand what you mean,’ I confessed.
‘You said you were here to clear something up, and your manner suggests that you now believe it to be cleared up: Hercule Poirot has not accused my son of murder, therefore I have nothing to worry about. Is that your opinion?’
‘Well …’ I cast about for the correct answer. ‘I can see that it’s an upsetting thing to happen, but if the accusation was some sort of prank, then I wouldn’t concern myself unduly, if I were you.’
‘I disagree. I am, if anything, more disturbed now.’ McCrodden stood up and walked over to the window. He looked down at the street below for a moment before moving two steps to the right and staring at the wall. ‘When I thought it was Poirot, I was confident of a proper resolution. He would eventually admit his error, I thought. I have heard that he is proud, but also honourable and, most importantly of all, amenable to reason. He treats character as if it were a concrete fact, I’m told. Is this true?’
‘He certainly believes knowledge of character is essential to the solving of crime,’ I said. ‘Without knowing the motive, you can’t solve anything, and without understanding character, motive is unknowable. I have also heard him say that no man can act in a way that is contrary to his own nature.’
‘Then I would have been able to convince him that John could never commit a murder—to do so would be at odds with his principles. The idea is laughable. Now, however, I learn that Hercule Poirot is not the one I need to convince, for he did not write the letter. Furthermore, I am able to draw the inescapable conclusion that the letter’s true author is a liar and a fraudster. That sort of person might stop at nothing in his quest to destroy my son.’
McCrodden returned quickly to his chair as if the wall at which he had been staring had silently instructed him to do so. ‘I must know who wrote and sent the letter,’ he said. ‘It is imperative, if I’m to ensure John’s safety. I should like to engage the services of Hercule Poirot. Do you think he would agree to investigate for me?’
‘He might, but … it’s not at all certain that the letter-writer believes what he claims to believe. What if it’s no more than a horribly misjudged joke? This might be the end of it. If your son receives no further communi-cations—’
‘You are naïve in the extreme if you think that,’ said McCrodden. He picked up the letter and threw it at me. It landed on the floor at my feet. ‘When someone sends something like that, they mean you harm. You ignore them at your peril.’
‘My superintendent tells me the death of Barnabas Pandy was an accident,’ I said. ‘He drowned while taking a bath.’
‘That is the story, yes. Officially, there is no suspicion that the death was a murder.’
‘You sound as if you think it could have been,’ I said.
‘Once the possibility is raised, one has a duty to consider it,’ said McCrodden.
‘But the likelihood is that Pandy was not murdered, and you say your son could never commit a murder, so …’
‘I see,’ said McCrodden. ‘You think I am guilty of wilful paternal blindness? No, it’s not that. No one knows John better than I do. He has many faults, but he would not kill.’
He had misunderstood me; I had simply wanted to say that since no one was looking for a murderer in connection with Pandy’s death, and since he knew his son was innocent, McCrodden really had nothing to worry about.
‘You will have heard that I am a strong advocate of the death penalty. “Rowland Rope”, they call me. I do not care for the name, and no one would dare say it in my presence. Now, if they were to call me “Rowland Just and Civilized Society For the Protection of the Innocent” … Unfortunately, that does not trip so easily off the tongue. I’m sure you agree, Inspector, that we must all be accountable for our actions. I don’t need to tell you about Plato’s Ring of Gyges. I discussed it with John many times. I did everything I could to instil proper values in him, but I failed. He is so passionately against the taking of human life that he doesn’t support the death penalty even for the most depraved monsters. He contends that I am as much a murderer as the bloodthirsty reprobate who slits a throat in an alleyway for the sake of a few shillings. Murder is murder, he says. So you see, he would never allow himself to kill another person. It would make him look ludicrous in his own eyes, which would be intolerable to him.’
I nodded, though I was not convinced. My experience as a police inspector has taught me that many people are able to regard themselves with inordinate fondness, no matter what heinous crimes they have committed. They care only about how they look to others, and whether they can get away with it.
‘And, as you say, no one apart from our nefarious letter-writer seems to think Pandy’s death was unlawful,’ McCrodden went on. ‘He was an extremely wealthy man—owner of the Combingham Hall Estate and former owner of several slate mines in Wales. That’s how he made his fortune.’
‘Mines?’ I recalled my conversation with the Super, and the minor/miner misunderstanding. ‘Did your son John used to work in a mine?’
‘Yes. In the north, near Guisborough.’
‘Not in Wales, then?’
‘Never in Wales. You can abandon that idea.’
I did my best to look as if I had abandoned it.
‘Pandy was ninety-four when he drowned in his bath,’ said McCrodden. ‘He had been a widower for sixty-five years. He and his wife had one child, a daughter, who married and had two daughters of her own before dying, along with her husband, in a house fire. Pandy took in his two orphaned grandchildren, Lenore and Annabel, who have both lived at Combingham Hall ever since. Annabel, the youngest, is not married. The older sister, Lenore, married a man by the name of Cecil Lavington. They had two children, Ivy and Timothy, in that order. Cecil died of an infection four years ago. That’s all I’ve managed to find out, and none of it is interesting or suggestive of what steps to take next. I hope Poirot can do better.’
‘Ther
e might be nothing to find out,’ I said. ‘They might be a quite ordinary family, in which no murder has been committed.’
‘There is plenty to find out,’ McCrodden corrected me. ‘Who is the letter-writer, and why did he or she fix upon my son? Until we know these things, those of us who have been accused remain implicated.’
‘You have been accused of nothing,’ I said.
‘You would not say that if you saw the note John enclosed with the letter!’ He pointed at the floor, where the letter still lay by my feet. ‘He accused me of putting Poirot up to it, so that John would have no choice but to take up the law in order to defend himself.’
‘Why would he think you might do that?’
‘John believes I hate him. It could not be further from the truth. I have been critical of the way he conducts his affairs in the past, but only because I want him to prosper. He seems to wish the opposite for himself. He has squandered every opportunity I’ve created for him. One of the reasons I know he cannot have killed Barnabas Pandy is that he does not have the animus to spare. All of his ill will is directed towards me—erroneously.’
I made a polite noise that I hoped was expressive of sympathy.
‘The sooner I can speak to Hercule Poirot, the better,’ said McCrodden. ‘I hope he will be able to get to the bottom of this unsavoury business. I long ago gave up hope of changing my son’s mind about me, but I should like to prove, if I can, that I had nothing do to with that letter.’
CHAPTER 7
An Old Enemy
While I was in the offices of Donaldson & McCrodden on Henrietta Street, Poirot was also in the offices of a firm of solicitors: Fuller, Fuller & Vout, only a short distance away on Drury Lane. Needless to say, I did not know this at the time.
The Mystery of Three Quarters Page 5