‘Oui, mademoiselle. But we must postpone our discussion of the Church Window Cake until later. Catchpool and I are here for an important meeting.’
‘With someone who isn’t here yet,’ said Fee. ‘There’s plenty of time.’
‘The two of you are going to talk about Church Window Cake?’ I said, confused.
They both ignored me. ‘And if we begin and are then interrupted?’ said Poirot. ‘I prefer to do things in a more orderly fashion, one at a time.’
‘Look at the teapots,’ said Fee. ‘Dusted ’em all, I did. Specially for you. Put all the spouts pointing the same way. Mind you, I can easily put them back how they were before …’
‘Please refrain from doing so, I beg of you.’ Poirot looked up at the shelves where the teapots stood. ‘C’est magnifique!’ he declared. ‘I could not have done better myself. Very well, mademoiselle, I will tell you. I visited Kemble’s Coffee House as you asked me to. There I found the waitress Philippa and I ordered a slice of the Church Window Cake. I engaged her in conversation about it. She admitted to having made it herself.’
‘See!’ Fee hissed. ‘Even if she’d denied it, I wouldn’t believe a single word that came from her.’
‘I asked her where the recipe came from. She told me that it came from a friend.’
‘She’s no friend of mine, and hasn’t ever been! Working next to someone doesn’t make them your friend.’
‘What is this about?’ I asked. Again, Poirot and Fee ignored me. Meanwhile, Rowland Rope was late.
‘I asked her what was the name of the friend who gave her the recipe,’ said Poirot. ‘At once, she became furtive in her bearing and turned her attention to another customer.’
‘That’s all the proof I need,’ said Fee. ‘She knows she’s stolen from me, right enough—but I’ll deal with her! And now, I’ll bring you a slice of my Church Window Cake with the compliments of the house.’
I glanced at my watch. Fee said, ‘He’ll be here in five minutes or so, your gent with the big forehead. I told him to return at fifteen minutes after two.’ She smiled and made off towards the kitchen before either of us could admonish her.
‘I sometimes wonder if she is a little unhinged,’ I told Poirot. ‘When ever did you find time to undertake this investigation into cake recipe theft?’
‘I am lucky, mon ami. Whether I am doing my work or pursuing my own interests, I need nothing more than the opportunity to think. Sitting amid strangers and eating, slowly, a slice of cake … these circumstances are most conducive to the functioning of the little grey cells. Ah, Rowland McCrodden est arrivé.’
So he had.
‘Monsieur McCrodden.’ Poirot shook his hand. ‘I am Hercule Poirot. You caught a glimpse of me yesterday, but I did not have the opportunity to introduce myself.’
McCrodden looked suitably embarrassed. ‘That was unfortunate,’ he said. ‘I hope we will make good progress this afternoon, to compensate for the time lost.’
Fee brought coffee and a slice of Church Window Cake for Poirot, tea for me and water for Rowland McCrodden, who wasted no time in getting down to business.
‘Whoever sent John that letter has escalated his campaign of persecution,’ he said. ‘Last night a woman telephoned, pretending to be a representative of yours, Catchpool, and of Scotland Yard. She told John the date on which Barnabas Pandy died and asked him for an alibi.’
‘That is not quite accurate,’ I said. Poirot and I had agreed in advance that we would tell him the truth—most of it, at any rate. ‘I believe she said that she was telephoning on behalf of Inspector Catchpool of Scotland Yard. Which she was—though not in connection with any Scotland Yard business. She certainly did not say that she herself was an employee of the Yard.’
‘What the dickens …?’ McCrodden scowled at me across the table. ‘Do you mean to say that you were responsible? That you put her up to it? Who was she?’
I made a point of not looking in Fee Spring’s direction. Poirot, I assume, did the same. I could have made the four telephone calls myself, but I had wanted to add a layer of protection. Knowing there was a chance the Super might end up hauling me over the coals for it, I had decided that I would more plausibly be able to deny all knowledge if the voice on the other end of the telephone was reported to have been a woman’s. Coward that I am, I calculated that if Fee took care of the matter for Poirot—as that was how I thought of it—then I could happily tell myself I was so uninvolved as to be guiltless. Fee had none of my qualms about the unorthodoxy of the plan; it was instantly apparent that I had made her day by asking her to do it.
‘It is I who must take responsibility, monsieur,’ Poirot told Rowland McCrodden. ‘Do not alarm yourself. From this point forward, the three of us will work together to solve this mystery.’
‘Work together?’ McCrodden recoiled. ‘Do you have any idea what you have done, Poirot? John came to my house after receiving that wretched telephone call, and told me that he was no longer my son and I no longer his father. He wishes to sever ties altogether.’
‘He will change his mind as soon as the true identity of the letter-writer is known. Do not distress yourself, monsieur. Instead, place your trust in Hercule Poirot. May I ask … why did you insist on meeting today in a different place? What is in your offices that you do not wish me to see?’
McCrodden made a strange noise. ‘It’s too late for that,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing.’
Poirot tried again: ‘Why did you lock yourself in your room, then free yourself, only to disappear?’
We sat in silence while he considered the question.
‘Monsieur? If you could please answer.’
‘The reason has nothing to do with the matter at hand,’ said McCrodden stiffly. ‘Will that satisfy you?’
‘Pas du tout. If you will not explain, I will have no choice but to guess. Could it be that you are afraid we will find a typewriter?’
‘A typewriter?’ McCrodden looked frustrated and a little bored. ‘What do you mean?’
‘E!’ said Poirot enigmatically.
McCrodden turned to me. ‘What does he mean, Catchpool?’
‘I don’t know, but you’ll notice his eyes have turned a striking shade of emerald green. That usually means he has worked something out.’
‘Emerald?’ McCrodden growled, pushing his chair back from the table. ‘You know, don’t you? You both know. And you’re taunting me. But how could you know? I have spoken to nobody.’
‘What is it that you think we know, monsieur? About the typewriter?’
‘I don’t care a tuppenny damn for your typewriter! I’m talking about the reason I couldn’t bear to stay in my offices a second longer yesterday and the reason I refused to meet you there today. I’m talking about Emerald, as well you know. That’s why you said “emerald green”, isn’t it?’
Poirot and I exchanged a look of utmost confusion.
‘Monsieur … what is this emerald?’
‘Not what. Who. She’s the reason I cannot go to my own place of work—which is most inconvenient. Miss Emerald Mason.’
‘Miss Mason?’ I said. ‘The lady who works for you?’
‘I suppose I shall have to tell you now—not that it’s any of your business. Miss Mason’s Christian name is Emerald. I thought you knew. When you said “emerald green” …’
‘Non, monsieur. Why does the presence of this woman drive you out of your building?’
‘She has done nothing wrong,’ said McCrodden despondently. ‘She’s diligent, well turned out—in every respect the model employee. The firm’s affairs seem to matter to her as much as they do to Donaldson and me. I cannot fault her.’
‘And yet?’ Poirot prompted.
‘I find her more insufferable by the day. Yesterday, I reached the point where I could bear it no longer. I had mentioned to her that I couldn’t make up my mind whether to invite a particular client to attend the forthcoming Law Society dinner
as my guest—there are reasons for and against, with which Miss Mason is familiar—and she reminded me three times in the hour that followed that I needed to decide as a matter of urgency. I know the date of the Law Society dinner as well as she does, and, what is more, she knows I do. It was clear that if she could have compelled me to make up my mind on the spot, she would have! The third time I told her I had not yet come to a decision, she said …’ He gritted his teeth at the memory. ‘She said, “Oh, dear. Well, perhaps you should have a little think.” As if I were five years old. That was the last straw. I locked my office door and thereafter, when she addressed me from the other side of it, I ignored her.’
Poirot chuckled. ‘And then, Catchpool and I … we arrive.’
‘Yes. By then it was too late. The black mood that had me in its grip was … well, it was quite irrational.’
‘If you find Miss Mason so enervating, why do you not tell her that you have no further need of her services?’ said Poirot. ‘Then you could once again go to work without dread in your heart.’
McCrodden seemed disgusted by the idea. ‘I have no intention of turning her out on to the street. She is conscientious and has done nothing wrong. Besides, Stanley Donaldson, the firm’s other partner, has no objection to her, as far as I know. I must try to overcome my aversion to her, and stop indulging in this … whatever it is.’
‘Indulging,’ said Poirot thoughtfully. ‘That is an interesting way to describe it.’
‘It is an indulgence,’ said McCrodden. ‘Avoiding the office, avoiding her, is satisfying in a way that it ought not to be—because I know how it will frustrate her.’
‘This is fascinating indeed,’ said Poirot.
‘No, it isn’t,’ said McCrodden. ‘It’s childish of me and not what we’re here to discuss. I want to know, Poirot, how you’re proposing to find out who sent that letter to my son.’
‘I have several ideas. The first involves your Law Society dinner. What is the date of it? I am wondering if it might be the same one to which Barnabas Pandy’s solicitor, Peter Vout, has been invited.’
‘It must be,’ said McCrodden. ‘There is only one on the horizon. Peter Vout was this Pandy fellow’s solicitor, you say? Well, well.’
‘Do you know him?’ asked Poirot.
‘A little, yes.’
‘Excellent. Then you are ideally placed.’
‘For what?’ McCrodden asked suspiciously.
Poirot rubbed his hands together. ‘As they say, mon ami … you are going to perform for us the under-the-cover investigation!’
CHAPTER 12
Many Ruined Alibis
‘That’s the most atrocious idea I’ve ever heard,’ said Rowland McCrodden, once he knew the detail of Poirot’s proposed plan. ‘It’s out of the question.’
‘You might think so now, monsieur—but as the evening of the Law Society dinner draws nearer, you will come to see that it is a most advantageous opportunity, and that you are more than capable of playing your role to perfection.’
‘I will not participate in a deception, however good the cause.’
‘Mon ami, let us not argue. If you do not wish to do as I propose, then you will not do it. I cannot insist that you do.’
‘And I shan’t,’ said McCrodden forcefully.
‘We shall see. Now, will you agree to allow Catchpool here to inspect all the typewriters used by your firm?’
McCrodden’s mouth tightened to a thin line. ‘Why do you return to the subject of typewriters time after time?’ he asked.
Poirot produced from a pocket the letter that had been sent to John McCrodden. He passed it across the table. ‘Do you notice anything about any of the letters?’ he said.
‘No. I can’t see anything worth remarking upon.’
‘Study them closely.’
‘No, I … Wait. The letter “e” is incomplete.’
‘Précisément.’
‘There’s a gap in the straight line. A small hole of white.’ McCrodden dropped the letter on the table. ‘I see. If you find the typewriter, you find the sender of the letter. And since you’ve just asked permission to search my offices, I can only conclude that you suspect me of being that person.’
‘Not at all, my friend. It is a mere formality. Everybody connected to this puzzle who is in possession of a typewriter we will investigate: the home of Sylvia Rule; that of Barnabas Pandy, of course; Turville College, where Timothy Lavington and Freddie Rule are pupils and Hugo Dockerill is a housemaster …’
‘Who are all these people?’ asked Rowland McCrodden. ‘I’ve never heard of them.’
I took the opportunity to tell him that his son had not been the only person to get an accusatory letter, then watched as he struggled to digest the information. He said nothing for some time. Then: ‘But why didn’t you tell John, in that case, that he wasn’t the only one? Instead, you allowed him to believe that he alone stood accused.’
‘I did no such thing, monsieur. Assuredly, I informed your son that he was not the sole recipient of such a letter. My valet told to him the same thing—Georges testified on my behalf that I spoke the truth—but your son would not listen. He was steadfast in his belief that you must be responsible.’
‘He’s a blind, stubborn fool!’ McCrodden banged his fist down on the table. ‘Always has been, since the day he was born. What I don’t understand is why. Why would anybody send letters to four different people, accusing them all of the same murder, and sign them in your name instead of his own?’
‘It is puzzling,’ Poirot concurred.
‘Is that all you have to say? May I suggest that, instead of sitting around hoping the answer falls into our laps, we use our brains and try to solve the problem?’
Poirot smiled graciously. ‘I did not wait, mon ami. I have, in fact, started without you to use the little grey cells of the mind. But, please, join me.’
‘I can think of two reasons why someone might do it,’ I said. ‘Reason one: if he signs the letters in your name, Poirot, they are more likely to frighten the life out of those unlucky enough to receive them: the police listen when Hercule Poirot says somebody is guilty of murder. Therefore, if the letter-writer wants to give people a nasty shock, using your name is the way to do it. Even an innocent person would worry that to be accused of murder by you might prove fatal for them.’
‘I agree,’ said Poirot. ‘What is the second reason?’
‘The letter-writer wants you to look into the matter,’ I said. ‘He or she thinks Barnabas Pandy was murdered, but doesn’t know for sure. Or does know it was murder, but doesn’t know who did it. He or she comes up with a plan to make you curious enough to investigate. Going to the police won’t work because the official record already states that Pandy’s death was accidental.’
‘Very good,’ said Poirot. ‘Both of those reasons I had thought of myself. But tell me, why these four people, Catchpool?’
‘Not being the letter-writer myself, I’m afraid I can’t answer that one.’
Poirot said to McCrodden, ‘According to Monsieur Pandy’s granddaughter, Annabel Treadway, there were five people at Combingham Hall on the seventh of December: she herself; Barnabas Pandy; his other granddaughter, Lenore Lavington; her daughter, Ivy; and Monsieur Pandy’s manservant, Kingsbury. Let us assume for a moment that it was indeed a murder. The obvious people who ought to have received these letters of accusation are the four who were at Combingham Hall that day and are still alive: Annabel Treadway, Lenore Lavington, Ivy Lavington, and Kingsbury. Of those, only one got a letter. The other three letters were sent to two people who, if they are to be believed, were busy all of that day at the Turville College Christmas Fair—Sylvia Rule and Hugo Dockerill—and to John McCrodden, who, so far, does not appear to be in any way connected to the deceased man.’
‘John is likely to have been in Spain when Pandy died,’ said his father. ‘I’m sure it was early December last year that I tried to track him down at the market where he works, and was told that he
had gone to Spain and would remain there for several weeks.’
‘You do not sound sure,’ Poirot told him.
‘Well …’ McCrodden hestitated. ‘It was December, undoubtedly. There were Christmas trinkets for sale on all the market stalls: shiny, useless pieces of rubbish. It might have been later in December, I suppose.’ He shook his head in apparent disgust, as if he had caught himself red-handed in the act of lying to protect his son. ‘You’re right,’ he admitted. ‘I don’t know where John was when Pandy died. I never know where he is. Poirot, believe me, I would not allow my judgement to be clouded by sentiment. Even though he is my only child, if John committed a murder, I would be the first to notify the police and I would support his execution as I support the death penalty for all murderers.’
‘Is that so, monsieur?’
‘It is. One must stick by one’s principles or else the fabric of society crumbles. If a child of mine deserved it, I would hang him myself. But, as I told Catchpool, John would never kill another person. This I know for a fact. Therefore, his precise whereabouts on the day in question are irrelevant. He is innocent, and that’s the end of the matter.’
‘Those words, “the end of the matter” … they are only ever used when the matter in question has only just begun,’ said Poirot, much to Rowland McCrodden’s consternation.
‘Why would John go to Spain?’ I asked.
A look of disapproval passed across Rowland McCrodden’s face. ‘He goes there regularly. His maternal grandmother lived there for a time and, when she died, she left her house to John. It’s close to the sea and the weather is far superior to our climate. John is happier in Spain than in any part of England—he has always said so. And more recently, there has been a woman … Disreputable, of course. Not at all the sort of girl I’d have chosen for him.’
‘People need to choose for themselves in these matters,’ I said before I could stop myself, thinking about the ‘ideal wife in waiting’ whom my mother had recently found and attempted to inflict upon me. She was probably a delightful young woman, but I would forever blame her for those dismal few days in Great Yarmouth that I had felt obliged to offer Mother as compensation.
The Mystery of Three Quarters Page 9