Kingsbury considered it. Finally he said, ‘I’ll admit, I’d not considered that until now. You’re right, Mr Porrott. With Miss Ivy’s door being closed, he might not have noticed if there was a stranger in the house. He would certainly have been worried by Miss Annabel’s distress, and he wouldn’t have left her side with her in that state. I’d still say there’s a good chance he would hear a stranger on the prowl, but I’d not swear to it.’
They sat in silence, questions hanging in the air. Instead of feeling vindicated, Poirot felt defeated. The possibilities were once again endless. Barnabas Pandy might not have been murdered at all, or he might have been killed by Kingsbury, or by anybody who could have crept into the estate’s grounds and illicitly entered Combingham Hall that day: Sylvia Rule, Hugo Dockerill, Jane Dockerill, Freddie Rule, John McCrodden … anybody.
What this puzzle lacked, thought Poirot despairingly, was parameters. There was an abundance of suspects for something that stood every chance of not being a crime. And if Rowland McCrodden had persuaded Stanley Donaldson to provide him with a false alibi for the seventh of December, or if Ivy and Lenore Lavington and Annabel Treadway were lying about all being together in Ivy’s room, why, then the number of potential suspects grew even larger.
‘Motive,’ Poirot murmured. ‘It is motive that will lead me to the answer, when too many people had the opportunity.’
‘What’s that you say?’ Kingsbury roused himself from his reverie—and Poirot was ready to start again.
‘What can you tell me about Vincent Lobb?’ he asked.
‘Mr Pandy wouldn’t have nothing to do with him. Not for fifty years he wouldn’t. Mr Lobb let him down badly.’
‘How so?’
‘I’m not able to tell you that, I’m afraid. Mr Pandy never told me. Didn’t like to talk about the particulars, though he talked a lot about the treachery of it. “You’d never betray me, would you, Kingsbury?” he’d say, and I’d tell him I never would. I wouldn’t have, and I never did,’ the old man concluded proudly.
‘What was the subject of the argument between Annabel Treadway and Ivy and Lenore Lavington?’ Poirot asked.
‘Oh, Miss Annabel wasn’t part of the row. That was Mrs Lavington and Miss Ivy. Miss Annabel was trying to stop it.’
‘What was the cause of the problem? Were you able to hear?’
‘I’m not one to eavesdrop, if that’s what you’re suggesting. Anyone who wasn’t deaf would have heard it. Still, I did my best not to listen. And I’m not sure Mrs Lavington would want me telling you what was said between her and her daughter.’
‘But it was Mrs Lavington who told me that you were the person I must speak to! And you have told me a little already, have you not?’
‘Not the particulars, I haven’t,’ said Kingsbury. ‘Mrs Lavington could have told you herself if she’d wanted you to know.’
‘My friend, I would be deeply grateful if you could help me in this matter. Now that we agree that the dog might not have heard a stranger enter the house, the possibility that Barnabas Pandy was murdered … well, let us say that it cannot be ruled out. If he was murdered, we must not let his murderer escape justice.’
‘Now there I agree,’ said Kingsbury grimly. ‘Wring his neck with my bare hands, I would.’
‘Please do not do that. Instead, help me by telling me about this argument you could not help hearing.’
‘But if a stranger killed Mr Pandy, then a little family to-do can’t be important to the solving of it,’ said Kingsbury.
‘You must trust me,’ Poirot told him. ‘I have solved many cases of murder.’
‘I haven’t,’ Kingsbury interjected, his tone gloomy. ‘I’ve never solved even one.’
‘One never knows what is of vital importance, or where the connections lie, until the solution is apparent. The most inconsequential-seeming detail can be the one that matters most.’
‘Well, if you think it might help, though I can’t see how it could … It was something that Mrs Lavington had said to Miss Ivy that Miss Ivy had taken badly. And then she’d accused Mrs Lavington of intending it badly, if you follow me? She thought she’d said it purposefully to wound her, but Mrs Lavington swore she’d done no such thing and that Miss Ivy was making too much of it. Mind you, there was probably more to it than that.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Nothing had been right at the house since that dinner a few days earlier.’
‘Which dinner?’
‘You’re going to be disappointed, Mr Porrott, because I didn’t overhear anything at all on that occasion, but that’s when the trouble started. I’d left them all at the table and gone to do my last few jobs around the Hall. I was on my way to say goodnight to the family before leaving for the night, but I never got as far as the dining hall before Miss Ivy came running at me. Ran past like a mad thing she did, sobbing. Then Miss Annabel did the same, and then Mrs Lavington marched past very quickly with a face like … well, I don’t know how to describe it, but it shocked me. There was a look in her eyes like I’d not seen before. I tried to speak to her but she didn’t see or hear me, Mr Porrott. It was the strangest thing. I thought something frightful must have happened.’
‘This was only a few days before Barnabas Pandy died, you say?’
‘That’s right. I don’t remember how many, I’m sorry to say, but it might have been three or four days. Five at the most.’
‘What did you do, when you suspected something dreadful had happened?’
‘I hurried to the dining table, hoping to find Mr Pandy, hardly daring to wonder what state I might find him in. He was seated at the head of the table where he always sat, and …’ Kingsbury stopped. ‘Mr Porrott, don’t think I didn’t hear all that you said about how much the small details matter, but there’s certain things I know Mr Pandy wouldn’t have wanted anyone to hear about.’
‘Would he have wanted his murderer to go unpunished?’ said Poirot.
The old man shook his head. ‘I hope I’m not doing wrong by telling you, or else Mr Pandy might give me a good hiding when we next meet in a better place.’ He blinked a few times, then said, ‘There’s no need for you to pass on what I’m about to tell you to anybody else, mind.’
‘If it has no bearing on any criminal matter, it will go no further. You have my promise.’
‘Like I said: I found Mr Pandy sitting alone at the dining table, but that’s not all he was doing.’ Lowering his voice, Kingsbury said, ‘He was crying, Mr Porrott. Crying! I’d not seen him do that before, not in all the years I’d known him. It was just the one tear, but I saw it clearly by the light of the candles on the table. Mr Pandy noticed me coming towards him and shook his head. He didn’t want me any closer, not with him as he was, so I came back here, to the cottage. And—this is where you’ll not be pleased with me, Mr Porrott—I never got to find out what had made him shed that tear and sent everyone else running from the table. I knew Mr Pandy wouldn’t want to talk about it, so I never asked. It wasn’t my place to ask.’
On his return to Combingham Hall, Poirot was met by Lenore Lavington, Annabel Treadway and Hopscotch the dog, who had an orange rubber ball in his mouth. ‘I hope Kingsbury was helpful?’ said Lenore.
‘He confirmed much of what you had both already told me,’ said Poirot matter-of-factly, not wishing to reveal how much he had learned in the servant’s cottage. He now had more questions to ask of both sisters, but he would need to think of a clever way to do it—one that did not endanger the old man.
Did that mean, he asked himself, that he believed one of these two women standing before him to be a murderer? If one of them had killed Pandy then the other, as well as Ivy Lavington, must be lying about all being in Ivy’s room together. Instinctively, Poirot had trusted Ivy. Did that mean that he distrusted Lenore Lavington and Annabel Treadway, or was he merely ambiguous about both of them? To avoid these difficult questions, he asked an easier one.
‘If I might, before I leave, use your typewr
iter, madame?’
Lenore Lavington nodded, from which Poirot gathered that she was about to acquiesce. Then she said, ‘M. Poirot, while you were with Kingsbury, Annabel and I discussed this ludicrous and rather sordid situation in which we find ourselves—and in which you are also involved—and we both feel it necessary to put a stop to it. No one has been murdered, and no one believes anybody has been murdered. The story is pure invention, and we don’t even know who invented it, or what exactly their story is, though we may surmise that they were motivated by malice.’
‘All of this is true, madame, but the letter I wish to type before I leave is a different thing altogether. It is … a personal matter.’
‘Is it? Or do you want to check if our typewriter here is the same one used to type the four letters?’
Poirot gave a little bow and smiled his most charming smile. ‘You are shrewd indeed, madame. I apologize a thousand times for my little trick. However, if you would be so generous as to—’
‘I would be generous if I could convince myself it was the right thing to do.’.
‘Lenore’s right, M. Poirot,’ said Annabel. There was a pleading tone to her voice. ‘I should never have come to you. I should have gone straight to the police, who could have assured me that they suspect me of having committed no crime, because, as is quite clear now, there was no crime committed.’
Her sister said, ‘We understand that it must be immensely frustrating for you, M. Poirot, to have your name used in the way that it was by a devious person intent on stirring up trouble for you as much as for anybody else … but the thing to do, when something like this happens, is to ignore it and get on with one’s life. Don’t you agree?’
‘I cannot ignore it, madame, until I understand why these letters were sent.’
‘Then the letter-writer has won,’ said Lenore Lavington. ‘Against you, he has won. Well, I’m certainly not going to let him defeat me. Which is why, with regret, I’m afraid I must now ask you to leave.’
‘But madame …’
‘I’m sorry, M. Poirot. I have made my decision.’
Nothing Poirot said could persuade her to change her mind, and his attempts to do so seemed to cause almost physical pain to Annabel Treadway. Thirty minutes later, he left Combingham Hall without having caught so much as a glimpse of its typewriter.
CHAPTER 17
Poirot’s Trick
Whenever possible, Rowland McCrodden replied in the negative to the social invitations he received. Once in a while, however, he felt duty-bound to attend events that he knew he would not enjoy, and the Law Society dinner was one such occasion. The din alone was nearly enough to make him turn on his heel and leave: all those open mouths filling the air around him with pointless chirping. Everybody seemed to be talking and no one listening, as was always the way at such gatherings. McCrodden found them draining in the extreme.
The dinner was at the Bloxham Hotel, an elegant establishment, famous for its afternoon teas. McCrodden had decided not to do what he normally did, which was to move from one part of the excessively full room to another, trying to avoid being engaged in dialogue. Tonight, he had resolved to submit rather than resist. He would stand still and allow himself to be endlessly accosted. At least that would involve less effort on his part.
‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t old Rowly Rope!’ said a booming voice.
McCrodden turned and found himself face-to-face with a man whose name he was supposed to know but stood no chance of remembering. He had certainly never asked this man to call him Rowly—or Rowland, for that matter.
‘Haven’t you got a drink, old chap? You don’t want to be slow off the mark when it comes to the drink—not in this company! It’ll be all gone before you know it!’
From the loose-mouthed way the man spoke, McCrodden had the sense that vast quantities of liquor had already gone down his throat and were at that moment sloshing around inside his barrel-shaped form.
‘Tell me, old boy, how’s the lovely Mrs Rope? Haven’t seen her at one of these shindigs for a long time. Seem to remember she was something of a stunner!’
McCrodden, whose wife had died many years ago, bristled. ‘You are mistaking me for someone else.’ At that moment, he caught sight of Peter Vout approximately eight chandeliers away, on the opposite side of the large ballroom. ‘Would you please excuse me?’ he said to the barrel, who was shaking his head as if preparing to mount another challenge. McCrodden walked purposefully away from him. He would not, after all, stand still—not if that meant spending his evening with the most objectionable man in the room.
He had told Poirot that he would not deceive Peter Vout, but now, with Vout within easy reach, he found himself wondering: was Poirot right? Would Vout fall for such an obvious trick? McCrodden knew that he himself could not be similarly fooled … or perhaps he only thought that because he knew his own aim. It is natural to imagine that one’s intention is obvious when one knows it oneself. Peter Vout was unaware that Rowland McCrodden and Hercule Poirot were acquainted. Further-more, the redness of Vout’s face and the two empty champagne glasses in his hand suggested he might be less vigilant than usual.
McCrodden had stopped a short distance from where Vout was standing. He could not deny that he was tempted. He was an intellectually curious man, and wanted to see if he could win. The only thing that concerned him was the idea that to do so would be to capitulate to Poirot’s will. And then Fate seemed to decide the matter, as Peter Vout caught sight of McCrodden lurking nearby.
‘Rowland McCrodden!’ Vout strode towards him. ‘What are you doing without a drink? Waiter!’ he called out. ‘Champagne for this gentleman, please! And for me, if you’d be so kind.’
‘None for me, thank you,’ McCrodden told the young waiter. ‘I’ll take some water instead.’
‘Water? Well, that’s rather dull!’
‘Champagne should be reserved for celebrations,’ said McCrodden. ‘I’m hardly in a celebratory mood this evening.’ He said this pointedly, to suggest that there was a story to be told—one that he was only too ready to tell. So far, nothing he had said had been an outright lie. The next part would be difficult, however.
‘Oh, dear! Well, that’s bad luck!’ Vout commiserated. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Yes, indeed. Waiter, bring two glasses of champagne anyway, if you’d be so good. You never know, I might succeed in lifting my friend’s spirits, and if I don’t, well … the extra glass won’t go begging. Haha!’ He slapped the waiter on the back, and the young man scurried away.
‘Now, then, McCrodden, you’d better tell me how you fetched up in this disconsolate state. Whatever the problem, I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think it is. Things generally aren’t, you know.’
Rowland McCrodden made an effort to imagine what fortuitous and alien life experiences, so vastly divergent from his own, might induce a person to utter those words and believe them to be true.
‘It is not so much a problem as an irritant,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to be done about it—or rather, I’ve already done the thing that needed doing; I’ve told the impertinent fellow to buzz off, except I’m afraid I didn’t put it quite so politely. Still, some things leave a decidedly unpleasant taste in the mouth—one that cannot be washed away with champagne!’
Rowland McCrodden had done no acting since his school days. He had a memory of loathing it and being terrible at it. This was only going to work if he drew upon his true feelings—indignation and revulsion—to bolster the false words he was about to utter. He thought about his son being accused of murder by a coward who had not dared to sign his own name, and also about John’s conviction that he was hated by his father, when the opposite was true.
He said to Vout: ‘A detective chap came to see me today. He bombarded me with questions about private matters involving one of my most valuable clients—a man whose affairs I have handled for years. He’s an old friend, really, as much as anything else. And this intrusive, grubby little man wasn’t even an offic
er of the law! He was some sort of sleuth-for-hire, with no good reason to offer as to why I should supply him with answers to a series of really most intrusive questions. I sent him on his way, as I say, but … one wonders how such people sleep at night, undisturbed by pangs of conscience.’
Vout looked interested.
McCrodden went on, ‘My client recently, and through no fault of his own, found himself in a sensitive situation that he wouldn’t wish anybody to find out about. There was a young lady involved—a charming girl—and an estate to be disposed of, and a family with particular … sensitivities. In fact, it’s a perplexing business all round and one that I should very much like to discuss with somebody impartial and unconnected to my client, but I was hardly about to chew over the details with that unsavoury individual!’
Rowland McCrodden pretended to be struck by a sudden thought. ‘I wonder if I might consult you about it, Vout? Not tonight, of course, but perhaps if you have a spare hour next week? I don’t see any harm in telling you all about it if I don’t tell you the name of the chap in question.’
An expression of delight appeared on Vout’s face. ‘Of course! I would be only too happy to help.’
‘Thank you. That’s generous of you. And I’m sorry to burden you with my woes.’
‘I’m very glad you did, old fellow. It’s quite remarkable—but then, coincidences do happen, don’t they? I recently had a similar experience to the one you’ve just described.’
‘You did?’
‘Yes. A detective—a rather well-known one, whose name in the interests of discretion I had better not mention—came to see me and asked if a longstanding client and old friend of mine might have been murdered. He had not, of course. He drow—Ahem!’ Vout cleared his throat to cover his mistake. ‘His death was a tragic accident. There was nothing deliberate or criminal about it, and nobody—no police officer and no court in the land—thought there was, apart from this detective. I told him there was no question of it being a murder, absolutely no question. This is a respectable family we’re talking about. The idea is laughable! But my visitor continued to badger me. He wished to know if there was anything else I could tell him. I told him one more thing, in the spirit of helpfulness.’
The Mystery of Three Quarters Page 13