No one responded.
Thankfully, a few moments later, Poirot and Timothy Lavington returned. Poirot’s eyes had a hard look about them. ‘Catchpool,’ he said. ‘As quickly as you can, please, check every room in the house. The rest of us will wait here.’
‘What am I looking for?’ I asked, already on my feet.
‘In my bedroom … Do you know where that is?’
I nodded.
‘In my bedroom, you will look for a note that has been left for me by Kingsbury.’
I heard a gasp then: an uneven, staggered gasp. It sounded as if it came from a woman—yes, I thought, definitely a woman—but there was no way of knowing which one. Perhaps if I had been looking around the room at that moment … but my attention had been focused solely on Poirot.
‘In my room, also, and in every room of this house, you will look for Kingsbury himself,’ Poirot said. ‘Quick, my friend. There is no time to lose!’
Annabel Treadway stood up. ‘You’re frightening me,’ she told Poirot. ‘You sound as if you think Kingsbury is in danger.’
‘I do, mademoiselle. He is in the most grave danger. Please hurry, Catchpool!’
‘Then we must all look for him,’ said Annabel.
‘No!’ Poirot stamped his foot on the floor. ‘I forbid it. Only Catchpool. Nobody else is to leave this room.’
I don’t know how many bedrooms there are at Combingham Hall, and my memory of my panicked dash around the place that afternoon is probably unreliable, but I would not be at all surprised if someone were to tell me that there were thirty bedrooms, or even forty. I raced from room to room, from floor to floor, feeling as if I was running around a sinister, deserted city instead of a family home. I distinctly remember an entire floor of bedrooms that were unused and almost derelict, with bare mattresses in some and, in others, bed frames without mattresses.
I discovered that I did not, in fact, know where Poirot’s bedroom was. It felt like hours before I reached it, but I knew it was his as soon as I walked in and saw, laid out with geometric neatness beside a book and a cigarette case, the net he uses to protect his moustaches while he sleeps.
There was an envelope on the floor, between the bed and the door. It was sealed. In spidery handwriting, someone—presumably Kingsbury—had written ‘Mr Herkl Porrott’. I put the envelope in my trouser pocket and continued with my search. ‘Kingsbury!’ I yelled as I ran along corridor after corridor, pushing open endless doors as I went. ‘Are you here? Kingsbury!’ I received no answer. All I could hear was my own words as they echoed back to me.
Eventually, after what felt like hours, I pushed open a door and found that I recognized the room behind it. It was the bathroom in which Barnabas Pandy had drowned. Poirot had insisted on showing it to me yesterday.
I was relieved to see an empty bathtub: no water and no dead body. I was busy telling myself that it was absurd to imagine I might find Kingsbury drowned in the same tub in which Pandy had died, when I noticed something on the floor. It was close to my feet, near the door. It was a towel: white with red patches and streaks.
I knew straight away that the red was blood.
I bent down to examine the towel more closely and I saw, between the feet of the bathtub, a dark shape lying on the floor behind it. The bath itself had initially blocked my view of it. I knew at once what it must be, though I prayed I would turn out to be wrong as I walked over to take a closer look.
It was Kingsbury. He lay curled on his side. His eyes were open. Around and beneath his head was a pool of red, forming an almost perfect circle. It resembled, in that moment and to my eyes at least, a sort of halo or crown—neither of which suited poor Kingsbury. One look at his face was enough to tell me he was dead.
CHAPTER 33
The Marks on the Towel
The next day, our meeting was reconvened in the drawing room of Combingham Hall. Two o’clock was again the agreed hour and, unlike on the previous day, everybody arrived promptly. Poirot confided to me later that he felt insulted by their punctuality. In his eyes, it was proof that they were all more than capable of arriving at the correct time when it mattered to them.
This meeting had been called not only by Poirot but also by a local police officer by the name of Inspector Hubert Thrubwell. ‘We are treating Mr Kingsbury’s death as murder for a very simple reason,’ he told us all. ‘There was a towel on the floor in the bathroom where he lay dead. Inspector Catchpool found the towel, and it was nowhere near the body of Mr Kingsbury. Isn’t that right, Inspector Catchpool?’
‘It is,’ I said. ‘The towel was next to the door, on the opposite side of the room. I almost trod on it as I walked in.’
Thrubwell thanked me and continued. ‘When that towel was examined by our police doctor, two distinct types of blood were found.’
‘You do not mean different types of blood, mon ami,’ said Poirot. ‘All of the blood, if it belonged to Kingsbury, must have been of the same type. You are talking about the marks made by the blood on the towel, n’est-ce pas?’
‘Yes, I am,’ said Thrubwell. ‘I am indeed!’ He looked pleased to have been corrected. ‘The police doctor found that Mr Kingsbury’s death was the result of a serious head wound. He had either been pushed or fallen back, and hit his head hard on the sharp corner of the only cupboard in the room. Without the evidence of the towel that Inspector Catchpool found, it would have been impossible to know whether he was pushed or if he fell. Thanks to the towel, I think we can safely say that he was probably pushed—and even if he wasn’t, he was certainly left to bleed to death by someone who wanted him gone. And that, in my book, is what I call murder!’ Thrubwell looked at Poirot, who nodded his approval.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Lenore Lavington. ‘How does a towel prove anything?’
‘Because of the two types of marks made by Mr Kingsbury’s blood,’ said Thrubwell. ‘On one side of the towel was a large, thick, dark patch of blood, where Mr Kingsbury must have held it against his wound to try to stop the flow and save his own life. Now, if that’s what he was trying to do, then why did the towel end up on the other side of the room, beyond the bathtub? I can’t see that Mr Kingsbury would have had the strength to throw it all that way. It’s a large room, and he was in a severely weakened state, and not the strongest of men even before he sustained his head wound. And then we come to the other blood marks. As well as the dense, dark patch of blood there were also five streaks on a quite different part of the towel. These were lighter in colour than the larger patch, and one of the five was shorter and lower down than the others.’
‘Streaks?’ said Ivy Lavington. She looked pale and serious. Annabel Treadway, in the chair beside Ivy’s, was crying silently. Hopscotch stood next to her with one paw in her lap, occasionally whining and licking the side of her face. Most of the others present looked stunned.
‘Yes, streaks,’ said Inspector Thrubwell. ‘It didn’t take long for Mr Poirot here to figure out that they were finger marks. The shorter, lower one was made by the thumb.’
‘The thumb of the person who left Mr Kingsbury to bleed to death?’ asked Jane Dockerill.
‘No, ma’am,’ said Thrubwell. ‘That person would have taken care not to touch any of the blood. The bloody finger streaks were made by the murder victim: Mr Kingsbury.’
‘Here is what we believe must have happened,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘The killer either pushed Kingsbury so that he fell and struck his head, or else the fall was an accident. Let us say it was an accident and give to our killer the benefit of the doubt in this one respect. Having fallen, it soon becomes apparent that Kingsbury is bleeding profusely. He is also old and weak, and has recently suffered the tragic loss of his dear friend Monsieur Pandy.
‘The killer sees that Kingsbury is too weak to call for help and will probably die if nothing is done to save him. This is what the murderer wants. There is only one problem: as he fell, Kingsbury reached out for a towel that must have been draped over the side of the bathtub—
a towel which he now holds in his hand and presses against his wound. This, thinks the killer, might staunch the flow of blood and save the old man’s life. It becomes necessary, therefore, to snatch the towel away from Kingsbury, who suddenly finds he is no longer holding it. He tries to stop the bleeding with his hand. Now he has blood on his fingers. The killer is standing over him, perhaps taunting him with the towel, and Kingsbury reaches up to try to take hold of it again. He has no hope of retrieving it from the clutches of his strong and healthy tormenter, but he is allowed, briefly, to touch the towel before it is snatched away again, and dropped near the door as the killer leaves the bathroom—and, in doing so, leaves Kingsbury to die.’
‘You’re assuming rather a lot, aren’t you?’ said John McCrodden. ‘What if Kingsbury got blood on his fingers before he ever reached for the towel? What if he did somehow manage to throw it across the room? Being close to death can give a person extraordinary strength.’
‘He could not have thrown the towel and made it land where Inspector Catchpool found it,’ Inspector Thrubwell replied. ‘It would have been near impossible even for a strong man without a head wound.’
‘Perhaps it would have, and perhaps it would not,’ said Poirot. ‘I will admit that, without all the other evidence, it might be difficult to say for certain. What you must not forget, Monsieur McCrodden, is that I know there is a murderer among us today. I have proof—proof that was given to me by Kingsbury himself.’
‘Golly!’ said Hugo Dockerill.
‘I know who the killer is, and I know why that person wanted Kingsbury dead,’ Poirot went on. ‘That is why I am able to say to Inspector Thrubwell here that, happily, I have saved him some work. I had already solved the murder of Kingsbury before he arrived here at Combingham Hall.’
‘And very grateful I am too, sir,’ said Inspector Thrubwell.
‘What proof was given to you by Kingsbury?’ asked Rowland McCrodden. ‘How can he have given you proof in the matter of his own murder while he was still alive? Or are you referring to the murder of Barnabas Pandy?’
‘That is a good question,’ said Poirot. ‘As you know, before he died, Kingsbury was looking for me. There was something important that he wished to tell me. Unable to find me, he left a note in my bedroom. The note, when I read it, brought to mind certain facts I already knew. This meant that when I was informed of the death of Kingsbury, and told about the towel, and when I put all of these things together … I found that I knew who had so cruelly left Kingsbury to die. I knew it—I know it—beyond a doubt. That person is a cold-blooded murderer by nature, whether they pushed Kingsbury or not. What else are you, if you leave a man to die whom you might have saved?’
‘Presumably the same person also murdered Barnabas Pandy,’ said Jane Dockerill. ‘I hope you are not going to tell me that I’m sitting in a room with two murderers, M. Poirot? That I should find difficult to believe.’
‘No, madame. There is only one.’ Poirot pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. ‘This is not the note that I received from Kingsbury, but it is an exact copy of it. In it, though his use of English is flawed, Kingsbury nevertheless manages to make clear his meaning. You may all examine the copy of his letter in a moment. You will see that Kingsbury tells me that he has just overheard a conversation between Ivy Lavington and another person whose identity he does not know. Kingsbury heard this person crying, but not speaking. He believed it might have been a man or a woman. It was hard to tell, so anguished and uncontrolled was the crying.
‘The conversation that Kingsbury overheard, one-sided as it was, took place in Mademoiselle Ivy’s bedroom, with the door pushed closed, though not securely shut. He heard Mademoiselle Ivy say …’
Poirot stopped. He passed the piece of paper to me. ‘Catchpool, would you please read the passage I have encircled? I find it too difficult not to make the necessary corrections. I am too much the perfectionist.’
I took the copied note from Poirot and began to read the indicated section.
‘She were saying words to the effect of how carrying on like you’re unfamiliar with the law isnt no defence. Theres wot your allowed to do, and theres those things your not allowed to, and pretending like you cant tell the one from the other is not going to wash with anyone. No one will believe you and being as your the only one of all of us as knows this John Modden …’
I stopped reading at that point and asked Poirot if Kingsbury had meant John McCrodden.
‘Oui, bien sûr. Look around you, Catchpool. Is there a John Modden in the room?’
I read on:
‘Being as your the only one of us all who knows this John Modden you should tell Mister Porrott the truth all of it like you told it to me. He will understand and after all no harm is done if you tell the truth now and if you dont he will.’
‘Thank you, Catchpool. Mesdames et messieurs, you will understand, I hope, that most of what you have just heard was Kingsbury quoting what he heard Ivy Lavington say. He was not the most accurate of writers. No, he was not meticulous about the details. But in essence, on the important substance of what he overheard, he is accurate. We learn, then, that Kingsbury heard Ivy Lavington talking to somebody—we do not know whom—and warning them. Words to the effect that ignorance of the law is no defence. And that no one will believe in this ignorance of the law, for the person to whom Ivy Lavington was speaking is the only one acquainted with John McCrodden. And if that person does not tell me, Hercule Poirot, the full truth, perhaps, warned Mademoiselle Ivy, John McCrodden would do so.
‘All of this seems to suggest, does it not, that Ivy Lavington was talking to the murderer of Barnabas Pandy? Or at least to the writer of the four letters signed in my name?’
‘What it suggests to me is that Ivy must have been speaking to Rowland McCrodden,’ said Jane Dockerill. ‘If only one person here is acquainted with his son, then surely it must be him?’
‘Yes, that’s a reasonable assumption,’ said Eustace Campbell-Brown.
‘It’s not true,’ said Ivy Lavington. ‘I will not tell you to whom I was speaking, but I can promise you that it wasn’t Rowland McCrodden. Obviously he knows his own son. I meant that the person I was addressing was the only one of us who is not supposed to know John McCrodden, and yet does. I had no idea Kingbury was listening at the door, so I didn’t take the trouble to be clear. Incidentally, Kingsbury’s note is not accurate. He got much of it wrong. What he wrote … those were not my words. That was not what I said.’
Poirot beamed at her. ‘Eh bien! mademoiselle, I am delighted to hear you say that. Yes, Kingsbury got some of the words wrong. Nevertheless, he enabled Hercule Poirot to get everything right!
‘In his note to me, Kingsbury also wrote that, as he listened outside Mademoiselle Lavington’s door, a floorboard creaked loudly. His movement caused it to do so. He hurried away, and he heard, behind him, a door bang against the wall after being flung open—at least, this was how it sounded to Kingsbury. He believed he might have been seen. I too believe this. Kingsbury was killed—or left to die, if you prefer—for what he overheard. Minutes after he spoke to Timothy Lavington and Freddie Rule upstairs, somebody either forced him or followed him into the bathroom in which he was to die.
‘Of course, his murderer did not know that, before he or she ended the old man’s life, Kingsbury had left this helpful note for Poirot! Ladies and gentlemen, I can reveal that the murderer of Kingsbury is … the person with whom Mademoiselle Ivy was conducting this secret conversation.’
‘And who was that?’ John McCrodden asked bluntly.
‘Ivy, what does he mean?’ Timothy Lavington asked his sister. ‘He seems to be saying that you were involved in a conspiracy to kill Grandy, and that your fellow conspirator then killed Kingsbury.’
‘Pas du tout,’ Poirot told Timothy. ‘You will soon understand why this is not true. Mademoiselle Ivy, please tell us all: with whom were you conversing in your bedroom a short while before two o’clock yesterday afternoon?’
Annabel Treadway said, through her tears, ‘It was I who murdered Grandy. I have already told Inspector Catchpool. Why will nobody believe me?’
‘Because it isn’t true,’ I said.
Poirot continued: ‘By forty minutes after two o’clock, we were all here in this room. Everybody, apart from Kingsbury. Catchpool and I were here at two, but no one else was. After I sent Timothy Lavington and Freddie Rule to rouse people and bring them here, at about five minutes after two, this was the order of arrival. First came Ivy Lavington at twenty minutes past two. She was very soon followed by Jane and Hugo Dockerill. Next, at twenty-five minutes after two, came Annabel Treadway, Freddie Rule and Timothy Lavington, then John McCrodden and then his father, Rowland McCrodden. The last to arrive were Mildred Rule, Eustace Campbell-Brown, Sylvia Rule and Lenore Lavington. I am afraid to say that any one of the people that I have just named could have been the one who pulled the towel out of Kingsbury’s hand and left him to die. We can eliminate from suspicion only four people in this room: Inspector Thrubwell, Catchpool, me … and the fourth person, of course, is John McCrodden.’
‘I don’t see that we have eliminated Mr McCrodden,’ said Sylvia Rule. ‘It sounds to me as if he would have had ample time to injure Kingsbury and leave him in the bathroom to die before coming to the drawing room.’
‘Ah, but think, madame,’ said Poirot. ‘If Kingsbury’s killer is the person to whom Ivy Lavington said, “You are the only one of us who knows John McCrodden …”?’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Jane Dockerill. ‘Yes, you’re right. The person to whom that was said cannot, then, be Mr McCrodden.’
The Mystery of Three Quarters Page 24