Peril at End House hp-8

by Agatha Christie

  'It was a shock,' she said, in a meditative voice. 'But, of course, I didn't know the poor girl. It's not as though it had been Nick.'

  'I suppose you'd never met this girl before?'

  'Once-at Scarborough. She came over to lunch with Nick.'

  'It will be a terrible blow to her father and mother,' I said.

  'Dreadful.'

  But she said it very impersonally. She was, I fancied, an egoist. Nothing was very real to her that did not concern herself.

  Poirot had finished his breakfast and was sitting reading the morning paper. He rose and greeted Frederica with all his customary Gallic politeness.

  'Madame,' he said. 'Enchante!' He drew forward a chair.

  She thanked him with a very faint smile and sat down. Her two hands rested on the arms of the chair. She sat there very upright, looking straight in front of her. She did not rush into speech. There was something a little frightening about her stillness and aloofness.

  'M. Poirot,' she said at last. 'I suppose there is no doubt that this-sad business last night was all part and parcel of the same thing? I mean-that the intended victim was really Nick?'

  'I should say, Madame, that there was no doubt at all.'

  Frederica frowned a little.

  'Nick bears a charmed life,' she said.

  There was some curious undercurrent in her voice that I could not understand.

  'Luck, they say, goes in cycles,' remarked Poirot.

  'Perhaps. It is certainly useless to fight against it.'

  Now there was only weariness in her tone. After a moment or two, she went on.

  'I must beg your pardon, M. Poirot. Nick's pardon, too. Up till last night I did not believe. I never dreamed that the danger was-serious.'

  'Is that so, Madame?'

  'I see now that everything will have to be gone into-carefully. And I imagine that Nick's immediate circle of friends will not be immune from suspicion. Ridiculous, of course, but there it is. Am I right, M. Poirot?'

  'You are very intelligent, Madame.'

  'You asked me some questions about Tavistock the other day, M. Poirot. As you will find out sooner or later, I might as well tell you the truth now. I was not at Tavistock.'

  'No, Madame?'

  'I motored down to this part of the world with Mr Lazarus early last week. We did not wish to arouse more comment than necessary. We stayed at a little place called Shellacombe.'

  'That is, I think, about seven miles from here, Madame?'

  'About that-yes.'

  Still that quiet far-away weariness.

  'May I be impertinent, Madame?'

  'Is there such a thing-in these days?'

  'Perhaps you are right, Madame. How long have you and M. Lazarus been friends?'

  'I met him six months ago.'

  'And you-care for him, Madame?'

  Frederica shrugged her shoulders.

  'He is-rich.'

  'Oh! La la,' cried Poirot. 'That is an ugly thing to say.'

  She seemed faintly amused.

  'Isn't it better to say it myself-than to have you say it for me?'

  'Well-there is always that, of course. May I repeat, Madame, that you are very intelligent.'

  'You will give me a diploma soon,' said Frederica, and rose.

  'There is nothing more you wish to tell me, Madame?'

  'I do not think so-no. I am going to take some flowers round to Nick and see how she is.'

  'Ah, that is very amiable of you. Thank you, Madame, for your frankness.'

  She glanced at him sharply, seemed about to speak, then thought better of it and went out of the room, smiling faintly at me as I held the door open for her.

  'She is intelligent,' said Poirot. 'Yes, but so is Hercule Poirot!’

  ‘What do you mean?'

  'That it is all very well and very pretty to force the richness of M. Lazarus down my throat-'

  'I must say that rather disgusted me.'

  'Mon cher, always you have the right reaction in the wrong place. It is not, for the moment, a question of good taste or otherwise. If Madame Rice has a devoted friend who is rich and can give her all she needs-why then obviously Madame Rice would not need to murder her dearest friend for a mere pittance.'

  'Oh!' I said.

  'Precisement! "Oh!"'

  'Why didn't you stop her going to the nursing home?'

  'Why should I show my hand? Is it Hercule Poirot who prevents Mademoiselle Nick from seeing her friends? Quelle idee! It is the doctors and the nurses. Those tiresome nurses! So full of rules and regulations and "doctors' orders".'

  'You're not afraid that they may let her in after all? Nick may insist.'

  'Nobody will be let in, my dear Hastings, but you and me. And for that matter, the sooner we make our way there, the better.'

  The sitting-room door flew open and George Challenger barged in. His tanned face was alive with indignation.

  'Look here, M. Poirot,' he said. 'What's the meaning of this? I rang up that damned nursing home where Nick is. Asked how she was and what time I could come round and see her. And they say the doctor won't allow any visitors. I want to know the meaning of that. To put it plainly, is this your work? Or is Nick really ill from shock?'

  'I assure you, Monsieur, that I do not lay down rules for nursing homes. I would not dare. Why not ring up the good doctor-what was his name now?-Ah, yes, Graham.'

  'I have. He says she's going on as well as could be expected-usual stuff. But I know all the tricks-my uncle's a doctor. Harley Street. Nerve specialist. Psychoanalysis-all the rest of it. Putting relations and friends off with soothing words. I've heard about it all. I don't believe Nick isn't up to seeing any one. I believe you're at the bottom of this, M. Poirot.'

  Poirot smiled at him in a very kindly fashion. Indeed, I have always observed that Poirot has a kindly feeling for a lover.

  'Now listen to me, mon ami,' he said. 'If one guest is admitted, others cannot be kept out. You comprehend? It must be all or none. We want Mademoiselle's safety, you and I, do we not? Exactly. Then, you understand-it must be none.'

  'I get you,' said Challenger, slowly. 'But then-'

  'Chut! We will say no more. We will forget even what we have said. The prudence, the extreme prudence, is what is needed at present.'

  'I can hold my tongue,' said the sailor quietly.

  He turned away to the door, pausing as he went out to say: 'No embargo on flowers, is there? So long as they are not white ones.'

  Poirot smiled.

  'And now,' he said, as the door shut behind the impetuous Challenger, 'whilst M. Challenger and Madame and perhaps M. Lazarus all encounter each other in the flower shop, you and I will drive quietly to our destination.'

  'And ask for the answer to the three questions?' I said.

  'Yes. We will ask. Though, as a matter of fact, I know the answer.'

  'What?' I exclaimed.

  'Yes.'

  'But when did you find out?'

  'Whilst I was eating my breakfast, Hastings. It stared me in the face.'

  'Tell me.'

  'No, I will leave you to hear it from Mademoiselle.'

  Then, as if to distract my mind, he pushed an open letter across to me.

  It was a report by the expert Poirot had sent to examine the picture of old Nicholas Buckley. It stated definitely that the picture was worth at most twenty pounds.

  'So that is one matter cleared up,' said Poirot.

  'No mouse in that mouse-hole,' I said, remembering a metaphor of Poirot's on one past occasion.

  'Ah! you remember that? No, as you say, no mouse in that mouse-hole. Twenty pounds and M. Lazarus offered fifty. What an error of judgement for a seemingly astute young man. But there, there, we must start on our errand.'

  The nursing home was set high on a hill overlooking the bay. A white-coated orderly received us. We were put into a little room downstairs and presently a brisk-looking nurse came to us.

  One glance at Poirot seemed to be enough. Sh
e had clearly received her instructions from Dr Graham together with a minute description of the little detective. She even concealed a smile.

  'Miss Buckley has passed a very fair night,' she said. 'Come up, will you?'

  In a pleasant room with the sun streaming into it, we found Nick. In the narrow iron bed, she looked like a tired child. Her face was white and her eyes were suspiciously red, and she seemed listless and weary.

  'It's good of you to come,' she said in a flat voice.

  Poirot took her hand in both of his.

  'Courage, Mademoiselle. There is always something to live for.'

  The words startled her. She looked up in his face.

  'Oh!' she said. 'Oh!'

  'Will you not tell me now, Mademoiselle, what it was that has been worrying you lately? Or shall I guess? And may I offer you, Mademoiselle, my very deepest sympathy.'

  Her face flushed.

  'So you know. Oh, well, it doesn't matter who knows now. Now that it's all over. Now that I shall never see him again.'

  Her voice broke.

  'Courage, Mademoiselle.'

  'I haven't got any courage left. I've used up every bit in these last weeks. Hoping and hoping and-just lately-hoping against hope.'

  I stared. I could not understand one word.

  'Regard the poor Hastings,' said Poirot. 'He does not know what we are talking about.'

  Her unhappy eyes met mine.

  'Michael Seton, the airman,' she said. 'I was engaged to him-and he's dead.'

  Chapter 11 – The Motive

  I was dumbfounded.

  I turned on Poirot.

  'Is this what you meant?'

  'Yes, mon ami. This morning-I knew.'

  'How did you know? How did you guess? You said it stared you in the face at breakfast.'

  'So it did, my friend. From the front page of the newspaper. I remembered the conversation at dinner last night-and I saw everything.'

  He turned to Nick again.

  'You heard the news last night?'

  'Yes. On the wireless. I made an excuse about the telephone. I wanted to hear the news alone-in case…' She swallowed hard. 'And I heard it…'

  'I know, I know.' He took her hand in both of his.

  'It was-pretty ghastly. And all the people arriving. I don't know how I got through it. It all felt like a dream. I could see myself from outside-behaving just as usual. It was queer somehow.'

  'Yes, yes, I understand.'

  'And then, when I went to fetch Freddie's wrap-I broke down for a minute. I pulled myself together quite quickly. But Maggie kept calling up about her coat. And then at last she took my shawl and went, and I put on some powder and some rouge and followed her out. And there she was-dead…'

  'Yes, yes, it must have been a terrible shock.'

  'You don't understand. I was angry! I wished it had been me! I wanted to be dead-and there I was-alive and perhaps to live for years! And Michael dead-drowned far away in the Pacific.'

  'Pauvre enfant.'

  'I don't want to be alive. I don't want to live, I tell you!' she cried, rebelliously.

  'I know-I know. To all of us, Mademoiselle, there comes a time when death is preferable to life. But it passes-sorrow passes and grief. You cannot believe that now, I know. It is useless for an old man like me to talk. Idle words-that is what you think-idle words.'

  'You think I'll forget-and marry someone else? Never!'

  She looked rather lovely as she sat up in bed, her two hands clenched and her cheeks burning.

  Poirot said gently: 'No, no. I am not thinking anything of the kind. You are very lucky, Mademoiselle. You have been loved by a brave man-a hero. How did you come to meet him?'

  'It was at Le Touquet-last September. Nearly a year ago.'

  'And you became engaged-when?'

  'Just after Christmas. But it had to be a secret.'

  'Why was that?'

  'Michael's uncle-old Sir Matthew Seton. He loved birds and hated women.'

  'Ah! ce n'est pas raisonnable!'

  'Well-I don't mean quite that. He was a complete crank. Thought women ruined a man's life. And Michael was absolutely dependent on him. He was frightfully proud of Michael and it was he who financed the building of the Albatross and the expenses of the round-the-world flight. It was the dearest dream of his life as well as of Michael's. If Michael had pulled it off-well, then he could have asked his uncle anything. And even if old Sir Matthew had still cut up rough, well, it wouldn't have really mattered. Michael would have been made-a kind of world hero. His uncle would have come round in the end.'

  'Yes, yes, I see.'

  'But Michael said it would be fatal if anything leaked out. We must keep it a dead secret. And I did. I never told anyone-not even Freddie.'

  Poirot groaned.

  'If only you had told me, Mademoiselle.'

  Nick stared at him.

  'But what difference would it have made? It couldn't have anything to do with these mysterious attacks on me? No, I'd promised Michael-and I kept my word. But it was awful-the anxiety, wondering and getting in a state the whole time. And everyone saying one was so nervy. And being unable to explain.'

  'Yes, I comprehend all that.'

  'He was missing once before, you know. Crossing the desert on the way to India. That was pretty awful, and then after all, it was all right. His machine was damaged, but it was put right, and he went on. And I kept saying to myself that it would be the same this time. Everyone said he must be dead-and I kept telling myself that he must be all right, really. And then-last night…'

  Her voice trailed away. 'You had hoped up till then?'

  'I don't know. I think it was more that I refused to believe. It was awful never being able to talk to anyone.'

  'Yes, I can imagine that. Were you never tempted to tell Madame Rice, for instance?'

  'Sometimes I wanted to frightfully.'

  'You do not think she-guessed?'

  'I don't think so.' Nick considered the idea carefully. 'She never said anything. Of course she used to hint things sometimes. About our being great friends and all that.'

  'You never considered telling her when M. Seton's uncle died? You know that he died about a week ago?'

  'I know. He had an operation or something. I suppose I might have told anybody then. But it wouldn't have been a nice way of doing it, would it? I mean, it would have seemed rather boastful-to do it just then-when all the papers were full of Michael. And reporters would have come and interviewed me. It would all have been rather cheap. And Michael would have hated it.'

  'I agree with you, Mademoiselle. You could not have announced it publicly. I only meant that you could have spoken of it privately to a friend.'

  'I did sort of hint to one person,' said Nick. 'I-thought it was only fair. But I don't know how much he-the person took in.'

  Poirot nodded.

  'Are you on good terms with your cousin M. Vyse?' he asked, with a rather abrupt change of subject.

  'Charles? What put him into your head?’

  ‘I was just wondering-that was all.'

  'Charles means well,' said Nick. 'He's a frightful stick, of course. Never moves out of this place. He disapproves of me, I think.'

  'Oh! Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle. And I hear that he has laid all his devotion at your feet!'

  'Disapproving of a person doesn't keep you from having a pash for them. Charles thinks my mode of life is reprehensible and he disapproves of my cocktails, my complexion, my friends and my conversation. But he still feels my fatal fascination. He always hopes to reform me, I think.'

  She paused and then said, with a ghost of a twinkle: 'Who have you been pumping to get the local information?'

  'You must not give me away, Mademoiselle. I had a little conversation with the Australian lady, Madame Croft.'

  'She's rather an old dear-when one has time for her. Terribly sentimental. Love and home and children-you know the sort of thing.'

  'I am old-fashioned and sentimental mysel
f, Mademoiselle.'

  'Are you? I should have said that Captain Hastings was the sentimental one of you two.'

  I blushed indignantly.

  'He is furious,' said Poirot, eying my discomfiture with a good deal of pleasure. 'But you are right, Mademoiselle. Yes, you are right.'

  'Not at all,' I said, angrily.

  ' Hastings has a singularly beautiful nature. It has been the greatest hindrance to me at times.'

  'Don't be absurd, Poirot.'

  'He is, to begin with, reluctant to see evil anywhere, and when he does see it his righteous indignation is so great that he is incapable of dissembling. Altogether a rare and beautiful nature. No, mon ami, I will not permit you to contradict me. It is as I say.'

  'You've both been very kind to me,' said Nick, gently.

  'La, la, Mademoiselle. That is nothing. We have much more to do. To begin with, you will remain here. You will obey orders. You will do what I tell you. At this juncture I must not be hampered.'

  Nick sighed wearily.

  'I'll do anything you like. I don't care what I do.'

  'You will see no friends for the present.'

  'I don't care. I don't want to see anyone.'

  'For you the passive part-for us the active one. Now, Mademoiselle, I am going to leave you. I will not intrude longer upon your sorrow.'

  He moved towards the door, pausing with his hand on the handle to say over his shoulder: 'By the way, you once mentioned a will you made. Where is it, this will?'

  'Oh! it's knocking round somewhere.'

  'At End House?'

  'Yes.'

  'In a safe? Locked up in your desk?'

  'Well, I really don't know. It's somewhere about.' She frowned. 'I'm frightfully untidy, you know. Papers and things like that would be mostly in the writing-table in the library. That's where most of the bills are. The will is probably with them. Or it might be in my bedroom.'

  'You permit me to make the search-yes?'

  'If you want to-yes. Look at anything you like.'

  'Merci, Mademoiselle. I will avail myself of your permission.'

  Chapter 12 – Ellen

  Poirot said no word till we had emerged from the nursing home into the outer air. Then he caught me by the arm.

  'You see, Hastings? You see? Ah! Sacre tonnerre! I was right! I was right! Always I knew there was something lacking-some piece of the puzzle that was not there. And without that missing piece the whole thing was meaningless.'