'Don't you think-I mean-we can hardly-'
He broke into a roar of laughter.
'Decidedly, my poor Hastings, you belong to the Victorian era. Mademoiselle Nick would tell you so if she were here. In all probability she would say that you had the mind like the sink! Young ladies are not ashamed of their underclothes nowadays. The camisole, the camiknicker, it is no longer a shameful secret. Every day, on the beach, all these garments will be discarded within a few feet of you. And why not?'
'I don't see any need for what you are doing.'
'Ecoutez, my friend. Clearly, she does not lock up her treasures, Mademoiselle Nick. If she wished to hide anything from sight-where would she hide it? Underneath the stockings and the petticoats. Ah! what have we here?'
He held up a packet of letters tied with a faded pink ribbon.
'The love letters of M. Michael Seton, if I mistake not.'
Quite calmly he untied the ribbon and began to open out the letters.
'Poirot,' I cried, scandalized. 'You really can't do that. It isn't playing the game.'
'I am not playing a game, mon ami.' His voice rang out suddenly harsh and stern. 'I am hunting down a murderer.'
'Yes, but private letters-'
'May have nothing to tell me-on the other hand, they may. I must take every chance, my friend. Come, you might as well read them with me. Two pairs of eyes are no worse than one pair. Console yourself with the thought that the staunch Ellen probably knows them by heart.'
I did not like it. Still I realized that in Poirot's position he could not afford to be squeamish, and I consoled myself by the quibble that Nick's last word had been, 'Look at anything you like.'
The letters spread over several dates, beginning last winter. New Year's Day.
'Darling,-The New Year is in and I'm making good resolutions. It seems too wonderful to be true-that you should actually love me. You've made all the difference to my life. I believe we both knew-from the very first moment we met. Happy New Year, my lovely girl.
'Yours for ever, Michael.' February 8th.
'Dearest Love,-How I wish I could see you more often. This is pretty rotten, isn't it? I hate all this beastly concealment, but I explained to you how things are. I know how much you hate lies and concealment. I do too. But honestly, it might upset the whole apple cart. Uncle Matthew has got an absolute bee in his bonnet about early marriages and the way they wreck a man's career. As though you could wreck mine, you dear angel!
'Cheer up, darling. Everything will come right.
'Yours,
'Michael.'
March 2nd.
'I oughtn't to write to you two days running, I know. But I must. When I was up yesterday I thought of you. I flew over Scarborough. Blessed, blessed, blessed Scarborough -the most wonderful place in the world. Darling, you don't know how I love you!
'Yours, 'Michael.' April 18th.
'Dearest,-The whole thing is fixed up. Definitely. If I pull this off (and I shall pull it off) I shall be able to take a firm line with Uncle Matthew-and if he doesn't like it-well, what do I care? It's adorable of you to be so interested in my long technical descriptions of the Albatross. How I long to take you up in her. Some day! Don't, for goodness' sake, worry about me. The thing isn't half so risky as it sounds. I simply couldn't get killed now that I know you care for me. Everything will be all right, sweetheart. Trust your Michael.'
April 20th.
'You Angel,-Every word you say is true and I shall treasure that letter always. I'm not half good enough for you. You are so different from everybody else. I adore you.
'Your
'Michael.'
The last was undated.
'Dearest,-Well-I'm off tomorrow. Feeling tremendously keen and excited and absolutely certain of success. The old Albatrossis all tuned up. She won't let me down.
'Cheer up, sweetheart, and don't worry. There's a risk, of course, but all life's a risk really. By the way, somebody said I ought to make a will (tactful fellow-but he meant well), so I have-on a half sheet of notepaper-and sent it to old Whitfield. I'd no time to go round there. Somebody once told me that a man made a will of three words, "All to Mother", and it was legal all right. My will was rather like that-I remembered your name was really Magdala, which was clever of me! A couple of the fellows witnessed it.'
'Don't take all this solemn talk about wills to heart, will you? (I didn't mean that pun. An accident.) I shall be as right as rain. I'll send you telegrams from India and Australia and so on. And keep up heart. It's going to be all right. See?'
'Good night and God bless you,
'Michael.'
Poirot folded the letters together again.
'You see, Hastings? I had to read them-to make sure. It is as I told you.'
'Surely you could have found out some other way?'
'No, mon cher, that is just what I could not do. It had to be this way. We have now some very valuable evidence.'
'In what way?'
'We now know that the fact of Michael's having made a will in favour of Mademoiselle Nick is actually recorded in writing. Anyone who had read those letters would know the fact. And with letters carelessly hidden like that, anyone could read them.'
'Ellen?'
'Ellen, almost certainly, I should say. We will try a little experiment on her before passing out.'
'There is no sign of the will.'
'No, that is curious. But in all probability it is thrown on top of a bookcase, or inside a china jar. We must try to awaken Mademoiselle's memory on that point. At any rate, there is nothing more to be found here.'
Ellen was dusting the hall as we descended.
Poirot wished her good morning very pleasantly as we passed. He turned back from the front door to say: 'You knew, I suppose, that Miss Buckley was engaged to the airman, Michael Seton?'
She stared.
'What? The one there's all the fuss in the papers about?'
'Yes.'
'Well, I never. To think of that. Engaged to Miss Nick.'
'Complete and absolute surprise registered very convincingly,' I remarked, as we got outside.
'Yes. It really seemed genuine.'
'Perhaps it was,' I suggested.
'And that packet of letters reclining for months under the lingerie? No, mon ami.'
'All very well,' I thought to myself. 'But we are not all Hercule Poirots. We do not all go nosing into what does not concern us.'
But I said nothing.
'This Ellen-she is an enigma,' said Poirot. 'I do not like it. There is something here that I do not understand.'
Chapter 14 – The Mystery of the Missing Will
We went straight back to the nursing home. Nick looked rather surprised to see us.
'Yes, Mademoiselle,' said Poirot, answering her look. 'I am like the Jack in the Case. I pop up again. To begin with I will tell you that I have put the order in your affairs. Everything is now neatly arranged.'
'Well, I expect it was about time,' said Nick, unable to help smiling. 'Are you very tidy, M. Poirot?'
'Ask my friend Hastings here.'
The girl turned an inquiring gaze on me.
I detailed some of Poirot's minor peculiarities-toast that had to be made from a square loaf-eggs matching in size-his objection to golf as a game 'shapeless and haphazard', whose only redeeming feature was the tee boxes! I ended by telling her the famous case which Poirot had solved by his habit of straightening ornaments on the mantelpiece.
Poirot sat by smiling.
'He makes the good tale of it, yes,' he said, when I had finished. 'But on the whole it is true. Figure to yourself, Mademoiselle, that I never cease trying to persuade Hastings to part his hair in the middle instead of on the side. See what an air, lop-sided and unsymmetrical, it gives him.'
'Then you must disapprove of me, M. Poirot,' said Nick. 'I wear a side parting. And you must approve of Freddie who parts her hair in the middle.'
'He was certainly admiring her the other evening,' I put in maliciou
sly. 'Now I know the reason.'
'C'est assez,' said Poirot. 'I am here on serious business. Mademoiselle, this will of yours, I find it not.'
'Oh!' She wrinkled her brows. 'But does it matter so much? After all, I'm not dead. And wills aren't really important till you are dead, are they?'
'That is correct. All the same, I interest myself in this will of yours. I have various little ideas concerning it. Think Mademoiselle. Try to remember where you placed it-where you saw it last?'
'I don't suppose I put it anywhere particular,' said Nick. 'I never do put things in places. I probably shoved it into a drawer.'
'You did not put it in the secret panel by any chance?’
‘The secret what?'
'Your maid, Ellen, says that there is a secret panel in the drawing-room or the library.'
'Nonsense,' said Nick. 'I've never heard of such a thing. Ellen said so?'
'Mais oui. It seems she was in service at End House as a young girl. The cook showed it to her.'
'It's the first I've ever heard of it. I suppose Grandfather must have known about it, but, if so, he didn't tell me. And I'm sure he would have told me. M. Poirot, are you sure Ellen isn't making it all up?'
'No, Mademoiselle, I am not at all sure! Il me semble that there is something-odd about this Ellen of yours.'
'Oh! I wouldn't call her odd. William's a half-wit, and the child is a nasty little brute, but Ellen's all right. The essence of respectability.'
'Did you give her leave to go out and see the fireworks last night, Mademoiselle?'
'Of course. They always do. They clear up afterwards.'
'Yet she did not go out.'
'Oh, yes, she did.'
'How do you know, Mademoiselle?'
'Well-well-I suppose I don't know. I told her to go and she thanked me-and so, of course, I assumed that she did go.'
'On the contrary-she remained in the house.'
'But-how very odd!'
'You think it odd?'
'Yes, I do. I'm sure she's never done such a thing before. Did she say why?'
'She did not tell me the real reason-of that I am sure.'
Nick looked at him questioningly.
'Is it-important?'
Poirot flung out his hands.
'That is just what I cannot say, Mademoiselle. C'est curieux. I leave it like that.'
'This panel business too,' said Nick, reflectively. 'I can't help thinking that's frightfully queer-and unconvincing. Did she show you where it was?'
'She said she couldn't remember.’
‘I don't believe there is such a thing.’
‘It certainly looks like it.’
‘She must be going batty, poor thing.'
'She certainly recounts the histories! She said also that End House was not a good house to live in.'
Nick gave a little shiver.
'Perhaps she's right there,' she said slowly. 'Sometimes I've felt that way myself. There's a queer feeling in that house…'
Her eyes grew large and dark. They had a fated look. Poirot hastened to recall her to other topics.
'We have wandered from our subject, Mademoiselle. The will. The last will and testament of Magdala Buckley.'
'I put that,' said Nick, with some pride. 'I remember putting that, and I said pay all debts and testamentary expenses. I remembered that out of a book I'd read.'
'You did not use a will form, then?'
'No, there wasn't time for that. I was just going off to the nursing home, and besides Mr Croft said will forms were very dangerous. It was better to make a simple will and not try to be too legal.'
'M. Croft? He was there?'
'Yes. It was he who asked me if I'd made one. I'd never have thought of it myself. He said if you died in-in-'
'Intestate,' I said.
'Yes, that's it. He said if you died intestate, the Crown pinched a lot and that would be a pity.'
'Very helpful, the excellent M. Croft!'
'Oh, he was,' said Nick warmly. 'He got Ellen in and her husband to witness it. Oh! of course! What an idiot I've been!'
We looked at her inquiringly.
'I've been a perfect idiot. Letting you hunt round End House. Charles has got it, of course! My cousin, Charles Vyse.'
'Ah! so that is the explanation.'
'Mr Croft said a lawyer was the proper person to have charge of it.'
Tres correct, ce bon M. Croft.'
'Men are useful sometimes,' said Nick. 'A lawyer or the Bank-that's what he said. And I said Charles would be best. So we stuck it in an envelope and sent it off to him straight away.'
She lay back on her pillows with a sigh.
'I'm sorry I've been so frightfully stupid. But it is all right now. Charles has got it, and if you really want to see it, of course he'll show it to you.'
'Not without an authorization from you,' said Poirot, smiling.
'How silly.'
'No, Mademoiselle. Merely prudent.'
'Well, I think it's silly.' She took a piece of paper from a little stack that lay beside her bed. 'What shall I say? Let the dog see the rabbit?'
'Comment?'
I laughed at his startled face.
He dictated a form of words, and Nick wrote obediently.
'Thank you, Mademoiselle,' said Poirot, as he took it.
'I'm sorry to have given you such a lot of trouble. But I really had forgotten. You know how one forgets things almost at once?'
'With order and method in the mind one does not forget.'
'I'll have to have a course of some kind,' said Nick. 'You're giving me quite an inferiority complex.'
'That is impossible. Au revoir, Mademoiselle.' He looked round the room. 'Your flowers are lovely.'
'Aren't they? The carnations are from Freddie and the roses from George and the lilies from Jim Lazarus. And look here-'
She pulled the wrapping from a large basket of hothouse grapes by her side. Poirot's face changed. He stepped forward sharply. 'You have not eaten any of them?’
‘No. Not yet.'
'Do not do so. You must eat nothing, Mademoiselle, that comes in from outside. Nothing. You comprehend?'
'Oh!'
She stared at him, the colour ebbing slowly from her face.
'I see. You think-you think it isn't over yet. You think they're still trying?' she whispered.
He took her hand.
'Do not think of it. You are safe here. But remember-nothing that comes in from outside.'
I was conscious of that white frightened face on the pillow as we left the room. Poirot looked at his watch.
'Bon. We have just time to catch M. Vyse at his office before he leaves it for lunch.'
On arrival we were shown into Charles Vyse's office after the briefest of delays. The young lawyer rose to greet us. He was as formal and unemotional as ever.
'Good morning, M. Poirot. What can I do for you?'
Without more ado Poirot presented the letter Nick had written. He took it and read it, then gazed over the top of it in a perplexed manner.
'I beg your pardon. I really am at a loss to understand?’
‘Has not Mademoiselle Buckley made her meaning clear?'
'In this letter,' he tapped it with his finger-nail, 'she asks me to hand over to you a will made by her and entrusted to my keeping in February last.'
'Yes, Monsieur.'
'But, my dear sir, no will has been entrusted to my keeping!'
'Comment?'
'As far as I know my cousin never made a will. I certainly never made one for her.'
'She wrote this herself, I understand, on a sheet of notepaper and posted it to you.'
The lawyer shook his head.
'In that case all I can say is that I never received it.'
'Really, M. Vyse-'
'I never received anything of the kind, M. Poirot.'
There was a pause, then Poirot rose to his feet.
'In that case, M. Vyse, there is nothing more to be said. There mus
t be some mistake.'
'Certainly there must be some mistake.'
He rose also.
'Good day, M. Vyse.'
'Good day, M. Poirot.'
'And that is that,' I remarked, when we were out in the street once more.
'Precisement.'
'Is he lying, do you think?'
'Impossible to tell. He has the good poker face, M. Vyse, besides looking as though he had swallowed one. One thing is clear, he will not budge from the position he has taken up. He never received the will. That is his point.'
'Surely Nick will have a written acknowledgment of its receipt.'
'Cette petite, she would never bother her head about a thing like that. She despatched it. It was off her mind. Voila. Besides, on that very day, she went into a nursing home to have her appendix out. She had her emotions, in all probability.'
'Well, what do we do now?'
'Parbleu, we go and see M. Croft. Let us see what he can remember about this business. It seems to have been very much his doing.'
'He didn't profit by it in any way,' I said, thoughtfully.
'No. No, I cannot see anything in it from his point of view. He is probably merely the busybody-the man who likes to arrange his neighbour's affairs.'
Such an attitude was indeed typical of Mr Croft, I felt. He was the kindly know all who causes so much exasperation in this world of ours.
We found him busy in his shirt sleeves over a steaming pot in the kitchen. A most savoury smell pervaded the little lodge.
He relinquished his cookery with enthusiasm, being clearly eager to talk about the murder.
'Half a jiffy,' he said. 'Walk upstairs. Mother will want to be in on this. She'd never forgive us for talking down here. Cooee-Milly. Two friends coming up.'
Mrs Croft greeted us warmly and was eager for news of Nick. I liked her much better than her husband.
'That poor dear girl,' she said. 'In a nursing home, you say? Had a complete breakdown, I shouldn't wonder. A dreadful business, M. Poirot-perfectly dreadful. An innocent girl like that shot dead. It doesn't bear thinking about-it doesn't indeed. And no lawless wild part of the world either. Right here in the heart of the old country. Kept me awake all night, it did.'
'It's made me nervous about going out and leaving you, old lady,' said her husband, who had put on his coat and joined us. 'I don't like to think of your having been left all alone here yesterday evening. It gives me the shivers.'
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