'You're not going to leave me again, I can tell you,' said Mrs Croft. 'Not after dark, anyway. And I'm thinking I'd like to leave this part of the world as soon as possible. I shall never feel the same about it. I shouldn't think poor Nicky Buckley could ever bear to sleep in that house again.'
It was a little difficult to reach the object of our visit. Both Mr and Mrs Croft talked so much and were so anxious to know all about everything. Were the poor dead girl's relations coming down? When was the funeral? Was there to be an inquest? What did the police think? Had they any clue yet? Was it true that a man had been arrested in Plymouth?
Then, having answered all these questions, they were insistent on offering us lunch. Only Poirot's mendacious statement that we were obliged to hurry back to lunch with the Chief Constable saved us.
At last a momentary pause occurred and Poirot got in the question he had been waiting to ask.
'Why, of course,' said Mr Croft. He pulled the blind cord up and down twice, frowning at it abstractedly. 'I remember all about it. Must have been when we first came here. I remember. Appendicitis-that's what the doctor said-'
'And probably not appendicitis at all,' interrupted Mrs Croft. 'These doctors-they always like cutting you up if they can. It wasn't the kind you have to operate on anyhow. She'd had indigestion and one thing and another, and they'd X-rayed her and they said out it had better come. And there she was, poor little soul, just going off to one of those nasty Homes.'
'I just asked her,' said Mr Croft, 'if she'd made a will. More as a joke than anything else.'
'Yes?'
'And she wrote it out then and there. Talked about getting a will form at the post office-but I advised her not to. Lot of trouble they cause sometimes, so a man told me. Anyway, her cousin is a lawyer. He could draw her out a proper one afterwards if everything was all right-as, of course, I knew it would be. This was just a precautionary matter.'
'Who witnessed it?'
'Oh! Ellen, the maid, and her husband.'
'And afterwards? What was done with it?'
'Oh! we posted it to Vyse. The lawyer, you know.'
'You know that it was posted?'
'My dear M. Poirot, I posted it myself. Right in this box here by the gate.'
'So if M. Vyse says he never got it-'
Croft stared.
'Do you mean that it got lost in the post? Oh! but surely that's impossible.'
'Anyway, you are certain that you posted it.'
'Certain sure,' said Mr Croft, heartily. 'I'll take my oath on that any day.'
'Ah! well,' said Poirot. 'Fortunately it does not matter. Mademoiselle is not likely to die just yet awhile.'
'Et voila!' said Poirot, when we were out of earshot and walking down to the hotel. 'Who is lying? M. Croft? Or M. Charles Vyse? I must confess I see no reason why M. Croft should be lying. To suppress the will would be of no advantage to him-especially when he had been instrumental in getting it made. No, his statement seems clear enough and tallies exactly with what was told us by Mademoiselle Nick. But all the same-'
'Yes?'
'All the same, I am glad that M. Croft was doing the cooking when we arrived. He left an excellent impression of a greasy thumb and first finger on a corner of the newspaper that covered the kitchen table. I managed to tear it off unseen by him. We will send it to our good friend Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard. There is just a chance that he might know something about it.'
'Yes?'
'You know, Hastings, I cannot help feeling that our genial M. Croft is a little too good to be genuine.'
'And now,' he added. 'Le dejeuner. I faint with hunger.'
Chapter 15 – Strange Behaviour of Frederica
Poirot's inventions about the Chief Constable were proved not to have been so mendacious after all. Colonel Weston called upon us soon after lunch.
He was a tall man of military carriage with considerable good-looks. He had a suitable reverence for Poirot's achievements, with which he seemed to be well acquainted.
'Marvellous piece of luck for us having you down here, M. Poirot,' he said again and again.
His one fear was that he should be compelled to call in the assistance of Scotland Yard. He was anxious to solve the mystery and catch the criminal without their aid. Hence his delight at Poirot's presence in the neighbourhood.
Poirot, so far as I could judge, took him completely into his confidence.
'Deuced odd business,' said the Colonel. 'Never heard of anything like it. Well, the girl ought to be safe enough in a nursing home. Still, you can't keep her there for ever!'
'That, M. le Colonel, is just the difficulty. There is only one way of dealing with it.'
'And that is?'
'We must lay our hands on the person responsible.'
'If what you suspect is true, that isn't going to be so easy.'
'Ah! je le sais bien.'
'Evidence! Getting evidence is going to be the devil.'
He frowned abstractedly.
'Always difficult, these cases, where there's no routine work. If we could get hold of the pistol-'
'In all probability it is at the bottom of the sea. That is, if the murderer had any sense.'
'Ah!' said Colonel Weston. 'But often they haven't. You'd be surprised at the fool things people do. I'm not talking of murders-we don't have many murders down in these parts, I'm glad to say-but in ordinary police court cases. The sheer damn foolishness of these people would surprise you.'
'They are of a different mentality, though,'
'Yes-perhaps. If Vyse is the chap, well, we'll have our work cut out. He's a cautious man and a sound lawyer. He'll not give himself away. The woman-well, there would be more hope there. Ten to one she'll try again. Women have no patience.'
He rose.
'Inquest tomorrow morning. Coroner will work in with us and give away as little as possible. We want to keep things dark at present.'
He was turning towards the door when he suddenly came back.
'Upon my soul, I'd forgotten the very thing that will interest you most, and that I want your opinion about.'
Sitting down again, he drew from his pocket a torn scrap of paper with writing on it and handed it to Poirot.
'My police found this when they were searching the grounds. Nor far from where you were all watching the fireworks. It's the only suggestive thing they did find.'
Poirot smoothed it out. The writing was large and straggling.
'…must have money at once. If not you… what will happen. I'm warning you.'
Poirot frowned. He read and re-read it.
'This is interesting,' he said. 'I may keep it?'
'Certainly. There are no finger-prints on it. I'll be glad if you can make anything of it.'
Colonel Weston got to his feet again.
'I really must be off. Inquest tomorrow, as I said. By the way, you are not being called as witness-only Captain Hastings. Don't want the newspaper people to get wise to your being on the job.'
'I comprehend. What of the relations of the poor young lady?'
'The father and mother are coming from Yorkshire today. They'll arrive about half-past five. Poor souls. I'm heartily sorry for them. They are taking the body back with them the following day.'
He shook his head.
'Unpleasant business. I'm not enjoying this, M. Poirot.'
'Who could, M. le Colonel? It is, as you say, an unpleasant business.'
When he had gone, Poirot examined the scrap of paper once more.
'An important clue?' I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders.
'How can one tell? There is a hint of blackmail about it! Someone of our party that night was being pressed for money in a very unpleasant way. Of course, it is possible that it was one of the strangers.'
He looked at the writing through a little magnifying glass.
'Does this writing look at all familiar to you, Hastings?'
'It reminds me a little of something-Ah! I have it-that
note of Mrs Rice's.'
'Yes,' said Poirot, slowly. 'There are resemblances. Decidedly there are resemblances. It is curious. Yet I do not think that this is the writing of Madame Rice. Come in,' he said, as a knock came at the door.
It was Commander Challenger.
'Just looked in,' he explained. 'Wanted to know if you were any further forward.'
'Parbleu,' said Poirot. 'At this moment I am feeling that I am considerably further back. I seem to progress en reculant.'
'That's bad. But I don't really believe it, M. Poirot. I've been hearing all about you and what a wonderful chap you are. Never had a failure, they say.'
'That is not true,' said Poirot. 'I had a bad failure in Belgium in 1893. You recollect, Hastings? I recounted it to you. The affair of the box of chocolates.'
'I remember,' I said.
And I smiled, for at the time that Poirot told me that tale, he had instructed me to say 'chocolate box' to him if ever I should fancy he was growing conceited! He was then bitterly offended when I used the magical words only a minute and a quarter later.
'Oh, well,' said Challenger, 'that is such a long time ago it hardly counts. You are going to get to the bottom of this, aren't you?'
'That I swear. On the word of Hercule Poirot. I am the dog who stays on the scent and does not leave it.'
'Good. Got any ideas?'
'I have suspicions of two people.'
'I suppose I mustn't ask you who they are?'
'I should not tell you! You see, I might possibly be in error.'
'My alibi is satisfactory, I trust,' said Challenger, with a faint twinkle.
Poirot smiled indulgently at the bronzed face in front of him. 'You left Devonport at a few minutes past 8.30. You arrived here at five minutes past ten-twenty minutes after the crime had been committed. But the distance from Devonport is only just over thirty miles, and you have often done it in an hour since the road is good. So, you see, your alibi is not good at all!'
'Well, I'm-'
'You comprehend, I inquire into everything. Your alibi, as I say, is not good. But there are other things beside alibis. You would like, I think, to marry Mademoiselle Nick?'
The sailor's face flushed.
'I've always wanted to marry her,' he said huskily.
'Precisely. Eh bien – Mademoiselle Nick was engaged to another man. A reason, perhaps, for killing the other man. But that is unnecessary-he dies the death of a hero.'
'So it is true-that Nick was engaged to Michael Seton? There's a rumour to that effect all over the town this morning.'
'Yes-it is interesting how soon news spreads. You never suspected it before?'
'I knew Nick was engaged to someone-she told me so two days ago. But she didn't give me a clue as to whom it was.'
'It was Michael Seton. Entre nous, he has left her, I fancy, a very pretty fortune. Ah! assuredly, it is not a moment for killing Mademoiselle Nick-from your point of view. She weeps for her lover now, but the heart consoles itself. She is young. And I think, Monsieur, that she is very fond of you…'
Challenger was silent for a moment or two. 'If it should be…' he murmured. There was a tap on the door.
It was Frederica Rice.
'I've been looking for you,' she said to Challenger. 'They told me you were here. I wanted to know if you'd got my wrist-watch back yet.'
'Oh, yes, I called for it this morning.'
He took it from his pocket and handed it to her. It was a watch of rather an unusual shape-round, like a globe, set on a strap of plain black moire. I remembered that I had seen one much the same shape on Nick Buckley's wrist.
'I hope it will keep better time now.'
'It's rather a bore. Something is always going wrong with it.'
'It is for beauty, Madame, and not for utility,' said Poirot.
'Can't one have both?' She looked from one to the other of us. 'Am I interrupting a conference?'
'No, indeed, Madame. We were talking gossip-not the crime. We were saying how quickly news spreads-how that everyone now knows that Mademoiselle Nick was engaged to that brave airman who perished.'
'So Nick was engaged to Michael Seton!' exclaimed Frederica.
'It surprises you, Madame?'
'It does a little. I don't know why. Certainly I did think he was very taken with her last autumn. They went about a lot together. And then, after Christmas, they both seemed to cool off. As far as I know, they hardly met.'
'The secret, they kept it very well.'
'That was because of old Sir Matthew, I suppose. He was really a little off his head, I think.'
'You had no suspicion, Madame? And yet Mademoiselle was such an intimate friend.'
'Nick's a close little devil when she likes,' murmured Frederica. 'But I understand now why she's been so nervy lately. Oh! and I ought to have guessed from something she said only the other day.'
'Your little friend is very attractive, Madame.'
'Old Jim Lazarus used to think so at one time,' said Challenger, with his loud, rather tactless laugh.
'Oh! Jim-' She shrugged her shoulders, but I thought she was annoyed.
She turned to Poirot.
'Tell me, M. Poirot, did you-'
She stopped. Her tall figure swayed and her face turned whiter still. Her eyes were fixed on the centre of the table.
'You are not well, Madame.'
I pushed forward a chair, helped her to sink into it. She shook her head, murmured, 'I'm all right,' and leaned forward, her face between her hands. We watched her awkwardly.
She sat up in a minute.
'How absurd! George, darling, don't look so worried. Let's talk about murders. Something exciting. I want to know if M. Poirot is on the track.'
'It is early to say, Madame,' said Poirot, noncommittally.
'But you have ideas-yes?'
'Perhaps. But I need a great deal more evidence.'
'Oh!' She sounded uncertain.
Suddenly she rose.
'I've got a head. I think I'll go and lie down. Perhaps tomorrow they'll let me see Nick.'
She left the room abruptly. Challenger frowned.
'You never know what that woman's up to. Nick may have been fond of her, but I don't believe she was fond of Nick. But there, you can't tell with women. It's darling-darling-darling-all the time-and "damn you" would probably express it much better. Are you going out, M. Poirot?' For Poirot had risen and was carefully brushing a speck off his hat.
'Yes, I am going into the town.'
'I've got nothing to do. May I come with you.'
'Assuredly. It will be a pleasure.'
We left the room. Poirot, with an apology, went back.
'My stick,' he explained, as he rejoined us.
Challenger winced slightly. And indeed the stick, with its embossed gold band, was somewhat ornate.
Poirot's first visit was to a florist.
'I must send some flowers to Mademoiselle Nick,' he explained.
He proved difficult to suit.
In the end he chose an ornate gold basket to be filled with orange carnations. The whole to be tied up with a large blue bow.
The shopwoman gave him a card and he wrote on it with a flourish: 'With the Compliments of Hercule Poirot.'
'I sent her some flowers this morning,' said Challenger. 'I might send her some fruit.'
'Inutile!' said Poirot.
'What?'
'I said it was useless. The eatable-it is not permitted.'
'Who says so?'
'I say so. I have made the rule. It has already been impressed on Mademoiselle Nick. She understands.'
'Good Lord!' said Challenger.
He looked thoroughly startled. He stared at Poirot curiously.
'So that's it, is it?' he said. 'You're still-afraid.'
Chapter 16 – Interview with Mr Whitfield
The inquest was a dry proceeding-mere bare bones. There was evidence of identification, then I gave evidence of the finding of the body. Medical evidenc
e followed.
The inquest was adjourned for a week.
The St Loo murder had jumped into prominence in the daily press. It had, in fact, succeeded 'Seton Still Missing. Unknown Fate of Missing Airman.'
Now that Seton was dead and due tribute had been paid to his memory, a new sensation was due. The St Loo Mystery was a godsend to papers at their wits' end for news in the month of August.
After the inquest, having successfully dodged reporters, I met Poirot, and we had an interview with the Rev. Giles Buckley and his wife.
Maggie's father and mother were a charming pair, completely unworldly and unsophisticated.
Mrs Buckley was a woman of character, tall and fair and showing very plainly her northern ancestry. Her husband was a small man, grey-haired, with a diffident appealing manner.
Poor souls, they were completely dazed by the misfortune that had overtaken them and robbed them of a well-beloved daughter. 'Our Maggie', as they called her.
'I can scarcely realize it even now,' said Mr Buckley. 'Such a dear child, M. Poirot. So quiet and unselfish-always thinking of others. Who could wish to harm her?'
'I could hardly understand the telegram,' said Mrs Buckley. 'Why it was only the morning before that we had seen her off.'
'In the midst of life we are in death,' murmured her husband.
'Colonel Weston has been very kind,' said Mrs Buckley. 'He assures us that everything is being done to find the man who did this thing. He must be a madman. No other explanation is possible.'
'Madame, I cannot tell you how I sympathize with you in your loss-and how I admire your bravery!'
'Breaking down would not bring Maggie back to us,' said Mrs Buckley, sadly.
'My wife is wonderful,' said the clergyman. 'Her faith and courage are greater than mine. It is all so-so bewildering, M. Poirot.'
'I know-I know, Monsieur.'
'You are a great detective, M. Poirot?' said Mrs Buckley.
'It has been said, Madame.'
'Oh! I know. Even in our remote country village we have heard of you. You are going to find out the truth, M. Poirot?'
'I shall not rest until I do, Madame.'
'It will be revealed to you, M. Poirot,' quavered the clergyman. 'Evil cannot go unpunished.'
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