Taken at the Flood

by Agatha Christie

  Poirot shook his head sadly.

  “One good thing—they’ve shut down the aerodrome,” said the old lady. “Disgraceful it was, all those young airmen coming in here with those dreadful girls. Girls, indeed! I don’t know what their mothers are thinking of nowadays. Letting them gad about as they do. I blame the Government. Sending the mothers to work in factories. Only let ’em off if they’ve got young children. Young children, stuff and nonsense! Any one can look after a baby! A baby doesn’t go running round after soldiers. Girls from fourteen to eighteen, they’re the ones that need looking after! Need their mothers. It takes a mother to know just what a girl is up to. Soldiers! Airmen! That’s all they think about. Americans! Niggers! Polish riffraff!”

  Indignation at this point made the old lady cough. When she had recovered, she went on, working herself into a pleasurable frenzy and using Poirot as a target for her spleen.

  “Why do they have barbed wire round their camps? To keep the soldiers from getting at the girls? No, to keep the girls from getting at the soldiers! Man-mad, that’s what they are! Look at the way they dress. Trousers! Some poor fools wear shorts—they wouldn’t if they knew what they looked like from behind!”

  “I agree with you, Madame, indeed I agree with you.”

  “What do they wear on their heads? Proper hats? No, a twisted-up bit of stuff, and faces covered with paint and powder. Filthy stuff, all over their mouths. Not only red nails—but red toe-nails!”

  The old lady paused explosively and looked at Poirot expectantly. He sighed and shook his head.

  “Even in church,” said the old lady. “No hats. Sometimes not even those silly scarves. Just that ugly crimped, permanently waved hair. Hair? Nobody knows what hair is nowadays. I could sit on my hair when I was young.”

  Poirot stole a glance at the iron-grey bands. It seemed impossible that this fierce old woman could ever have been young!

  “Put her head in here the other night, one of them did,” the old lady went on. “Tied up in an orange scarf and painted and powdered. I looked at her. I just LOOKED at her! She soon went away!

  “She wasn’t a Resident,” went on the old lady. “No one of her type staying here, I’m glad to say! So what was she doing coming out of a man’s bedroom? Disgusting, I call it. I spoke about it to that Lippincott girl—but she’s just as bad as any of them—go a mile for anything that wears trousers.”

  Some faint interest stirred in Poirot’s mind.

  “Coming out of a man’s bedroom?” he queried.

  The old lady fell upon the topic with zest.

  “That’s what I said. Saw her with my own eyes. No. 5.”

  “What day was that, Madame?”

  “The day before there was all that fuss about a man being murdered. Disgraceful that such a thing could happen here! This used to be a very decent old-fashioned type of place. But now—”

  “And what hour of the day was this?”

  “Day? It wasn’t day at all. Evening. Late evening, too. Perfectly disgraceful. Past ten o’clock. I go up to bed at a quarter-past ten. Out she comes from No. 5 as bold as brass, stares at me, then dodges back inside again, laughing and talking with the man there.”

  “You heard him speak?”

  “Aren’t I telling you so? She dodges back inside and he calls out, ‘Oh, go on, get out of here. I’m fed up.’ That’s nice way for a man to talk to a girl. But they ask for it! Hussies!”

  Poirot said, “You did not report this to the police?”

  She fixed him with a basilisk stare and totteringly rose out of her chair. Standing over him and glaring down on him, she said:

  “I have never had anything to do with the police. The police indeed! I, in a police court?”

  Quiverering with rage and with one last malevolent glance at Poirot she left the room.

  Poirot sat for a few minutes thoughtfully caressing his moustache, then he went in search of Beatrice Lippincott.

  “Oh, yes, M. Poirot, you mean old Mrs. Leadbetter? Canon Leadbetter’s widow. She comes here every year, but of course between ourselves she is rather a trial. She’s really frightfully rude to people sometimes, and she doesn’t seem to understand that things are different nowadays. She’s nearly eighty, of course.”

  “But she is clear in her mind? She knows what she is saying?”

  “Oh, yes. She’s quite a sharp old lady—rather too much so sometimes.”

  “Do you know who a young woman was who visited the murdered man on Tuesday night?”

  Beatrice looked astonished.

  “I don’t remember a young woman coming to visit him at any time. What was she like?”

  “She was wearing an orange scarf round her head and I should fancy a good deal of makeup. She was in No. 5 talking to Arden at a quarter past ten on Tuesday night.”

  “Really, M. Poirot, I’ve no idea whatsoever.”

  Thoughtfully Poirot went along in search of Superintendent Spence.

  Spence listened to Poirot’s story in silence. Then he leaned back in his chair and nodded his head slowly.

  “Funny, isn’t it?” he said. “How often you come back to the same old formula. Cherchez la femme.”

  The Superintendent’s French accent was not as good as Sergeant Graves’, but he was proud of it. He got up and went across the room. He came back holding something in his hand. It was a lipstick in a gilt cardboard case.

  “We had this indication all along that there might be a woman mixed up in it,” he said.

  Poirot took the lipstick and smeared a little delicately on the back of his hand. “Good quality,” he said. “A dark cherry red—worn by a brunette probably.”

  “Yes. It was found on the floor of No. 5. It had rolled under the chest of drawers and of course just possibly it might have been there some time. No fingerprints on it. Nowadays, of course, there isn’t the range of lipsticks there used to be—just a few standard makes.”

  “And you have no doubt made your inquiries?”

  Spence smiled.

  “Yes,” he said; “as you put it, we have made our inquiries. Rosaleen Cloade uses this type of lipstick. So does Lynn Marchmont. Frances Cloade uses a more subdued colour. Mrs. Lionel Cloade doesn’t use lipstick at all. Mrs. Marchmont uses a pale mauve shade. Beatrice Lippincott doesn’t appear to use anything as expensive as this—nor does the chambermaid, Gladys.”

  He paused.

  “You have been thorough,” said Poirot.

  “Not thorough enough. It looks now as though an outsider is mixed up in it—some woman, perhaps, that Underhay knew in Warmsley Vale.”

  “And who was with him at a quarter past ten on Tuesday evening?”

  “Yes,” said Spence. He added with a sigh, “This lets David Hunter out.”

  “It does?”

  “Yes. His lordship has consented to make a statement at last. After his solicitor had been along to make him see reason. Here’s his account of his own movements.”

  Poirot read a neat typed memorandum.

  Left London 4:16 train for Warmsley Heath. Arrived there 5:30. Walked to Furrowbank by footpath.

  “His reason for coming down,” the Superintendent broke in, “was, according to him, to get certain things he’d left behind, letters and papers, a chequebook, and to see if some shirts had come back from the laundry—which, of course, they hadn’t! My word, laundry’s a problem nowadays. Four ruddy weeks since they’ve been to our place—not a clean towel left in our house, and the wife washes all my things herself now.”

  After this very human interpolation the Superintendent returned to the itinerary of David’s movements.

  “Left Furrowbank at 7:25 and states he went for a walk as he had missed the 7:20 train and there would be no train until the 9:20.”

  “In what direction did he go for a walk?” asked Poirot.

  The Superintendent consulted his notes.

  “Says by Downe Copse, Bats Hill and Long Ridge.”

  “In fact, a complete circular tour
round the White House!”

  “My word, you pick up local geography quickly, M. Poirot!”

  Poirot smiled and shook his head.

  “No, I did not know the places you named. I was making a guess.”

  “Oh, you were, were you?” The Superintendent cocked his head on one side.

  “Then, according to him, when he was up on Long Ridge, he realized he was cutting it rather fine and fairly hared it for Warmsley Heath station, going across country. He caught the train by the skin of his teeth, arrived at Victoria 10:45, walked to Shepherd’s Court, arriving there at eleven o’clock, which latter statement is confirmed by Mrs. Gordon Cloade.”

  “And what confirmation have you of the rest of it?”

  “Remarkably little—but there is some. Rowley Cloade and others saw him arrive at Warmsley Heath. The maids at Furrowbank were out (he had his own key of course) so they didn’t see him, but they found a cigarette stump in the library which I gather intrigued them and also found a good deal of confusion in the linen cupboard. Then one of the gardeners was there working late—shutting up greenhouses or something and he caught sight of him. Miss Marchmont met him up by Mardon Wood—when he was running for the train.”

  “Did any one see him catch the train?”

  “No—but he telephoned from London to Miss Marchmont as soon as he got back—at 11:05.”

  “That is checked?”

  “Yes, we’d already put through an inquiry about calls from that number. There was a Toll call out at 11:04 to Warmsley Vale 34. That’s the Marchmonts’ number.”

  “Very, very interesting,” murmured Poirot.

  But Spence was going on painstakingly and methodically.

  “Rowley Cloade left Arden at five minutes to nine. He’s quite definite it wasn’t earlier. About 9:10 Lynn Marchmont sees Hunter up at Mardon Wood. Granted he’s run all the way from the Stag, would he have had time to meet Arden, quarrel with him, kill him and get to Mardon Wood? We’re going into it and I don’t think it can be done. However, now we’re starting again. Far from Arden being killed at nine o’clock, he was alive at ten minutes past ten—that is unless your old lady is dreaming. He was either killed by the woman who dropped the lipstick, the woman in the orange scarf—or by somebody who came in after that woman left. And whoever did it, deliberately put the hands of the watch back to nine-ten.”

  “Which if David Hunter had not happened to meet Lynn Marchmont in a very unlikely place would have been remarkably awkward for him?” said Poirot.

  “Yes, it would. The 9:20 is the last train up from Warmsley Heath. It was growing dark. There are always golfers going back by it. Nobody would have noticed Hunter—indeed the station people don’t know him by sight. And he didn’t take a taxi at the other end. So we’d only have his sister’s word for it that he arrived back at Shepherd’s Court when he said he did.”

  Poirot was silent and Spence asked:

  “What are you thinking about, M. Poirot?”

  Poirot said, “A long walk round the White House. A meeting in Mardon Woods. A telephone call later…And Lynn Marchmont is engaged to Rowley Cloade…I should like very much to know what was said over that telephone call.”

  “It’s the human interest that’s getting you?”

  “Yes,” said Poirot. “It is always the human interest.”

  Eight

  It was getting late, but there was still one more call that Poirot wanted to make. He went along to Jeremy Cloade’s house.

  There he was shown into Jeremy Cloade’s study by a small, intelligent-looking maid.

  Left alone, Poirot gazed interestedly round him. All very legal and dry as dust, he thought, even in his home. There was a large portrait of Gordon Cloade on the desk. Another faded one of Lord Edward Trenton on a horse, and Poirot was examining the latter when Jeremy Cloade came in.

  “Ah, pardon.” Poirot put the photo frame down in some confusion.

  “My wife’s father,” said Jeremy, a faint self-congratulatory note in his voice. “And one of his best horses, Chestnut Trenton. Ran second in the Derby in 1924. Are you interested in racing?”

  “Alas, no.”

  “Runs away with a lot of money,” said Jeremy dryly. “Lord Edward came a crash over it—had to go and live abroad. Yes, an expensive sport.”

  But there was still the note of pride in his voice.

  He himself, Poirot judged, would as soon throw his money in the street as invest it in horseflesh, but he had a secret admiration and respect for those who did.

  Cloade went on:

  “What can I do for you, M. Poirot? As a family, I feel we owe you a debt of gratitude—for finding Major Porter to give evidence of identification.”

  “The family seems very jubilant about it,” said Poirot.

  “Ah,” said Jeremy dryly. “Rather premature to rejoice. Lot of water’s got to pass under the bridge yet. After all, Underhay’s death was accepted in Africa. Takes years to upset a thing of this kind—and Rosaleen’s evidence was very positive—very positive indeed. She made a good impression you know.”

  It seemed almost as though Jeremy Cloade was unwilling to bank upon any improvement in his prospects.

  “I wouldn’t like to give a ruling one way or the other,” he said. “Couldn’t say how a case would go.”

  Then, pushing aside some papers with a fretful, almost weary gesture, he said:

  “But you wanted to see me?”

  “I was going to ask you, Mr. Cloade, if you are really quite certain your brother did not leave a will? A will made subsequent to his marriage, I mean?”

  Jeremy looked surprised.

  “I don’t think there’s ever been any idea of such a thing. He certainly didn’t make one before leaving New York.”

  “He might have made one during the two days he was in London.”

  “Gone to a lawyer there?”

  “Or written one out himself.”

  “And got it witnessed? Witnessed by whom?”

  “There were three servants in the house,” Poirot reminded him. “Three servants who died the same night he did.”

  “H’m—yes—but if by any chance he did do what you suggest, well, the will was destroyed too.”

  “That is just the point. Lately a great many documents believed to have perished completely have actually been deciphered by a new process. Incinerated inside home safes, for instance, but not so destroyed that they cannot be read.”

  “Well, really, M. Poirot, that is a most remarkable idea of yours…Most remarkable. But I don’t think—no, I really don’t believe there is anything in it…So far as I know there was no safe in the house in Sheffield Terrace. Gordon kept all valuable papers, etc., at his office—and there was certainly no will there.”

  “But one might make inquiries?” Poirot was persistent. “From the A.R.P. officials, for instance? You would authorize me to do that?”

  “Oh, certainly—certainly. Very kind of you to offer to undertake such a thing. But I haven’t any belief whatever, I’m afraid, in your success. Still—well, it is an offchance, I suppose. You—you’ll be going back to London at once, then?”

  Poirot’s eyes narrowed. Jeremy’s tone had been unmistakably eager. Going back to London…Did they all want him out of the way?

  Before he could answer, the door opened and Frances Cloade came in.

  Poirot was struck by two things. First, by the fact that she looked shockingly ill. Secondly, by her very strong resemblance to the photograph of her father.

  “M. Hercule Poirot has come to see us, my dear,” said Jeremy rather unnecessarily.

  She shook hands with him and Jeremy Cloade immediately outlined to her Poirot’s suggestion about a will.

  Frances looked doubtful.

  “It seems a very outside chance.”

  “M. Poirot is going up to London and will very kindly make inquiries.”

  “Major Porter, I understand, was an Air Raid Warden in that district,” said Poirot.

  A
curious expression passed over Mrs. Cloade’s face. She said:

  “Who is Major Porter?”

  Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

  “A retired Army officer, living on his pension.”

  “He really was in Africa?”

  Poirot looked at her curiously.

  “Certainly, Madame. Why not?”

  She said almost absently, “I don’t know. He puzzled me.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Cloade,” said Poirot. “I can understand that.”

  She looked sharply at him. An expression almost of fear came into her eyes.

  Turning to her husband she said:

  “Jeremy, I feel very much distressed about Rosaleen. She is all alone at Furrowbank and she must be frightfully upset over David’s arrest. Would you object if I asked her to come here and stay?”

  “Do you really think that is advisable, my dear?” Jeremy sounded doubtful.

  “Oh—advisable? I don’t know! But one is human. She is such a helpless creature.”

  “I rather doubt if she will accept.”

  “I can at any rate make the offer.”

  The lawyer said quietly: “Do so if it will make you feel happier.”

  “Happier!”

  The word came out with a strange bitterness. Then she gave a quick doubtful glance at Poirot.

  Poirot murmured formally:

  “I will take my leave now.”

  She followed him out into the hall.

  “You are going up to London?”

  “I shall go up tomorrow, but for twenty-four hours at most. And then I return to the Stag—where you will find me, Madame, if you want me.”

  She demanded sharply:

  “Why should I want you?”

  Poirot did not reply to the question, merely said:

  “I shall be at the Stag.”

  Later that night out of the darkness Frances Cloade spoke to her husband.

  “I don’t believe that man is going to London for the reason he said. I don’t believe all that about Gordon’s having made a will. Do you believe it, Jeremy?”

  A hopeless, rather tired voice answered her: