“No, Frances. No—he’s going for some other reason.”
“What reason?”
“I’ve no idea.”
Frances said, “What are we going to do, Jeremy? What are we going to do?”
Presently he answered:
“I think, Frances, there’s only one thing to be done—”
Nine
Armed with the necessary credentials from Jeremy Cloade, Poirot had got the answers to his questions. They were very definite. The house was a total wreck. The site had been cleared only quite recently in preparation for rebuilding. There had been no survivors except for David Hunter and Mrs. Cloade. There had been three servants in the house: Frederick Game, Elizabeth Game and Eileen Corrigan. All three had been killed instantly. Gordon Cloade had been brought out alive, but had died on the way to hospital without recovering consciousness. Poirot took the names and addresses of the three servants’ next of kin. “It is possible,” he said, “that they may have spoken to their friends something in the way of gossip or comment that might give me a pointer to some information I badly need.”
The official to whom he was speaking looked sceptical. The Games had come from Dorset, Eileen Corrigan from County Cork.
Poirot next bent his steps towards Major Porter’s rooms. He remembered Porter’s statement that he himself was a Warden and he wondered whether he had happened to be on duty on that particular night and whether he had seen anything of the incident in Sheffield Terrace.
He had, besides, other reasons for wanting a word with Major Porter.
As he turned the corner of Edgeway Street he was startled to see a policeman in uniform standing outside the particular house for which he was making. There was a ring of small boys and other people standing staring at the house. Poirot’s heart sank as he interpreted the signs.
The constable intercepted Poirot’s advance.
“Can’t go in here, sir,” he said.
“What has happened?”
“You don’t live in the house, do you, sir?” Poirot shook his head. “Who was it you were wishing to see?”
“I wished to see a Major Porter.”
“You a friend of his, sir?”
“No, I should not describe myself as a friend. What has happened?”
“Gentleman has shot himself, I understand. Ah, here’s the Inspector.”
The door had opened and two figures came out. One was the local Inspector, the other Poirot recognized as Sergeant Graves from Warmsley Vale. The latter recognized him and promptly made himself known to the Inspector.
“Better come inside,” said the latter.
The three men reentered the house.
“They telephoned through to Warmsley Vale,” Graves explained. “And Superintendent Spence sent me up.”
“Suicide?”
The Inspector answered:
“Yes. Seems a clear case. Don’t know whether having to give evidence at the inquest preyed upon his mind. People are funny that way sometimes, but I gather he’s been depressed lately. Financial difficulties and one thing and another. Shot himself with his own revolver.”
Poirot asked: “Is it permitted that I go up?”
“If you like, M. Poirot. Take M. Poirot up, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.”
Graves led the way up to the first-floor room. It was much as Poirot remembered it: the dim colours of the old rugs, the books. Major Porter was in the big armchair. His attitude was almost natural, just the head slumped forward. His right arm hung down at his side—below it, on the rug, lay the revolver. There was still a very faint smell of acrid gunpowder in the air.
“About a couple of hours ago, they think,” said Graves. “Nobody heard the shot. The woman of the house was out shopping.”
Poirot was frowning, looking down on the quiet figure with the small scorched wound in the right temple.
“Any idea why he should do it, M. Poirot?” asked Graves.
He was respectful to Poirot because he had seen the Superintendent being respectful—though his private opinion was that Poirot was one of these frightful old dugouts.
Poirot replied absently:
“Yes—yes, there was a very good reason. That is not the difficulty.”
His glance shifted to a small table at Major Porter’s left hand. There was a big solid glass ashtray on it, with a pipe and a box of matches. Nothing there. His eye roamed round the room. Then he crossed to an open rolltop desk.
It was very tidy. Papers neatly pigeon-holed. A small leather blotter in the centre, a pen tray with a pen and two pencils, a box of paper clips and a book of stamps. All very neat and orderly. An ordinary life and an orderly death—of course—that was it—that was what was missing!
He said to Graves:
“Didn’t he leave any note—any letter for the coroner?”
Graves shook his head.
“No, he didn’t—sort of thing one would have expected an ex-Army man to do.”
“Yes, that is very curious.”
Punctilious in life, Major Porter had not been punctilious in death. It was all wrong, Poirot thought, that Porter had left no note.
“Bit of a blow for the Cloades this,” said Graves. “It will set them back. They’ll have to hunt about for someone else who knew Underhay intimately.”
He fidgeted slightly. “Anything more you want to see, M. Poirot?”
Poirot shook his head and followed Graves from the room.
On the stairs they met the landlady. She was clearly enjoying her own state of agitation and started a voluble discourse at once. Graves adroitly detached himself and left Poirot to receive the full spate.
“Can’t seem to catch my breath properly. ’Eart, that’s what it is. Angina Pectoria, my mother died of—fell down dead as she was crossing the Caledonian Market. Nearly dropped down myself when I found him—oh, it did give me a turn! Never suspected anything of the kind, though ’e ’ad been low in ’is spirits for a long time. Worried over money, I think, and didn’t eat enough to keep himself alive. Not that he’d ever accept a bite from us. And then yesterday he ’ad to go down to a place in Oastshire—Warmsley Vale—to give evidence in an inquest. Preyed on his mind, that did. He come back looking awful. Tramped about all last night. Up and down—up and down. A murdered gentleman it was and a friend of his, by all accounts. Poor dear, it did upset him. Up and down—up and down. And when I was out doing my bit of shopping—and ’aving to queue ever so long for the fish, I went up to see if he’d like a nice cuppa tea—and there he was, poor gentleman, the revolver dropped out of his hand, leaning back in his chair. Gave me an awful turn it did. ’Ad to ’ave the police in and everything. What’s the world coming to, that’s what I say?”
Poirot said slowly:
“The world is becoming a difficult place to live in—except for the strong.”
Ten
It was past eight o’clock when Poirot got back to the Stag. He found a note from Frances Cloade asking him to come and see her. He went out at once.
She was waiting for him in the drawing room. He had not seen that room before. The open windows gave on a walled garden with pear trees in bloom. There were bowls of tulips on the tables. The old furniture shone with beeswax and elbow grease and the brass of the fender and coal scuttle were brightly gleaming.
It was, Poirot thought, a very beautiful room.
“You said I should want you, M. Poirot. You were quite right. There is something that must be told—and I think you are the best person to tell it to.”
“It is always easier, Madame, to tell a thing to someone who already has a very good idea of what it is.”
“You think you know what I am going to say?”
Poirot nodded.
“Since when—”
She left the question unfinished, but he replied promptly:
“Since the moment when I saw the photograph of your father. The features of your family are very strongly marked. One could not doubt that you and he were of the same family. The resemblance
was equally strong in the man who came here calling himself Enoch Arden.”
She sighed—a deep unhappy sigh.
“Yes—yes, you’re right—although poor Charles had a beard. He was my second cousin, M. Poirot, somewhat the black sheep of the family. I never knew him very well but we played together as children—and now I’ve brought him to his death—an ugly sordid death—”
She was silent for a moment or two. Poirot said gently:
“You will tell me—”
She roused herself.
“Yes, the story has got to be told. We were desperate for money—that’s where it begins. My husband—my husband was in serious trouble—the worst kind of trouble. Disgrace, perhaps imprisonment lay ahead of him—still lies ahead of him for that matter. Now understand this, M. Poirot, the plan I made and carried out was my plan; my husband had nothing to do with it. It wasn’t his sort of plan in any case—it would have been far too risky. But I’ve never minded taking risks. And I’ve always been, I suppose, rather unscrupulous. First of all, let me say, I applied to Rosaleen Cloade for a loan. I don’t know whether, left to herself, she would have given it to me or not. But her brother stepped in. He was in an ugly mood and he was, or so I thought, unnecessarily insulting. When I thought of this scheme I had no scruples at all about putting it into operation.
“To explain matters, I must tell you that my husband had repeated to me last year a rather interesting piece of information which he had heard at his club. You were there, I believe, so I needn’t repeat it in detail. But it opened up the possibility that Rosaleen’s first husband might not be dead—and of course in that case she would have no right at all to any of Gordon’s money. It was, of course, only a vague possibility, but it was there at the back of our minds, a sort of outside chance that might possibly come true. And it flashed into my mind that something could be done by using that possibility. Charles, my cousin, was in this country, down on his luck. He’s been in prison, I’m afraid, and he wasn’t a scrupulous person, but he did well in the war. I put the proposition before him. It was, of course, blackmail, neither more nor less. But we thought that we had a good chance of getting away with it. At worst, I thought, David Hunter would refuse to play. I didn’t think that he would go to the police about it—people like him aren’t fond of the police.”
Her voice hardened.
“Our scheme went well. David fell for it better than we hoped. Charles, of course, could not definitely pose as ‘Robert Underhay.’ Rosaleen could give that away in a moment. But fortunately she went up to London and that left Charles a chance of at least suggesting that he might be Robert Underhay. Well, as I say, David appeared to be falling for the scheme. He was to bring the money on Tuesday evening at nine o’clock. Instead—”
Her voice faltered.
“We should have known that David was—a dangerous person. Charles is dead—murdered—and but for me he would be alive. I sent him to his death.”
After a little she went on in a dry voice:
“You can imagine what I have felt like ever since.”
“Nevertheless,” said Poirot, “you were quick enough to see a further development of the scheme? It was you who induced Major Porter to identify your cousin as ‘Robert Underhay?’”
But at once she broke out vehemently:
“No, I swear to you, no. Not that! No one was more astonished…Astonished? We were dumbfounded! when this Major Porter came down and gave evidence that Charles—Charles!—was Robert Underhay. I couldn’t understand it—I still can’t understand it!”
“But someone went to Major Porter. Someone persuaded him or bribed him—to identify the dead man as Underhay?”
Frances said decisively:
“It was not I. And it was not Jeremy. Neither of us would do such a thing. Oh, I dare say that sounds absurd to you! You think that because I was ready to blackmail, that I would stoop just as easily to fraud. But in my mind the two things are worlds apart. You must understand that I felt—indeed I still feel—that we have a right to a portion of Gordon’s money. What I had failed to get by fair means I was prepared to get by foul. But deliberately to swindle Rosaleen out of everything, by manufacturing evidence that she was not Gordon’s wife at all—oh, no, indeed, M. Poirot, I would not do a thing like that. Please, please, believe me.”
“I will at least admit,” said Poirot slowly, “that every one has their own particular sins. Yes, I will believe that.”
Then he looked at her sharply.
“Do you know, Mrs. Cloade, that Major Porter shot himself this afternoon?”
She shrank back, her eyes wide and horrified.
“Oh, no, M. Poirot—no!”
“Yes, Madame. Major Porter, you see, was au fond an honest man. Financially he was in very low water, and when temptation came he, like many other men, failed to resist it. It may have seemed to him, he can have made himself feel, that his lie was almost morally justified. He was already deeply prejudiced in his mind against the woman his friend Underhay had married. He considered that she had treated his friend disgracefully. And now this heartless little gold digger had married a millionaire and had got away with her second husband’s fortune to the detriment of his own flesh and blood. It must have seemed tempting to him to put a spoke in her wheel—no more than she deserved. And merely by identifying a dead man he himself would be made secure for the future. When the Cloades got their rights, he would get his cut…Yes—I can see the temptation…But like many men of his type he lacked imagination. He was unhappy, very unhappy, at the inquest. One could see that. In the near future he would have to repeat his lie upon oath. Not only that; a man was now arrested, charged with murder—and the identity of the dead man supplied a very potent motive for that charge.
“He went back home and faced things squarely. He took the way out that seemed best to him.”
“He shot himself?”
“Yes.”
Frances murmured: “He didn’t say who—who—”
Slowly Poirot shook his head.
“He had his code. There was no reference whatever as to who had instigated him to commit perjury.”
He watched her closely. Was there an instant flash of relief, of relaxed tension? Yes, but that might be natural enough in any case….
She got up and walked to the window. She said:
“So we are back where we were.”
Poirot wondered what was passing in her mind.
Eleven
Superintendent Spence, the following morning, used almost Frances’ words:
“So we’re back where we started,” he said with a sigh. “We’ve got to find who this fellow Enoch Arden really was.”
“I can tell you that, Superintendent,” said Poirot. “His name was Charles Trenton.”
“Charles Trenton!” The Superintendent whistled. “H’m! One of the Trentons—I suppose she put him up to it—Mrs. Jeremy, I mean…However, we shan’t be able to prove her connection with it. Charles Trenton? I seem to remember—”
Poirot nodded.
“Yes. He has a record.”
“Thought so. Swindling hotels if I remember rightly. Used to arrive at the Ritz, go out and buy a Rolls, subject to a morning’s trial, go round in the Rolls to all the most expensive shops and buy stuff—and I can tell you a man who’s got his Rolls outside waiting to take his purchases back to the Ritz doesn’t get his cheques queried! Besides, he had the manner and the breeding. He’d stay a week or so and then, just when suspicions began to arise, he’d quietly disappear, selling the various items cheap to the pals he’d picked up. Charles Trenton. H’m—” He looked at Poirot. “You find out things, don’t you?”
“How does your case progress against David Hunter?”
“We shall have to let him go. There was a woman there that night with Arden. It doesn’t only depend on that old tartar’s word. Jimmy Pierce was going home, got pushed out of the Load of Hay—he gets quarrelsome after a glass or two. He saw a woman come out of the Stag and go
into the telephone box outside the post office—that was just after ten. Said it wasn’t any one he knew, thought it was someone staying at the Stag. ‘A tart from London,’ is what he called her.”
“He was not very near her?”
“No, right across the street. Who the devil was she, M. Poirot?”
“Did he say how she was dressed?”
“Tweed coat, he said, orange scarf round her head. Trousers and a lot of makeup. Fits with the old lady’s description.”
“Yes, it fits.” Poirot was frowning.
Spence asked:
“Well, who was she, where did she come from, where did she go? You know our train service. The 9:20’s the last train up to London—and the 10:03 the other way. Did that woman hang about all night and go up on the 6:18 in the morning? Had she got a car? Did she hitch-hike? We’ve sent out all over the place—but no results.”
“What about the 6:18?”
“It’s always crowded—mostly men, though. I think they’d have noticed a woman—that type of woman, that’s to say. I suppose she might have come and left by car, but a car’s noticed in Warmsley Vale nowadays. We’re off the main road, you see.”
“No cars noticed out that night?”
“Only Dr. Cloade’s. He was out on a case—over Middlingham way. You’d think someone would have noticed a strange woman in a car.”
“It need not have been a stranger,” Poirot said slowly. “A man slightly drunk and a hundred yards away might not recognize a local person whom he did not know very well. Someone, perhaps, dressed in a different way from their usual way.”
Spence looked at him questioningly.
“Would this young Pierce recognize, for instance, Lynn Marchmont? She has been away for some years.”
“Lynn Marchmont was at the White House with her mother at that time,” said Spence.
“Are you sure?”
“Mrs. Lionel Cloade—that’s the scatty one, the doctor’s wife—says she telephoned to her there at ten minutes past ten. Rosaleen Cloade was in London. Mrs. Jeremy—well, I’ve never seen her in slacks and she doesn’t use much makeup. Anyway, she isn’t young.”
Taken at the Flood Page 17