The A.B.C. Murders (Hercule Poirot 13)

“A B C?” She shook her head. “No, I’m sure he didn’t.”

“He didn’t mention having seen anyone hanging about during his evening walks lately?”

“No. He never mentioned anything of the kind.”

r /> “And you yourself have noticed no strangers?”

“Not exactly hanging about. Of course, there are a lot of people what you might call wandering about at this time of year. One often meets people strolling with an aimless look across the golf links or down the lanes to the sea. In the same way, practically everyone one sees this time of year is a stranger.”

Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

Inspector Crome asked to be taken over the ground of Sir Carmichael’s nightly walk. Franklin Clarke led the way through the french window, and Miss Grey accompanied us.

She and I were a little behind the others.

“All this must have been a terrible shock to you all,” I said.

“It seems quite unbelievable. I had gone to bed last night when the police rang up. I heard voices downstairs and at last I came out and asked what was the matter. Deveril and Mr. Clarke were just setting out with lanterns.”

“What time did Sir Carmichael usually come back from his walk?”

“About a quarter to ten. He used to let himself in by the side door and then sometimes he went straight to bed, sometimes to the gallery where his collections were. That is why, unless the police had rung up, he would probably not have been missed till they went to call him this morning.”

“It must have been a terrible shock to his wife?”

“Lady Clarke is kept under morphia a good deal. I think she is in too dazed a condition to appreciate what goes on round her.”

We had come out through a garden gate on to the golf links. Crossing a corner of them, we passed over a stile into a steep, winding lane.

“This leads down to Elbury Cove,” explained Franklin Clarke. “But two years ago they made a new road leading from the main road to Broadsands and on to Elbury, so that now this lane is practically deserted.”

We went on down the lane. At the foot of it a path led between brambles and bracken down to the sea. Suddenly we came out on a grassy ridge overlooking the sea and a beach of glistening white stones. All round dark green trees ran down to the sea. It was an enchanting spot—white, deep green—and sapphire blue.

“How beautiful!” I exclaimed.

Clarke turned to me eagerly.

“Isn’t it? Why people want to go abroad to the Riviera when they’ve got this! I’ve wandered all over the world in my time and, honest to God, I’ve never seen anything as beautiful.”

Then, as though ashamed of his eagerness, he said in a more matter-of-fact tone:

“This was my brother’s evening walk. He came as far as here, then back up the path, and turning to the right instead of the left, went past the farm and across the fields back to the house.”

We proceeded on our way till we came to a spot near the hedge, halfway across the field where the body had been found.

Crome nodded.

“Easy enough. The man stood here in the shadow. Your brother would have noticed nothing till the blow fell.”

The girl at my side gave a quick shiver.

Franklin Clarke said:

“Hold up, Thora. It’s pretty beastly, but it’s no use shirking facts.”

Thora Grey—the name suited her.

We went back to the house where the body had been taken after being photographed.