“I agree.”
“We must check up on who is in the house.”
“I can tell you their names. I have just been making inquiries of Mr. Trent.”
He repeated the list of names.
“Perhaps you, Major Riddle, know something about these people?”
“I know something of them, naturally. Lady Chevenix-Gore is quite as mad in her own way as old Sir Gervase. They were devoted to each other—and both quite mad. She’s the vaguest creature that ever lived, with an occasional uncanny shrewdness that strikes the nail on the head in the most surprising fashion. People laugh at her
a good deal. I think she knows it, but she doesn’t care. She’s absolutely no sense of humour.”
“Miss Chevenix-Gore is only their adopted daughter, I understand?”
“Yes.”
“A very handsome young lady.”
“She’s a devilishly attractive girl. Has played havoc with most of the young fellows round here. Leads them all on and then turns round and laughs at them. Good seat on a horse, and wonderful hands.”
“That, for the moment, does not concern us.”
“Er—no, perhaps not . . . Well, about the other people. I know old Bury, of course. He’s here most of the time. Almost a tame cat about the house. Kind of A.D.C. to Lady Chevenix-Gore. He’s a very old friend. They’ve known him all their lives. I think he and Sir Gervase were both interested in some company of which Bury was a director.”
“Oswald Forbes, do you know anything of him?”
“I rather believe I’ve met him once.”
“Miss Lingard?”
“Never heard of her.”
“Miss Susan Cardwell?”
“Rather a good-looking girl with red hair? I’ve seen her about with Ruth Chevenix-Gore the last few days.”
“Mr. Burrows?”
“Yes, I know him. Chevenix-Gore’s secretary. Between you and me, I don’t take to him much. He’s good-looking, and knows it. Not quite out of the top drawer.”
“Had he been with Sir Gervase long?”
“About two years, I fancy.”
“And there is no one else—?”
Poirot broke off.
A tall, fair-haired man in a lounge suit came hurrying in. He was out of breath and looked disturbed.
“Good evening, Major Riddle. I heard a rumour that Sir Gervase had shot himself, and I hurried up here. Snell tells me it’s true. It’s incredible! I can’t believe it!”
“It’s true enough, Lake. Let me introduce you. This is Captain Lake, Sir Gervase’s agent for the estate. M. Hercule Poirot, of whom you may have heard.”
Lake’s face lit up with what seemed a kind of delighted incredulity.
“M. Hercule Poirot? I’m most awfully pleased to meet you. At least—” He broke off, the quick charming smile vanished—he looked disturbed and upset. “There isn’t anything—fishy—about this suicide, is there, sir?”