He got up and paced up and down the room.
“There are things in this affair that I do not like. No, I do not like them at all.”
Riddle looked at him curiously.
“You mean the motive for his suicide?”
“Suicide—suicide! It is all wrong, I tell you. It is wrong psychologically. How did Chevenix-Gore think of himself? As a Colossus, as an immensely important person, as the centre of the universe! Does such a man destroy himself? Surely not. He is far more likely to destroy someone else—some miserable crawling ant of a human being who had dared to cause him annoyance . . . Such an act he might regard as necessary—as sanctified! But self-destruction? The destruction of such a Self?”
“It’s all very well, Poirot. But the evidence is clear enough. Door locked, key in his own pocket. Window closed and fastened. I know these things happen in books—but I’ve never come across them in real life. Anything else?”
“But yes, there is something else.” Poirot sat down in the chair. “Here I am. I am Chevenix-Gore. I am sitting at my desk. I am determined to kill myself—because, let us say, I have made a discovery concerning some terrific dishonour to the family name. It is not very convincing, that, but it must suffice.
“Eh bien, what do I do? I scrawl on a piece of paper the word SORRY. Yes, that is quite possible. Then I open a drawer of the desk, take out the pistol which I keep there, load it, if it is not loaded, and then—do I proceed to shoot myself? No, I first turn my chair round—so, and I lean over a little to the right—so—and then I put the pistol to my temple and fire!”
Poirot sprang up from his chair, and wheeling round, demanded:
“I ask you, does that make sense? Why turn the chair round? If, for instance, there had been a picture on the wall there, then, yes, there might be an explanation. Some portrait which a dying man might wish to be the last thing on earth his eyes would see, but a window curtain—ah non, that does not make sense.”
“He might have wished to look out of the window. Last view out over the estate.”
“My dear friend, you do not suggest that with any conviction. In fact, you know it is nonsense. At eight minutes past eight it was dark, and in any case the curtains are drawn. No, there must be some other explanation. . . .”
“There’s only one as far as I can see. Gervase Chevenix-Gore was mad.”
Poirot shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.
Major Riddle rose.
“Come,” he said. “Let us go and interview the rest of the party. We may get at something that way.”
Six
After the difficulties of getting a direct statement from Lady Chevenix-Gore, Major Riddle found considerable relief in dealing with a shrewd lawyer like Forbes.
Mr. Forbes was extremely guarded and cautious in his statements, but his replies were all directly to the point.
He admitted that Sir Gervase’s suicide had been a great shock to him. He should never have considered Sir Gervase the kind of man who would take his own life. He knew nothing of any cause for such an act.
“Sir Gervase was not only my client, but was a very old friend. I have known him since boyhood. I should say that he had always enjoyed life.”
“In the circumstances, Mr. Forbes, I must ask you to speak quite candidly. You did not know of any secret anxiety or sorrow in Sir Gervase’s life?”
“No. He had minor worries, like most men, but there was nothing of a serious nature.”
“No illness? No trouble between him and his wife?”
“No. Sir Gervase and Lady Chevenix-Gore were devoted to each other.”
Major Riddle said cautiously:
“Lady Chevenix-Gore appears to hold somewhat curious views.”
Mr. Forbes smiled—an indulgent, manly smile.
“Ladies,” he said, “must be allowed their fancies.”
The chief constable went on: