“Sir Gervase did not resent your—er—firmness?”
“Oh not at all. Of course I put it to him that he mustn’t be bothered with all the petty detail.”
“Oh, yes, I see.”
“It was quite simple, really,” said Miss Lingard. “Sir Gervase was perfectly easy to manage if one took him the right way.”
“Now, Miss Lingard, I wonder if you know anything that can throw light on this tragedy?”
Miss Lingard shook her head.
“I’m afraid I don’t. You see, naturally he wouldn’t confide in me at all. I was practically a stranger. In any case I think he was far too proud to speak to anyone of family troubles.”
“But you think it was family troubles that caused him to take his life?”
Miss Lingard looked rather surprised.
“But of course! Is there any other suggestion?”
“You feel sure that there were family troubles worrying him?”
“I know that he was in great distress of mind.”
“Oh, you know that?”
“Why, of course.”
“Tell me, mademoiselle, did he speak to you of the matter?”
“Not explicitly.”
“What did he say?”
“Let me see. I found that he didn’t seem to be taking in what I was saying—”
“One moment. Pardon. When was this?”
“This afternoon. We usually worked from three to five.”
“Pray go on.”
“As I say, Sir Gervase seemed to be finding it hard to concentrate—in fact, he said as much, adding that he had several grave matters preying on his mind. And he said—let me see—something like this—(of course, I can’t be sure of the exact words): ‘It’s a terrible thing, Miss Lingard, when a family has been one of the proudest in the land, that dishonour should be brought on it.’ ”
“And what did you say to that?”
“Oh, just something soothing. I think I said that every generation had its weaklings—that that was one of the penalties of greatness—but that their failings were seldom remembered by posterity.”
“And did that have the soothing effect you hoped?”
“More or less. We got back to Sir Roger Chevenix-Gore. I had found a most interesting mention of him in a contemporary manuscript. But Sir Gervase’s attention wandered again. In the end he said he would not do any more work that afternoon. He said he had had a shock.”
“A shock?”
“That is what he said. Of course, I didn’t ask any questions. I just said, ‘I am sorry to hear it, Sir Gervase.’ And then he asked me to tell Snell that M. Poirot would be arriving and to put off dinner until eight-fifteen, and send the car to meet the seven-fifty train.”
“Did he usually ask you to make these arrangements?”
“Well—no—that was really Mr. Burrows’s business. I did nothing but my own literary work. I wasn’t a secretary in any sense of the word.”