Peril at End House (Hercule Poirot 8)

‘Poirot,’ I cried. ‘You have thought of something.’

He nodded. He leaned forward, tapping the table in front of him.

‘Tell me, Hastings, the answer to these three questions. Why has Mademoiselle Nick been sleeping badly lately? Why did she buy a black evening dress—she never wears black? Why did she say last night, “I have nothing to live for—now”?’

I stared. The questions seemed beside the point.

‘Answer those questions, Hastings, answer them.’

‘Well—as to the first—she said she had been worried lately.’

‘Precisely. What has she been worried about?’

‘And the black dress—well, everybody wants a change sometimes.’

‘For a married man, you have very little appreciation of feminine psychology. If a woman thinks she does not look well in a colour, she refuses to wear it.’

‘And the last—well, it was a natural thing to say after that awful shock.’

‘No, mon ami, it was not a natural thing to say. To be horror-struck by her cousin’s death, to reproach herself for it—yes, all that is natural enough. But the other, no. She spoke of life with weariness—as of a thing no longer dear to her. Never before had she displayed that attitude. She had been defiant—yes—she had snapped the fingers, yes—and then, when that broke down, she was afraid. Afraid, mark you, because life was sweet and she did not wish to die. But weary of life—no! That never! Even before dinner that was not so. We have there, Hastings, a psychological change. And that is interesting. What was it caused her point of view to change?’

‘The shock of her cousin’s death.’

‘I wonder. It was the shock that loosed her tongue. But suppose the change was before that. Is there anything else could account for it?’

‘I don’t know of anything.’

‘Think, Hastings. Use your little grey cells.’

‘Really—’

‘What was the last moment we had the opportunity of observing her?’

‘Well, actually, I suppose, at dinner.’

‘Exactly. After that, we only saw her receiving guests, making them welcome—purely a formal attitude. What happened at the end of dinner, Hastings?’

‘She went to telephone,’ I said, slowly.

‘A la bonne heure. You have got there at last. She went to telephone. And she was absent a long time. Twenty minutes at least. That is a long time for a telephone call. Who spoke to her over the telephone? What did they say? Did she really telephone? We have to find out, Hastings, what happened in that twenty minutes. For there, or so I fully believe, we shall find the clue we seek.’

‘You really think so?’

‘Mais oui, mais oui! All along, Hastings, I have told you that Mademoiselle has been keeping something back. She doesn’t think it has any connection with the murder—but I, Hercule Poirot, know better! It must have a connection. For, all along, I have been conscious that there is a factor lacking. If there were not a factor lacking—why then, the whole thing would be plain to me! And as it is not plain to me—eh bien—then the missing factor is the keystone of the mystery! I know I am right, Hastings.

I must know the answer to those three questions. And, then—and then—I shall begin to see…

‘Well,’ I said, stretching my stiffened limbs, ‘I think a bath and a shave are indicated.’

By the time I had had a bath and changed into day clothing I felt better. The stiffness and weariness of a night passed in uncomfortable conditions passed off. I arrived at the breakfast table feeling that one drink of hot coffee would restore me to my normal self.

I glanced at the paper, but there was little news in it beyond the fact that Michael Seton’s death was now definitely confirmed. The intrepid airman had perished. I wondered whether, tomorrow, new headlines would have sprung into being: ‘GIRL MURDERED DURING FIREWORK PARTY. MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY.’ Something like that.

I had just finished breakfast when Frederica Rice came up to my table. She was wearing a plain little frock of black marocain with a little soft pleated white collar. Her fairness was more evident than ever.

‘I want to see M. Poirot, Captain Hastings. Is he up yet, do you know?’

‘I will take you up with me now,’ I said. ‘We shall find him in the sitting-room.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I hope,’ I said, as we left the dining-room together, ‘that you didn’t sleep too badly?’

‘It was a shock,’ she said, in a meditative voice. ‘But, of course, I didn’t know the poor girl. It’s not as though it had been Nick.’

‘I suppose you’d never met this girl before?’

‘Once—at Scarborough. She came over to lunch with Nick.’

‘It will be a terrible blow to her father and mother,’ I said.

‘Dreadful.’

But she said it very impersonally. She was, I fancied, an egoist. Nothing was very real to her that did not concern herself.

Poirot had finished his breakfast and was sitting reading the morning paper. He rose and greeted Frederica with all his customary Gallic politeness.

‘Madame,’ he said. ‘Enchanté!’

He drew forward a chair.

She thanked him with a very faint smile and sat down. Her two hands rested on the arms of the chair. She sat there very upright, looking straight in front of her. She did not rush into speech. There was something a little frightening about her stillness and aloofness.

‘M. Poirot,’ she said at last. ‘I suppose there is no doubt that this—sad business last night was all part and parcel of the same thing? I mean—that the intended victim was really Nick?’

‘I should say, Madame, that there was no doubt at all.’

Frederica frowned a little.

‘Nick bears a charmed life,’ she said.

There was some curious undercurrent in her voice that I could not understand.

‘Luck, they say, goes in cycles,’ remarked Poirot.

‘Perhaps. It is certainly useless to fight against it.’

Now there was only weariness in her tone. After a moment or two, she went on.

‘I must beg your pardon, M. Poirot. Nick’s pardon, too. Up till last night I did not believe. I never dreamed that the danger was—serious.’

‘Is that so, Madame?’

‘I see now that everything will have to be gone into—carefully. And I imagine that Nick’s immediate circle of friends will not be immune from suspicion. Ridiculous, of couse, but there it is. Am I right, M. Poirot?’

‘You are very intelligent, Madame.’

‘You asked me some questions about Tavistock the other day, M. Poirot. As you will find out sooner or later, I might as well tell you the truth now. I was not at Tavistock.’

‘No, Madame?’

‘I motored down to this part of the world with Mr Lazarus early last weeek. We did not wish to arouse more comment than necessary. We stayed at a little place called Shellacombe.’

‘That is, I think, about seven miles from here, Madame?’

‘About that—yes.’

Still that quiet far-away weariness.

‘May I be impertinent, Madame?’

‘Is there such a thing—in these days?’

‘Perhaps you are right, Madame. How long have you and M. Lazarus been friends?’

‘I met him six months ago.’

‘And you—care for him, Madame?’

Frederica shrugged her shoulders.

‘He is—rich.’

‘Oh! làlà,’ cried Poirot. ‘That is an ugly thing to say.’

She seemed faintly amused.

‘Isn’t it better to say it myself—than to have you say it for me?’

‘Well—there is always that, of course. May I repeat, Madame, that you are very intelligent.’

‘You will give me a diploma soon,’ said Frederica, and rose.

‘There is nothing more you wish to tell me, Madame?’

‘I do not think so—no. I am

going to take some flowers round to Nick and see how she is.’

‘Ah, that is very aimable of you. Thank you, Madame, for your frankness.’

She glanced at him sharply, seemed about to speak, then thought better of it and went out of the room, smiling faintly at me as I held the door open for her.

‘She is intelligent,’ said Poirot. ‘Yes, but so is Hercule Poirot!’

‘What do you mean?’

‘That it is all very well and very pretty to force the richness of M. Lazarus down my throat—’

‘I must say that rather disgusted me.’

‘Mon cher, always you have the right reaction in the wrong place. It is not, for the moment, a question of good taste or otherwise. If Madame Rice has a devoted friend who is rich and can give her all she needs—why then obviously Madame Rice would not need to murder her dearest friend for a mere pittance.’

‘Oh!’ I said.

‘Précisément! “Oh!”’

‘Why didn’t you stop her going to the nursing home?’

‘Why should I show my hand? Is it Hercule Poirot who prevents Mademoiselle Nick from seeing her friends? Quelle idée! It is the doctors and the nurses. Those tiresome nurses! So full of rules and regulations and “doctor’s’ orders”.’