Peril at End House (Hercule Poirot 8)

‘Yes, I comprehend all that.’

‘He was missing once before, you know. Crossing the desert on the way to India. That was pretty awful, and then after all, it was all right. His machine was damaged, but it was put right, and he went on. And I kept saying to myself that it would be the same this time. Everyone said he must be dead—and I kept telling myself that he must be all right, really. And then—last night…’

Her voice trailed away.

‘You had hoped up till then?’

‘I don’t know. I think it was more that I refused to believe. It was awful never being able to talk to anyone.’

‘Yes, I can imagine that. Were you never tempted to tell Madame Rice, for instance?’

‘Sometimes I wanted to frightfully.’

‘You do not think she—guessed?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Nick considered the idea carefully. ‘She never said anything. Of course she used to hint things sometimes. About our being great friends and all that.’

‘You never considered telling her when M. Seton’s uncle died? You know that he died about a week ago?’

‘I know. He had an operation or something. I suppose I might have told anybody then. But it wouldn’t have been a nice way of doing it, would it? I mean, it would have seemed rather boastful—to do it just then—when all the papers were full of Michael. And reporters would have come and interviewed me. It would all have been rather cheap. And Michael would have hated it.’

‘I agree with you, Mademoiselle. You could not have announced it publicly. I only meant that you could have spoken of it privately to a friend.’

‘I did sort of hint to one person,’ said Nick. ‘I—thought it was only fair. But I don’t know how much he—the person took in.’

Poirot nodded.

‘Are you on good terms with your cousin M. Vyse?’ he asked, with a rather abrupt change of subject.

‘Charles? What put him into your head?’

‘I was just wondering—that was all.’

‘Charles means well,’ said Nick. ‘He’s a frightful stick, of course. Never moves out of this place. He disapproves of me, I think.’

‘Oh! Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle. And I hear that he has laid all his devotion at your feet!’

‘Disapproving of a person doesn’t keep you from having a pash for them. Charles thinks my mode of life is reprehensible and he disapproves of my cocktails, my complexion, my friends and my conversation. But he still feels my fatal fascination. He always hopes to reform me, I think.’

She paused and then said, with a ghost of a twinkle:

‘Who have you been pumping to get the local information?’

‘You must not give me away, Mademoiselle. I had a little conversation with the Australian lady, Madame Croft.’

‘She’s rather an old dear—when one has time for her. Terribly sentimental. Love and home and children—you know the sort of thing.’

‘I am old-fashioned and sentimental myself, Mademoiselle.’

‘Are you? I should have said that Captain Hastings was the sentimental one of you two.’

I blushed indignantly.

‘He is furious,’ said Poirot, eying my discomfiture with a good deal of pleasure. ‘But you are right, Mademoiselle. Yes, you are right.’

‘Not at all,’ I said, angrily.

‘Hastings has a singularly beautiful nature. It has been the greatest hindrance to me at times.’

‘Don’t be absurd, Poirot.’

‘He is, to begin with, reluctant to see evil anywhere, and when he does see it his righteous indignation is so great that he is incapable of dissembling. Altogether a rare and beautiful nature. No, mon ami, I will not permit you to contradict me. It is as I say.’

‘You’ve both been very kind to me,’ said Nick, gently.

‘Là, là, Mademoiselle. That is nothing. We have much more to do. To begin with, you will remain here. You will obey orders. You will do what I tell you. At this juncture I must not be hampered.’

Nick sighed wearily.

‘I’ll do anything you like. I don’t care what I do.’

‘You will see no friends for the present.’

‘I don’t care. I don’t want to see anyone.’

‘For you the passive part—for us the active one. Now, Mademoiselle, I am going to leave you. I will not intrude longer upon your sorrow.’

He moved towards the door, pausing with his hand on the handle to say over his shoulder:

‘By the way, you once mentioned a will you made. Where is it, this will?’

‘Oh! it’s knocking round somewhere.’

‘At End House?’

‘Yes.’

‘In a safe? Locked up in your desk?’

‘Well, I really don’t know. It’s somewhere about.’ She frowned. ‘I’m frightfully untidy, you know. Papers and things like that would be mostly in the writing-table in the library. That’s where most of the bills are. The will is probably with them. Or it might be in my bedroom.’

‘You permit me to make the search—yes?’

‘If you want to—yes. Look at anything you like.’

‘Merci, Mademoiselle. I will avail myself of your permission.’

Chapter 12

Ellen

Poirot said no word till we had emerged from the nursing home into the outer air. Then he caught me by the arm.

‘You see, Hastings? You see? Ah! Sacré tonnerre! I was right! I was right! Always I knew there was something lacking—some piece of the puzzle that was not there. And without that missing piece the whole thing was meaningless.’

His almost despairing triumph was double-Dutch to me. I could not see that anything very epoch-making had occurred.

‘It was there all the time. And I could not see it. But how should I? To know there is something—that, yes—but to know what that something is. Ah! Ça c’est bien plus difficile.’

‘Do you mean that this has some direct bearing on the crime?’

‘Ma foi, do you not see?’

‘As a matter of fact, I don’t.’

‘Is it possible? Why, it gives us what we have been looking for—the motive—the hidden obscure motive!’

‘I may be very dense, but I can’t see it. Do you mean jealousy of some kind?’

‘Jealousy? No, no, my friend. The usual motive—the inevitable motive. Money, my friend, money!’

‘I stared. He went on, speaking more calmly.

‘Listen, mon ami. Just over a week ago Sir Matthew Seton dies. And Sir Matthew Seton was a millionaire—one of the richest men in England.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Attendez. One step at a time. He has a nephew whom he idolizes and to whom, we may safely assume, he has left his vast fortune.’

‘But—’

‘Mais oui—legacies, yes, an endowment to do with his hobby, yes, but the bulk of the money would go to Michael Seton. Last Tuesday, Michael Seton is reported missing—and on Wednesday the attacks on Mademoiselle’s life begin. Supposing, Hastings, that Michael Seton made a will before he started on his flight, and that in that will he left all he had to his fiancée.’

‘That’s pure supposition.’

‘It is supposition—yes. But it must be so. Because, if it is not so, there is no meaning in anything that has happened. It is no paltry inheritance that is at stake. It is an enormous fortune.’

I was silent for some minutes, turning the matter over in my mind. It seemed to me that Poirot was leaping to conclusions in a most reckless manner, and yet I was secretly convinced that he was right. It was his extraordinary flair for being right that influenced me. Yet it seemed to me that there was a good deal to be proved still.

‘But if nobody knew of the engagement,’ I argued.

‘Pah! Somebody did know. For the matter of that, somebody always does know. If they do not know, they guess. Madame Rice suspected. Mademoiselle Nick admitted as much. She may have had means of turning those suspicions into certainties.’

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‘How?’

‘Well, for one thing, there must have been letters from Michael Seton to Mademoiselle Nick. They had been engaged some time. And her best friend could not call that young lady anything but careless. She leaves things here and there, and everywhere. I doubt if she has ever locked up anything in her life. Oh, yes, there would be means of making sure.’

‘And Frederica Rice would know about the will that her friend had made?’

‘Doubtless. Oh, yes, it narrows down now. You remember my list—a list of persons numbered from A. to J. It has narrowed down to only two persons. I dismiss the servants. I dismiss the Commander Challenger—even though he did take one hour and a half to reach here from Plymouth—and the distance is only thirty miles. I dismiss the long-nosed M. Lazarus who offered fifty pounds for a picture that was only worth twenty (it is odd, that, when you come to think of it. Most uncharacteristic of his race). I dismiss the Australians—so hearty and so pleasant. I keep two people on my list still.’

‘One is Frederica Rice,’ I said slowly.

I had a vision of her face, the golden hair, the white fragility of the features.

‘Yes. She is indicated very clearly. However carelessly worded Mademoiselle’s will may have been, she would be plainly indicated as residuary legatee. Apart from End House, everything was to go to her. If Mademoiselle Nick instead of Mademoiselle Maggie had been shot last night, Madame Rice would be a rich woman today.’

‘I can hardly believe it!’

‘You mean that you can hardly believe that a beautiful woman can be a murderess? One often has a little difficulty with members of a jury on that account. But you may be right. There is still another suspect.’

‘Who?’