Peril at End House (Hercule Poirot 8)

‘Yes, of course. Tell me—did you expect this to happen?’

‘No—not exactly. I had formulated nothing very precise to myself. All I had said was that given a certain result, the causes of that result must make themselves evident.’

‘Yes,’ I said, respectfully.

‘What was it that I was going to say just as that telephone rang?’ mused Poirot. ‘Oh, yes, that letter from Mademoiselle Maggie. I wanted to look at it once again. I have an idea in the back of my mind that something in it struck me as rather curious.’

I picked it up from where I had tossed it, and handed it to him.

He read it over to himself. I moved about the room, looking out of the window and observing the yachts racing on the bay.

Suddenly an exclamation startled me. I turned round. Poirot was holding his head in his hands and rocking himself to and fro, apparently in an agony of woe.

‘Oh!’ he groaned. ‘But I have been blind—blind.’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Complex, I have said? Complicated? Mais non. Of a simplicity extreme—extreme. And miserable one that Iam, I saw nothing—nothing.’

‘Good gracious, Poirot, what is this light that has suddenly burst upon you?’

‘Wait—wait—do not speak! I must arrange my ideas. Rearrange them in the light of this discovery so stupendous.’

Seizing his list of questions, he ran over them silently, his lips moving busily. Once or twice he nodded his head emphatically.

Then he laid them down and leaning back in his chair he shut his eyes. I thought at last that he had gone to sleep.

Suddenly he sighed and opened his eyes.

‘But yes!’ he said. ‘It all fits in! All the things that have puzzled me. All the things that have seemed to me a little unnatural. They all have their place.’

‘You mean—you know everything?’

‘Nearly everything. All that matters. In some respects I have been right in my deductions. In other ways ludicrously far from the truth. But now it is all clear. I shall send today a telegram asking two questions—but the answers to them I know already—I know here!’ He tapped his forehead.

‘And when you receive the answers?’ I asked, curiously.

He sprang to his feet.

‘My friend, do you remember that Mademoiselle Nick said she wanted to stage a play at End House? Tonight, we stage such a play in End House. But it will be a play produced by Hercule Poirot. Mademoiselle Nick will have a part to play in it.’ He grinned suddenly.

‘You comprehend, Hastings, there will be a ghost in this play. Yes, a ghost. End House has never seen a ghost. It will have one tonight. No’—as I tried to ask a question—‘I will say no more. Tonight, Hastings, we will produce our comedy—and reveal the truth. But now, there is much to do—much to do.’

He hurried from the room.

Chapter 19

Poirot Produces a Play

It was a curious gathering that met that night at End House.

I had hardly seen Poirot all day. He had been out for dinner but had left me a message that I was to be at End House at nine o’clock. Evening dress, he had added, was not necessary.

The whole thing was like a rather ridiculous dream.

On arrival I was ushered into the dining-room and when I looked round I realized that every person on Poirot’s list from A. to I. (J. was necessarily excluded, being in the Mrs Harris-like position of ‘there ain’t no such person’) was present.

Even Mrs Croft was there in a kind of invalid chair. She smiled and nodded at me.

‘This is a surprise, isn’t it?’ she said, cheerfully. ‘It makes a change for me, I must say. I think I shall try and get out now and again. All M. Poirot’s idea. Come and sit by me, Captain Hastings. Somehow I feel this is rather a gruesome business—but Mr Vyse made a point of it.’

‘Mr Vyse?’ I said, rather surprised.

Charles Vyse was standing by the mantelpiece. Poirot was beside him talking earnestly to him in an under-tone.

I looked round the room. Yes, they were all there. After showing me in (I had been a minute or two late) Ellen had taken her place on a chair just beside the door. On another chair, sitting painfully straight and breathing hard, was her husband. The child, Alfred, squirmed uneasily between his father and mother.

The rest sat round the dining-table. Frederica in her black dress, Lazarus beside her, George Challenger and Croft on the other side of the table. I sat a little away from it near Mrs Croft. And now Charles Vyse, a final nod of the head, took his place at the head of the table, and Poirot slipped unobtrusively into a seat next to Lazarus.

Clearly the producer, as Poirot had styled himself, did not propose to take a prominent part in the play. Charles Vyse was apparently in charge of the proceedings. I wondered what surprises Poirot had in store for him.

The young lawyer cleared his throat and stood up. He looked just the same as ever, impassive, formal and unemotional.

‘This is rather an unconventional gathering we have here tonight,’ he said. ‘But the circumstances are very peculiar. I refer, of course, to the circumstances surrounding the death of my cousin, Miss Buckley. There will have, of course, to be an autopsy—there seems to be no doubt that she met her death by poison, and that that poison was administered with the intent to kill. This is police business and I need not go into it. The police would doubtless prefer me not to do so.

‘In an ordinary case, the will of a deceased person is read after the funeral, but in deference to M. Poirot’s special wish, I am proposing to read it before the funeral takes place. In fact, I am proposing to read it here and now. That is why everyone has been asked to come here. As I said just now, the circumstances are unusual and justify a departure from precedent.

‘The will itself came into my possession in a somewhat unusual manner. Although dated last February, it only reached me by post this morning. However, it is undoubtedly in the handwriting of my cousin—I have no doubt on that point, and though a most informal document, it is properly attested.’

He paused and cleared his throat once more.

Every eye was upon his face.

From a long envelope in his hand, he drew out an enclosure. It was, as we could see, an ordinary piece of End House notepaper with writing on it.

‘It is quite short,’ said Vyse. He made a suitable pause, then began to read:

‘This is the last Will and Testament of Magdala Buckley. I direct that all my funeral expenses should be paid and I appoint my cousin Charles Vyse as my executor. I leave everything of which I die possessed to Mildred Croftin grateful recognition of the services rendered by her to my father, Philip Buckley, which services nothing can ever repay.

‘Signed—Magdala Buckley,

‘Witnesses—Ellen Wilson, William Wilson.’

I was dumbfounded! So I think was everyone else. Only Mrs Croft nodded her head in quiet understanding.

‘It’s true,’ she said, quietly. ‘Not that I ever meant to let on about it. Philip Buckley was out in Australia, and if it hadn’t been for me—well, I’m not going into that. A secret it’s been and a secret it had better remain. She knew about it, though. Nick did, I mean. Her father must have told her. We came down here because we wanted to have a look at the place. I’d always been curious about this End House Philip Buckley talked of. And that dear girl knew all about it, and couldn’t do enough for us. Wanted us to come and live with her, she did. But we wouldn’t do that. And so she insisted on our having the lodge—and not a penny of rent would she take. We pretended to pay it, of course, so as not to cause talk, but she handed it back to us. And now—this! Well, if anyone says there is no gratitude in the world, I’ll tell them they’re wrong! This proves it.’

Ther

e was still an amazed silence. Poirot looked at Vyse.

‘Had you any idea of this?’

Vyse shook his head.

‘I knew Philip Buckley had been in Australia. But I never heard any rumours of a scandal there.’

He looked inquiringly at Mrs Croft.

She shook her head.

‘No, you won’t get a word out of me. I never have said a word and I never shall. The secret goes to the grave with me.’

Vyse said nothing. He sat quietly tapping the table with a pencil.

‘I presume, M. Vyse’—Poirot leaned forward—‘that as next of kin you could contest that will? There is, I understand, a vast fortune at stake which was not the case when the will was made.’

Vyse looked at him coldly.

‘The will is perfectly valid. I should not dream of contesting my cousin’s disposal of her property.’

‘You’re an honest fellow,’ said Mrs Croft, approvingly. ‘And I’ll see you don’t lose by it.’

Charles sank a little from this well-meant but slightly embarrassing remark.

‘Well, Mother,’ said Mr Croft, with an elation he could not quite keep out of his voice. ‘This is a surprise! Nick didn’t tell me what she was doing.’

‘The dear sweet girl,’ murmured Mrs Croft, putting her handkerchief to her eyes. ‘I wish she could look down and see us now. Perhaps she does—who knows?’

‘Perhaps,’ agreed Poirot.

Suddenly an idea seemed to strike him. He looked round.

‘An idea! We are all here seated round a table. Let us hold a séance.’

‘A séance?’ said Mrs Croft, somewhat shocked. ‘But surely—’

‘Yes, yes, it will be most interesting. Hastings, here, has pronounced mediumistic powers.’ (Why fix on me, I thought.) ‘To get through a message from the other world—the opportunity is unique! I feel the conditions are propitious. You feel the same, Hastings.’

‘Yes,’ I said resolutely, playing up.

‘Good. I knew it. Quick, the lights.’