Lord Edgware Dies (Hercule Poirot 9)

“But why should Carlotta Adams wish to kill Lord Edgware? She did not even know him.”

“How do you know she did not know him? Do not assume things, Hastings. There may have been some link between them of which we know nothing. Not that that is precisely my theory.”

“Then you have a theory?”

“Yes. The possibility of Carlotta Adams being involved struck me from the beginning.”

“But, Poirot—”

“Wait, Hastings. Let me put together a few facts for you. Lady Edgware, with a complete lack of reticence, discusses the relations between her and her husband, and even goes so far as to talk of killing him. Not only you and I hear this. A waiter hears it, her maid probably has heard it many times, Bryan Martin hears it, and I imagine Carlotta Adams herself hears it. And there are the people to whom these people repeat it. Then, in that same evening, the excellence of Carlotta Adams’ imitation of Jane is commented upon. Who had a motive for killing Lord Edgware? His wife.

“Now supposing that someone else wishes to do away with Lord Edgware. Here is a scapegoat ready to his hand. On the day when Jane Wilkinson announced that she had a headache and is going to have a quiet evening—the plan is put into operation.

“Lady Edgware must be seen to enter the house in Regent Gate. Well, she is seen. She even goes so far as to announce her identity. Ah! c’est peu trop, ça! It would awaken suspicion in an oyster.

“And another point—a small point, I admit. The woman who came to the house last night wore black. Jane Wilkinson never wears black. We heard her say so. Let us assume, then, that the woman who came to the house last night was not Jane Wilkinson—that it was a woman impersonating Jane Wilkinson. Did that woman kill Lord Edgware?

“Did a third person enter that house and kill Lord Edgware? If so, did the person enter before or after the supposed visit of Lady Edgware? If after, what did the woman say to Lord Edgware? How did she explain her presence? She might deceive the butler who did not know her, and the secretary who did not see her at close quarters. But she could not hope to deceive her husband. Or was there only a dead body in the room? Was Lord Edgware killed before she entered the house—sometime between nine and ten?”

“Stop, Poirot!” I cried. “You are making my head spin.”

“No, no, my friend. We are only considering possibilities. It is like trying on the clothes. Does this fit! No, it wrinkles on the shoulder? This one? Yes, that is better—but not quite large enough. This other one is too small. So on and so on—until we reach the perfect fit—the truth.”

“Who do you suspect of such a fiendish plot?” I asked.

“Ah! that is too early to say. One must go into the question of who has a motive for wishing Lord Edgware dead. There is, of course, the nephew who inherits. A little obvious that, perhaps. And then in spite of Miss Carroll’s dogmatic pronouncement, there is the question of enemies. Lord Edgware struck me as a man who very easily might make enemies.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “That is so.”

“Whoever it was must have fancied himself pretty safe. Remember, Hastings, but for her change of mind at the last minute, Jane Wilkinson would have had no alibi. She might have been in her room at the Savoy, and it would have been difficult to prove it. She would have been arrested, tried—probably hanged.”

I shivered.

“But there is one thing that puzzles me,” went on Poirot. “The desire to incriminate her is clear—but what then of the telephone call? Why did someone ring her up at Chiswick and, once satisfied of her presence there, immediately ring off. It looks, does it not, as if someone wanted to be sure of her presence there before proceeding to—what? That was at nine thirty, almost certainly before the murder. The intention then seems—there is no other word for it—beneficent. It cannot be the murderer who rings up—the murderer has laid all his plans to incriminate Jane. Who, then, was it? It looks as though we have here two entirely different sets of circumstances.”

I shook my head, utterly fogged.

“It might be just a coincidence,” I suggested.

“No, no, everything cannot be a coincidence. Six months ago, a letter was suppressed. Why? There are too many things here unexplained. There must be some reason linking them together.”

He sighed. Presently he went on:

“That story that Bryan Martin came to tell us—”

“Surely, Poirot, that has got no connection with this business.”

“You are blind, Hastings, blind and wilfully obtuse. Do you not see that the whole thing makes a pattern? A pattern confused at present but which will gradually become clear….”

I felt Poirot was being overoptimistic. I did not feel that anything would ever become clear. My brain was frankly reeling.

“It’s no good,” I said suddenly. “I can’t believe it of Carlotta Adams. She seemed such a—well, such a thoroughly nice girl.”

Yet, even as I spoke, I remembered Poirot’s words about love of money. Love of money—was that at the root of the seemingly incomprehensible? I felt that Poirot had been inspired that night. He had seen Jane in danger—the result of the strange egotistical temperament. He had seen Carlotta led astray by avarice.

“I do not think she committed the murder, Hastings. She is too cool and levelheaded for that. Possibly she was not even told that murder would be done. She may have been used innocently. But then—”

He broke off, frowning.

“Even so, she’s an accessory after the fact now. I mean, she will see the news today. She will realize—”

A hoarse sound broke from Poirot.

“Quick, Hastings. Quick! I have been blind—imbecile. A taxi. At once.”

I stared at him.

He waved his arms.

“A taxi—at once.”

One was passing. He hailed it and we jumped in.

“Do you know her address?”

“Carlotta Adams, do you mean?”

“Mais oui, mais oui. Quickly, Hastings, quickly. Every minute is of value. Do you not see?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t.”

Poirot swore under his breath.

“The telephone book? No, she would not be in it. The theatre.”

At the theatre they were not disposed to give Carlotta’s address, but Poirot managed it. It was a flat in a block of mansions near Sloane Square. We drove there, Poirot in a fever of impatience.

“If I am not too late, Hastings. If I am not too late.”

“What is all this haste? I don’t understand. What does it mean?”

“It means that I have been slow. Terribly slow to realize the obvious. Ah! mon Dieu, if only we may be in time.”

Nine

THE SECOND DEATH

Though I did not understand the reason for Poirot’s agitation, I knew him well enough to be sure that he had a reason for it.

We arrived at Rosedew Mansions, Poirot sprang out, paid the driver and hurried into the building. Miss Adams’ flat was on the first floor, as a visiting card stuck on a board informed us.

Poirot hurried up the stairs, not waiting to summon the lift which was at one of the upper floors.

He knocked and rang. There was a short delay, then the door was opened by a neat middle-aged woman with hair drawn tightly back from her face. Her eyelids were reddened as though with weeping.

“Miss Adams?” demanded Poirot eagerly.

The woman looked at him.

“Haven’t you heard?”

“Heard? Heard what?”

His face had gone deadly pale, and I realized that this, whatever it was, was what he had feared.

The woman continued slowly to shake her head.

“She’s dead. Passed away in her sleep. It’s terrible.”

Poirot leaned against the doorpost.

“Too late,” he murmured.

His agitation was so apparent that the woman looked at him with more attention.

“Excuse me, sir, but are you a friend of hers? I do not remembe

r seeing you come here before?”

Poirot did not reply to this directly. Instead he said:

“You have had a doctor? What did he say?”

“Took an overdose of a sleeping draught. Oh! the pity of it! Such a nice young lady. Nasty dangerous things—these drugs. Veronal he said it was.”

Poirot suddenly stood upright. His manner took on a new authority.

“I must come in,” he said.

The woman was clearly doubtful and suspicious.

“I don’t think—” she began.

But Poirot meant to have his way. He took probably the only course that would have obtained the desired result.

“You must let me in,” he said. “I am a detective and I have got to inquire into the circumstances of your mistress’s death.”

The woman gasped. She stood aside and we passed into the flat.

From there on Poirot took command of the situation.

“What I have told you,” he said authoritatively, “is strictly confidential. It must not be repeated. Everyone must continue to think that Miss Adams’ death was accidental. Please give me the name and address of the doctor you summoned.”

“Dr. Heath, 17 Carlisle Street.”

“And your own name?”

“Bennett—Alice Bennett.”

“You were attached to Miss Adams, I can see, Miss Bennett.”

“Oh! yes, sir. She were a nice young lady. I worked for her last year when she were over here. It wasn’t as though she were one of those actresses. She were a real young lady. Dainty ways she had and liked everything just so.”

Poirot listened with attention and sympathy. He had now no signs of impatience. I realized that to proceed gently was the best way of extracting the information he wanted.

“It must have been a great shock to you,” he observed gently.

“Oh! it was, sir. I took her in her tea—at half past nine as usual and there she was lying—asleep I thought. And I put the tray down. And I pulled the curtains—one of the rings caught, sir, and I had to jerk it hard. Such a noise it made. I was surprised when I looked round to see she hadn’t woken. And then all of a sudden something seemed to take hold of me. Something not quite natural about the way she lay. And I went to the side of the bed, and I touched her hand. Icy cold it was, sir, and I cried out.”

She stopped, tears coming into her eyes.

“Yes, yes,” said Poirot sympathetically. “It must have been terrible for you. Did Miss Adams often take stuff to make her sleep?”