Lord Edgware Dies (Hercule Poirot 9)

“Pretty well. She’s not the sort of girl you ever got to know frightfully well. Reserved and all that.”

“But you liked her?”

Ronald stared at him.

“I wish I knew why you were so interested in the lady. Was it because I was with her the other night? Yes, I like her very much. She’s sympathetic—listens to a chap and makes him feel he’s something of a fellow after all.”

Poirot nodded.

“I comprehend. Then you will be sorry.”

“Sorry? What about?”

“That she is dead!”

“What?” Ronald sprang up in astonishment. “Carlotta dead?”

He looked absolutely dumbfounded by the news.

“You’re pulling my leg, M. Poirot. Carlotta was perfectly well the last time I saw her.”

“When was that?” asked Poirot quickly.

“Day before yesterday, I think. I can’t remember.”

“Tout de même, she is dead.”

“It must have been frightfully sudden. What was it? A street accident?”

Poirot looked at the ceiling.

“No. She took an overdose of veronal.”

“Oh! I say. Poor kid. How frightfully sad.”

“N’est ce pas?”

“I am sorry. And she was getting on so well. She was going to get her kid sister over and had all sorts of plans. Dash it. I’m more sorry than I can say.”

“Yes,” said Poirot. “It is sad to die when you are young—when you do not want to die—when all life is open before you and you have everything to live for.”

Ronald looked at him curiously.

“I don’t think I quite get you, M. Poirot.”

“No?”

Poirot rose and held out his hand.

“I express my thoughts—a little strongly, perhaps. For I do not like to see youth deprived of its right to live, Lord Edgware. I feel—very strongly about it. I wish you good day.”

“Oh—er—good-bye.”

He looked rather taken aback.

As I opened the door I almost collided with Miss Carroll.

“Ah! M. Poirot, they told me you hadn’t gone yet. I’d like a word with you if I may. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind coming up to my room?

“It’s about that child, Geraldine,” she said when we had entered her sanctum and she had closed the door.

“Yes, Mademoiselle?”

“She talked a lot of nonsense this afternoon. Now don’t protest. Nonsense! That’s what I call it and that’s what it was. She broods.”

“I could see that she was suffering from overstrain,” said Poirot gently.

“Well—to tell the truth—she hasn’t had a very happy life. No, one can’t pretend she has. Frankly, M. Poirot, Lord Edgware was a peculiar man—not the sort of man who ought to have had anything to do with the upbringing of children. Quite frankly, he terrorized Geraldine.”

Poirot nodded.

“Yes, I should imagine something of the kind.”

“He was a peculiar man. He—I don’t quite know how to put it—but he enjoyed seeing anyone afraid of him. It seemed to give him a morbid kind of pleasure.”

“Quite so.”

“He was an extremely well-read man, and a man of considerable intellect. But in some ways—well, I didn’t come across that side of him myself, but it was there. I’m not really surprised his wife left him. This wife, I mean. I don’t approve of her, mind. I’ve no opinion of that young woman at all. But in marrying Lord Edgware she got all and more than she deserved. Well, she left him—and no bones broken, as they say. But Geraldine couldn’t leave him. For a long time he’d forget all about her, and then, suddenly, he’d remember. I sometimes think—though perhaps I shouldn’t say it—”

“Yes, yes. Mademoiselle, say it.”

“Well, I sometimes thought he revenged himself on the mother—his first wife—that way. She was a gentle creature, I believe, with a very sweet disposition. I’ve always been sorry for her. I shouldn’t have mentioned all this, M. Poirot, if it hadn’t been for that very foolish outburst of Geraldine’s just now. Things she said—about hating her father—they might sound peculiar to anyone who didn’t know.”

“Thank you very much, Mademoiselle. Lord Edgware, I fancy, was a man who would have done much better not to marry.”

“Much better.”

“He never thought of marrying for a third time?”

“How could he? His wife was alive.”

“By giving her her freedom he would have been free himself.”

“I should think he had had enough trouble with two wives as it was,” said Miss Carroll grimly.

“So you think there would have been no question of a third marriage. There was no one? Think, Mademoiselle. No one?”

Miss Carroll’s colour rose.

“I cannot understand the way you keep harping on the point. Of course there was no one.”

Fourteen

FIVE QUESTIONS

“Why did you ask Miss Carroll about the possibility of Lord Edgware’s wanting to marry again?” I asked with some curiosity as we were driving home.

“It just occurred to me that there was a possibility of such a thing, mon ami.”

“Why?”

“I have been searching in my mind for something to explain Lord Edgware’s sudden volte face regarding the matter of divorce. There is something curious there, my friend.”

“Yes,” I said thoughtfully. “It is rather odd.”

“You see, Hastings, Lord Edgware confirmed what Madame had told us. She had employed the lawyers of all kinds, but he refused to budge an inch. No, he would not agree to the divorce. And then, all of a sudden, he yields!”

“Or so he says,” I reminded him.

“Very true, Hastings. It is very just, the observation you make there. So he says. We have no proof, whatever, that that letter was written. Eh bien, on one part, ce Monsieur is lying. For some reason he tells us the fabrication, the embroidery. Is it not so? Why, we do not know. But, on the hypothesis that he did write that letter, there must have been a reason for so doing. Now the reason that presents itself most naturally to the imagination is that he has

suddenly met someone whom he desires to marry. That explains perfectly his sudden change of face. And so, naturally, I make the inquiries.”

“Miss Carroll turned the idea down very decisively,” I said.

“Yes. Miss Carroll…” said Poirot in a meditative voice.

“Now what are you driving at?” I asked in exasperation.

Poirot is an adept at suggesting doubts by the tone of his voice.

“What reason should she have for lying about it?” I asked.

“Aucune—aucune.”

“But, you see, Hastings, it is difficult to trust her evidence.”

“You think she’s lying? But why? She looks a most upright person.”

“That is just it. Between the deliberate falsehood and the disinterested inaccuracy it is very hard to distinguish sometimes.”

“What do you mean?”

“To deceive deliberately—that is one thing. But to be so sure of your facts, of your ideas and of their essential truth that the details do not matter—that, my friend, is a special characteristic of particularly honest persons. Already, mark you, she has told us one lie. She said she saw Jane Wilkinson’s face when she could not possibly have done so. Now how did that come about? Look at it this way. She looks down and sees Jane Wilkinson in the hall. No doubt enters her head that it is Jane Wilkinson. She knows it is. She says she saw her face distinctly because—being so sure of her facts—exact details do not matter! It is pointed out to her that she could not have seen her face. Is that so? Well, what does it matter if she saw her face or not—it was Jane Wilkinson. And so with any other question. She knows. And so she answers questions in the light of her knowledge, not by reason of remembered facts. The positive witness should always be treated with suspicion, my friend. The uncertain witness who doesn’t remember, isn’t sure, will think a minute—ah! yes, that’s how it was—is infinitely more to be depended upon!”

“Dear me, Poirot,” I said. “You upset all my preconceived ideas about witnesses.”

“In reply to my question as to Lord Edgware’s marrying again she ridicules the idea—simply because it has never occurred to her. She will not take the trouble to remember whether any infinitesimal signs may have pointed that way. Therefore we are exactly where we were before.”