Chapter 19

By Way of Sweden

Poirot returned to his seat and sat humming a little tune to himself.

‘Unfortunate that she is so intelligent,’ he murmured. ‘Who?’

‘Megan Barnard. Mademoiselle Megan. “Words,” she snaps out. At once she perceives that what I am saying means nothing at all. Everybody else was taken in.’

‘I thought it sounded very plausible.’

‘Plausible, yes. It was just that she perceived.’

‘Didn’t you mean what you said, then?’

‘What I said could have been comprised into one short sentence. Instead I repeated myself ad lib without anyone but Mademoiselle Megan being aware of the fact.’

‘But why?’

‘Eh bien—to get things going! To imbue everyone with the impression that there was work to be done! To start—shall we say—the conversations!’

‘Don’t you think any of these lines will lead to anything?’

‘Oh, it is always possible.’

He chuckled.

‘In the midst of tragedy we start the comedy. It is so, is it not?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The human drama, Hastings! Reflect a little minute. Here are three sets of human beings brought together by a common tragedy. Immediately a second drama commences—tout à fait à part. Do you remember my first case in England? Oh, so many years ago now. I brought together two people who loved one another—by the simple method of having one of them arrested for murder! Nothing less would have done it! In the midst of death we are in life, Hastings… Murder, I have often noticed, is a great matchmaker.’

‘Really, Poirot,’ I cried scandalized. ‘I’m sure none of those people was thinking of anything but —’

‘Oh! my dear friend. And what about yourself?’

‘I?’

‘Mais oui, as they departed, did you not come back from the door humming a tune?’

‘One may do that without being callous.’

‘Certainly, but that tune told me your thoughts.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Yes. To hum a tune is extremely dangerous. It reveals the subconscious mind. The tune you hummed dates, I think, from the days of the war. Comme çа,’ Poirot sang in an abominable falsetto voice:

 

‘Some of the time I love a brunette,

Some of the time I love a blonde

(Who comes from Eden by way of Sweden).

 

‘What could be more revealing? Mais je crois que la blonde l’emporte sur la brunette!’

‘Really, Poirot,’ I cried, blushing slightly.

‘C’est tout naturel. Did you observe how Franklin Clarke was suddenly at one and in sympathy with Mademoiselle Megan? How he leaned forward and looked at her? And did you also notice how very much annoyed Mademoiselle Thora Grey was about it? And Mr Donald Fraser, he —’

‘Poirot,’ I said. ‘Your mind is incurably sentimental.’

‘That is the last thing my mind is. You are the sentimental one, Hastings.’

I was about to argue the point hotly, but at that moment the door opened.

To my astonishment it was Thora Grey who entered.

‘Forgive me for coming back,’ she said composedly. ‘But there was something that I think I would like to tell you, M. Poirot.’

‘Certainly, mademoiselle. Sit down, will you not?’

She took a seat and hesitated for just a minute as though choosing her words.

‘It is just this, M. Poirot. Mr Clarke very generously gave you to understand just now that I had left Combeside by my own wish. He is a very kind and loyal person. But as a matter of fact, it is not quite like that. I was quite prepared to stay on—there is any amount of work to be done in connection with the collections. It was Lady Clarke who wished me to leave! I can make allowances. She is a very ill woman, and her brain is somewhat muddled with the drugs they give her. It makes her suspicious and fanciful. She took an unreasoning dislike to me and insisted that I should leave the house.’

I could not but admire the girl’s courage. She did not attempt to gloss over facts, as so many might have been tempted to do, but went straight to the point with an admirable candour. My heart went out to her in admiration and sympathy.

‘I call it splendid of you to come and tell us this,’ I said.

‘It’s always better to have the truth,’ she said with a little smile. ‘I don’t want to shelter behind Mr Clarke’s chivalry. He is a very chivalrous man.’

There was a warm glow in her words. She evidently admired Franklin Clarke enormously.

‘You have been very honest, mademoiselle,’ said Poirot.

‘It is rather a blow to me,’ said Thora ruefully. ‘I had no idea Lady Clarke disliked me so much. In fact, I always thought she was rather fond of me.’ She made a wry face. ‘One lives and learns.’

She rose.

‘That is all I came to say. Goodbye.’

I accompanied her downstairs.

‘I call that very sporting of her,’ I said as I returned to the room. ‘She has courage, that girl.’

‘And calculation.’

‘What do you mean—calculation?’

‘I mean that she has the power of looking ahead.’

I looked at him doubtfully.

‘She really is a lovely girl,’ I said.

‘And wears very lovely clothes. That crêpe marocain and the silver fox collar—dernier cri.’

‘You’re a man milliner, Poirot. I never notice what people have on.’

‘You should join a nudist colony.’

As I was about to make an indignant rejoinder, he said, with a sudden change of subject:

‘Do you know, Hastings, I cannot rid my mind of the impression that already, in our conversations this afternoon, something was said that was significant. It is odd—I cannot pin down exactly what it was… Just an impression that passed through my mind… That reminds me of something I have already heard or seen or noted…’

‘Something at Churston?’

‘No—not at Churston… Before that… No matter, presently it will come to me…’

He looked at me (perhaps I had not been attending very closely), laughed and began once more to hum.

‘She is an angel, is she not? From Eden, by way of Sweden…’

‘Poirot,’ I said. ‘Go to the devil!’

Chapter 20

Lady Clarke

There was an air of deep and settled melancholy over Combeside when we saw it again for the second time. This may, perhaps, have been partly due to the weather—it was a moist September day with a hint of autumn in the air, and partly, no doubt, it was the semi-shut-up state of the house. The downstairs rooms were closed and shuttered, and the small room into which we were shown smelt damp and airless.

A capable-looking hospital nurse came to us there pulling down her starched cuffs.

‘M. Poirot?’ she said briskly. ‘I am Nurse Capstick. I got Mr Clarke’s letter saying you were coming.’

Poirot inquired after Lady Clarke’s health.

‘Not at all bad really, all things considered.’

‘All things considered,’ I presumed, meant considering she was under sentence of death.

‘One can’t hope for much improvement, of course, but some new treatment has made things a little easier for her. Dr Logan is quite pleased with her condition.’

‘But it is true, is it not, that she can never recover?’

‘Oh, we never actually say that,’ said Nurse Capstick, a little shocked by this plain speaking.

‘I suppose her husband’s death was a terrible shock to her?’

‘Well, M. Poirot, if you understand what I mean, it wasn’t as much of a shock as it would have been to anyone in full possession of her health and faculties. Things are dimmed for Lady Clarke in her condition.’

‘Pardon my asking, but was she deeply attached to her husband and he to her?’

‘Oh, yes, they were a very happy couple. He was very worried and upset about her, poor man. It’s always worse for a doctor, you know. They can’t buoy themselves up with false hopes. I’m afraid it preyed on his mind very much to begin with.’

‘To begin with? Not so much afterwards?’

‘One gets used to everything, doesn’t one? And then Sir Carmichael had his collection. A hobby is a great consolation to a man. He used to run up to sales occasionally, and then he and Miss Grey were busy recataloguing and rearranging the museum on a new system.’

‘Oh, yes—Miss Grey. She has left, has she not?’

‘Yes—I’m very sorry about it—but ladies do take these fancies sometimes when they’re not well. And there’s no arguing with them. It’s better to give in. Miss Grey was very sensible about it.’

‘Had Lady Clarke always disliked her?’

‘No—that is to say, not disliked. As a matter of fact, I think she rather liked her to begin with. But there, I mustn’t keep you gossiping. My patient will be wondering what has become of us.’

She led us upstairs to a room on the first floor. What had at one time been a bedroom had been turned into a cheerful-looking sitting-room.

Lady Clarke was sitting in a big armchair near the window. She was painfully thin, and her face had the grey, haggard look of one who suffers much pain. She had a slightly faraway, dreamy look, and I noticed that the pupils of her eyes were mere pin-points.

‘This is M. Poirot whom you wanted to see,’ said Nurse Capstick in her high, cheerful voice.

‘Oh, yes, M. Poirot,’ said Lady Clarke vaguely.

She extended her hand.

‘My friend Captain Hastings, Lady Clarke.’

‘How do you do? So good of you both to come.’

We sat down as her vague gesture directed. There was a silence. Lady Clarke seemed to have lapsed into a dream.

Presently with a slight effort she roused herself.

‘It was about Car, wasn’t it? About Car’s death. Oh, yes.’

She sighed, but still in a faraway manner, shaking her head.

‘We never thought it would be that way round… I was so sure I should be the first to go…’ She mused a minute or two. ‘Car was very strong—wonderful for his age. He was never ill. He was nearly sixty—but he seemed more like fifty… Yes, very strong…’

She relapsed again into her dream. Poirot, who was well acquainted with the effects of certain drugs and of how they give their taker the impression of endless time, said nothing.

Lady Clarke said suddenly:

‘Yes—it was good of you to come. I told Franklin. He said he wouldn’t forget to tell you. I hope Franklin isn’t going to be foolish… he’s so easily taken in, in spite of having knocked about the world so much. Men are like that… They remain boys… Franklin, in particular.’

‘He has an impulsive nature,’ said Poirot.

‘Yes—yes… And very chivalrous. Men are so foolish that way. Even Car —’ Her voice tailed off.

She shook her head with a febrile impatience.

‘Everything’s so dim… One’s body is a nuisance, M. Poirot, especially when it gets the upper hand. One is conscious of nothing else—whether the pain will hold off or not—nothing else seems to matter.’

‘I know, Lady Clarke. It is one of the tragedies of this life.’

‘It makes me so stupid. I cannot even remember what it was I wanted to say to you.’

‘Was it something about your husband’s death?’

‘Car’s death? Yes, perhaps… Mad, poor creature—the murderer, I mean. It’s all the noise and the speed nowadays—people can’t stand it. I’ve always been sorry for mad people—their heads must feel so queer. And then, being shut up—it must be so terrible. But what else can one do? If they kill people…’ She shook her head—gently pained. ‘You haven’t caught him yet?’ she asked.

‘No, not yet.’

‘He must have been hanging round here that day.’

‘There were so many strangers about, Lady Clarke. It is the holiday season.’

‘Yes—I forgot… But they keep down by the beaches, they don’t come up near the house.’

‘No stranger came to the house that day.’

‘Who says so?’ demanded Lady Clarke, with a sudden vigour.

Poirot looked slightly taken aback.

‘The servants,’ he said. ‘Miss Grey.’

Lady Clarke said very distinctly:

‘That girl is a liar!’

I started on my chair. Poirot threw me a glance.

Lady Clarke was going on, speaking now rather feverishly.

‘I didn’t like her. I never liked her. Car thought all the world of her. Used to go on about her being an orphan and alone in the world. What’s wrong with being an orphan? Sometimes it’s a blessing in disguise. You might have a good-for-nothing father and a mother who drank—then you would have something to complain about. Said she was so brave and such a good worker. I dare say she did her work well! I don’t know where all this bravery came in!’

‘Now don’t excite yourself, dear,’ said Nurse Capstick, intervening. ‘We mustn’t have you getting tired.’

‘I soon sent her packing! Franklin had the impertinence to suggest that she might be a comfort to me. Comfort to me indeed! The sooner I saw the last of her the better—that’s what I said! Franklin’s a fool! I didn’t want him getting mixed up with her. He’s a boy! No sense! “I’ll give her three months’ salary, if you like,” I said. “But out she goes. I don’t want her in the house a day longer.” There’s one thing about being ill—men can’t argue with you. He did what I said and she went. Went like a martyr, I expect—with more sweetness and bravery!’

‘Now, dear, don’t get so excited. It’s bad for you.’

Lady Clarke waved Nurse Capstick away.

‘You were as much of a fool about her as anyone else.’

‘Oh! Lady Clarke, you mustn’t say that. I did think Miss Grey a very nice girl—so romantic-looking, like someone out of a novel.’

‘I’ve no patience with the lot of you,’ said Lady Clarke feebly.

‘Well, she’s gone now, my dear. Gone right away.’

Lady Clarke shook her head with feeble impatience but she did not answer.

Poirot said:

‘Why did you say that Miss Grey was a liar?’

‘Because she is. She told you no strangers came to the house, didn’t she?’

‘Yes.’

‘Very well, then. I saw her—with my own eyes—out of this window—talking to a perfectly strange man on the front doorstep.’

‘When was this?’

‘In the morning of the day Car died—about eleven o’clock.’

‘What did this man look like?’

‘An ordinary sort of man. Nothing special.’

‘A gentleman—or a tradesman?’

‘Not a tradesman. A shabby sort of person. I can’t remember.’

A sudden quiver of pain shot across her face.

‘Please—you must go now—I’m a little tired—Nurse.’

We obeyed the cue and took our departure.

‘That’s an extraordinary story,’ I said to Poirot as we journeyed back to London. ‘About Miss Grey and a strange man.’

‘You see, Hastings? It is, as I tell you: there is always something to be found out.’

‘Why did the girl lie about it and say she had seen no one?’

‘I can think of seven separate reasons—one of them an extremely simple one.’

‘Is that a snub?’ I asked.

‘It is, perhaps, an invitation to use your ingenuity. But there is no need for us to perturb ourselves. The easiest way to answer the question is to ask her.’

‘And suppose she tells us another lie.’

‘That would indeed be interesting—and highly suggestive.’

‘It is monstrous to suppose that a girl like that could be in league with a madman.’

‘Precisely—so I do not suppose it.’

I thought for some minutes longer.

‘A good-looking girl has a hard time of it,’ I said at last with a sigh.

‘Du tout. Disabuse your mind of that idea.’

‘It’s true,’ I insisted, ‘everyone’s hand is against her simply because she is good-looking.’

‘You speak the bêtises, my friend. Whose hand was against her at Combeside? Sir Carmichael’s? Franklin’s? Nurse Capstick’s?’

‘Lady Clarke was down on her, all right.’

‘Mon ami, you are full of charitable feeling towards beautiful young girls. Me, I feel charitable to sick old ladies. It may be that Lady Clarke was the clear-sighted one—and that her husband, Mr Franklin Clarke and Nurse Capstick were all as blind as bats—and Captain Hastings.’

‘You’ve got a grudge against that girl, Poirot.’

To my surprise his eyes twinkled suddenly.

‘Perhaps it is that I like to mount you on your romantic high horse, Hastings. You are always the true knight—ready to come to the rescue of damsels in distress—good-looking damsels, bien entendu.’

‘How ridiculous you are, Poirot,’ I said, unable to keep from laughing.

‘Ah, well, one cannot be tragic all the time. More and more I interest myself in the human developments that arise out of this tragedy. It is three dramas of family life that we have there. First there is Andover—the whole tragic life of Mrs Ascher, her struggles, her support of her German husband, the devotion of her niece. That alone would make a novel. Then you have Bexhill—the happy, easy-going father and mother, the two daughters so widely differing from each other—the pretty fluffy fool, and the intense, strong-willed Megan with her clear intelligence and her ruthless passion for truth. And the other figure—the self-controlled young Scotsman with his passionate jealousy and his worship of the dead girl. Finally you have the Churston household—the dying wife, and the husband absorbed in his collections, but with a growing tenderness and sympathy for the beautiful girl who helps him so sympathetically, and then the younger brother, vigorous, attractive, interesting, with a romantic glamour about him from his long travels.

‘Realize, Hastings, that in the ordinary course of events those three separate dramas would never have touched each other. They would have pursued their course uninfluenced by each other. The permutations and combinations of life, Hastings—I never cease to be fascinated by them.’

‘This is Paddington,’ was the only answer I made.

It was time, I felt, that someone pricked the bubble.

On our arrival at Whitehaven Mansions we were told that a gentleman was waiting to see Poirot.

I expected it to be Franklin, or perhaps Japp, but to my astonishment it turned out to be none other than Donald Fraser.

He seemed very embarrassed and his inarticulateness was more noticeable than ever.

Poirot did not press him to come to the point of his visit, but instead suggested sandwiches and a glass of wine.

Until these made their appearance he monopolized the conversation, explaining where we had been, and speaking with kindliness and feeling of the invalid woman.

Not until we had finished the sandwiches and sipped the wine did he give the conversation a personal turn.

‘You have come from Bexhill, Mr Fraser?’

‘Yes.’

‘Any success with Milly Higley?’

‘Milly Higley? Milly Higley?’ Fraser repeated the name wonderingly. ‘Oh, that girl! No, I haven’t done anything there yet. It’s —’

He stopped. His hands twisted themselves together nervously.

‘I don’t know why I’ve come to you,’ he burst out.

‘I know,’ said Poirot.

‘You can’t. How can you?’

‘You have come to me because there is something that you must tell to someone. You were quite right. I am the proper person. Speak!’

Poirot’s air of assurance had its effect. Fraser looked at him with a queer air of grateful obedience.

‘You think so?’

‘Parbleu, I am sure of it.’

‘M. Poirot, do you know anything about dreams?’

It was the last thing I had expected him to say.

Poirot, however, seemed in no wise surprised.

‘I do,’ he replied. ‘You have been dreaming —?’

‘Yes. I suppose you’ll say it’s only natural that I should—should dream about—It. But it isn’t an ordinary dream.’

‘No?’

‘No?’

‘I’ve dreamed it now three nights running, sir… I think I’m going mad…’

‘Tell me —’

The man’s face was livid. His eyes were staring out of his head. As a matter of fact, he looked mad.

‘It’s always the same. I’m on the beach. Looking for Betty. She’s lost—only lost, you understand. I’ve got to find her. I’ve got to give her her belt. I’m carrying it in my hand. And then —’

‘Yes?’

‘The dream changes… I’m not looking any more. She’s there in front of me—sitting on the beach. She doesn’t see me coming—It’s—oh, I can’t —’

‘Go on.’

Poirot’s voice was authoritative—firm.

‘I come up behind her… she doesn’t hear me… I slip the belt round her neck and pull—oh—pull…’

The agony in his voice was frightful… I gripped the arms of my chair… The thing was too real.

‘She’s choking… she’s dead… I’ve strangled her—and then her head falls back and I see her face… and it’s Megan—not Betty!’

He leant back white and shaking. Poirot poured out another glass of wine and passed it over to him.

‘What’s the meaning of it, M. Poirot? Why does it come to me? Every night…?’

‘Drink up your wine,’ ordered Poirot.

The young man did so, then he asked in a calmer voice: ‘What does it mean? I—I didn’t kill her, did I?’

What Poirot answered I do not know, for at that minute I heard the postman’s knock and automatically I left the room.

What I took out of the letter-box banished all my interest in Donald Fraser’s extraordinary revelations.

I raced back into the sitting-room.

‘Poirot,’ I cried. ‘It’s come. The fourth letter.’

He sprang up, seized it from me, caught up his paper-knife and slit it open. He spread it out on the table.

The three of us read it together.

Still no success? Fie! Fie! What are you and the police doing? Well, well, isn’t this fun? And where shall we go next for honey?

Poor Mr Poirot. Ym quite sorry for you.

If at first you don’t succeed, try, try, try again.

We’ve a long way to go still.

Tipperary? No—that comes farther on. Letter T.

The next little incident will take place at Doncaster on September 11th.

So long.

A B C.