Murder in the Mews Page 14

  “M. Hercule Poirot? I’m most awfully pleased to meet you. At least—” He broke off, the quick charming smile vanished—he looked disturbed and upset. “There isn’t anything—fishy—about this suicide, is there, sir?”

  “Why should there be anything ‘fishy,’ as you call it?” asked the chief constable sharply.

  “I mean, because M. Poirot is here. Oh, and because the whole business seems so incredible!”

  “No, no,” said Poirot quickly. “I am not here on account of the death of Sir Gervase. I was already in the house—as a guest.”

  “Oh, I see. Funny, he never told me you were coming when I was going over accounts with him this afternoon.”

  Poirot said quietly:

  “You have twice used the word ‘incredible,’ Captain Lake. Are you, then, so surprised to hear of Sir Gervase commiting suicide?”

  “Indeed I am. Of course, he was mad as a hatter; everyone would agree about that. But all the same, I simply can’t imagine his thinking the world would be able to get on without him.”

  “Yes,” said Poirot. “It is a point, that.” And he looked with appreciation at the frank, intelligent countenance of the young man.

  Major Riddle cleared his throat.

  “Since you are here, Captain Lake, perhaps you will sit down and answer a few questions.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Lake took a chair opposite the other two.

  “When did you last see Sir Gervase?”

  “This afternoon, just before three o’clock. There were some accounts to be checked, and the question of a new tenant for one of the farms.”

  “How long were you with him?”

  “Perhaps half an hour.”

  “Think carefully, and tell me whether you noticed anything unusual in his manner.”

  The young man considered.

  “No, I hardly think so. He was, perhaps, a trifle excited—but that wasn’t unusual with him.”

  “He was not depressed in any way?”

  “Oh, no, he seemed in good spirits. He was enjoying himself very much just now, writing up a history of the family.”

  “How long had he been doing this?”

  “He began it about six months ago.”

  “Is that when Miss Lingard came here?”

  “No. She arrived about two months ago when he had discovered that he could not manage the necessary research work by himself.”

  “And you consider he was enjoying himself?”

  “Oh, simply enormously! He really didn’t think that anything else mattered in the world except his family.”

  There was a momentary bitterness in the young man’s tone.

  “Then, as far as you know, Sir Gervase had no worries of any kind?”

  There was a slight—a very slight—pause before Captain Lake answered.

  “No.”

  Poirot suddenly interposed a question:

  “Sir Gervase was not, you think, worried about his daughter in any way?”

  “His daughter?”

  “That is what I said.”

  “Not as far as I know,” said the young man stiffly.

  Poirot said nothing further. Major Riddle said:

  “Well, thank you, Lake. Perhaps you’d stay around in case I might want to ask you anything.”

  “Certainly, sir.” He rose. “Anything I can do?”

  “Yes, you might send the butler here. And perhaps you’d find out for me how Lady Chevenix-Gore is, and if I could have a few words with her presently, or if she’s too upset.”

  The young man nodded and left the room with a quick, decisive step.

  “An attractive personality,” said Hercule Poirot.

  “Yes, nice fellow, and good at his job. Everyone likes him.”

  Five

  “Sit down, Snell,” said Major Riddle in a friendly tone. “I’ve a good many questions to ask you, and I expect this has been a shock to you.”

  “Oh, it has indeed, sir. Thank you, sir.” Snell sat down with such a discreet air that it was practically the same as though he had remained on his feet.

  “Been here a good long time, haven’t you?”

  “Sixteen years, sir, ever since Sir Gervase—er—settled down, so to speak.”

  “Ah, yes, of course, your master was a great traveller in his day.”

  “Yes, sir. He went on an expedition to the Pole and many other interesting places.”

  “Now, Snell, can you tell me when you last saw your master this evening?”

  “I was in the dining room, sir, seeing that the table arrangements were all complete. The door into the hall was open, and I saw Sir Gervase come down the stairs, cross the hall and go along the passage to the study.”

  “That was at what time?”

  “Just before eight o’clock. It might have been as much as five minutes before eight.”

  “And that was the last you saw of him?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you hear a shot?”

  “Oh, yes, indeed, sir; but of course I had no idea at the time—how should I have had?”

  “What did you think it was?”

  “I thought it was a car, sir. The road runs quite near the park wall. Or it might have been a shot in the woods—a poacher, perhaps. I never dreamed—”

  Major Riddle cut him short.

  “What time was that?”

  “It was exactly eight minutes past eight, sir.”

  The chief constable said sharply:

  “How is it you can fix the time to a minute?”

  “That’s easy, sir. I had just sounded the first going.”

  “The first gong?”

  “Yes, sir. By Sir Gervase’s orders, a gong was always to be sounded seven minutes before the actual dinner gong. Very particular he was, sir, that everyone should be assembled ready in the drawing room when the second gong went. As soon as I had sounded the second gong, I went to the drawing room and announced dinner, and everyone went in.”

  “I begin to understand,” said Hercule Poirot, “why you looked so surprised when you announced dinner this evening. It was usual for Sir Gervase to be in the drawing room?”

  “I’d never known him not be there before, sir. It was quite a shock. I little thought—”

  Again Major Riddle interrupted adroitly:

  “And were the others also usually there?”

  Snell coughed.

  “Anyone who was late for dinner, sir, was never asked to the house again.”

  “H’m, very drastic.”

  “Sir Gervase, sir, employed a chef who was formerly with the Emperor of Moravia. He used to say, sir, that dinner was as important as a religious ritual.”

  “And what about his own family?”

  “Lady Chevenix-Gore was always very particular not to upset him, sir, and even Miss Ruth dared not be late for dinner.”

  “Interesting,” murmured Hercule Poirot.

  “I see,” said Riddle. “So, dinner being at a quarter past eight, you sounded the first gong at eight minutes past as usual?”

  “That is so, sir—but it wasn’t as usual. Dinner was usually at eight. Sir Gervase gave orders that dinner was to be a quarter of an hour later this evening, as he was expecting a gentleman by the late train.”

  Snell made a little bow towards Poirot as he spoke.

  “When your master went to the study, did he look upset or worried in any way?”

  “I could not say, sir. It was too far for me to judge of his expression. I just noticed him, that was all.”

  “Was he left alone when he went to the study?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did anyone go to the study after that?”

  “I could not say, sir. I went to the butler’s pantry after that, and was there until I sounded the first gong at eight minutes past eight.”

  “That was when you heard the shot?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Poirot gently interposed a question.

  “There were o
thers, I think, who also heard the shot?”

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Hugo and Miss Cardwell. And Miss Lingard.”

  “These people were also in the hall?”

  “Miss Lingard came out from the drawing room, and Miss Cardwell and Mr. Hugo were just coming down the stairs.”

  Poirot asked:

  “Was there any conversation about the matter?”

  “Well, sir, Mr. Hugo asked if there was champagne for dinner. I told him that sherry, hock and burgundy were being served.”

  “He thought it was a champagne cork?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But nobody took it seriously?”

  “Oh, no, sir. They all went into the drawing room talking and laughing.”

  “Where were the other members of the household?”

  “I could not say, sir.”

  Major Riddle said:

  “Do you know anything about this pistol?” He held it out as he spoke.

  “Oh, yes, sir. That belonged to Sir Gervase. He always kept it in the drawer of his desk in here.”

  “Was it usually loaded?”

  “I couldn’t say, sir.”

  Major Riddle laid down the pistol and cleared his throat.

  “Now, Snell, I’m going to ask you a rather important question. I hope you will answer it as truthfully as you can. Do you know of any reason which might lead your master to commit suicide?”

  “No, sir. I know of nothing.”

  “Sir Gervase had not been odd in his manner of late? Not depressed? Or worried?”

  Snell coughed apologetically.

  “You’ll excuse my saying it, sir, but Sir Gervase was always what might have seemed to strangers a little odd in his manner. He was a highly original gentleman, sir.”

  “Yes, yes, I am quite aware of that.”

  “Outsiders, sir, did not always Understand Sir Gervase.”

  Snell gave the phrase a definite value of capital letter.

  “I know. I know. But there was nothing that you would have called unusual?”

  The butler hesitated.

  “I think, sir, that Sir Gervase was worried about something,” he said at last.

  “Worried and depressed?”

  “I shouldn’t say depressed, sir. But worried, yes.”

  “Have you any idea of the cause of that worry?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Was it connected with any particular person, for instance?”

  “I could not say at all, sir. In any case, it is only an impression of mine.”

  Poirot spoke again.

  “You were surprised at his suicide?”

  “Very surprised, sir. It has been a terrible shock to me. I never dreamed of such a thing.”

  Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

  Riddle glanced at him, then he said:

  “Well, Snell, I think that is all we want to ask you. You are quite sure that there is nothing else you can tell us—no unusual incident, for instance, that has happened in the last few days?”

  The butler, rising to his feet, shook his head.

  “There is nothing, sir, nothing whatever.”

  “Then you can go.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Moving towards the doorway, Snell drew back and stood aside. Lady Chevenix-Gore floated into the room.

  She was wearing an oriental-looking garment of purple and orange silk wound tightly round her body. Her face was serene and her manner collected and calm.

  “Lady Chevenix-Gore.” Major Riddle sprang to his feet.

  She said:

  “They told me you would like to talk to me, so I came.”

  “Shall we go into another room? This must be painful for you in the extreme.”

  Lady Chevenix-Gore shook her head and sat down on one of the Chippendale chairs. She murmured:

  “Oh, no, what does it matter?”

  “It is very good of you, Lady Chevenix-Gore, to put your feelings aside. I know what a frightful shock this must have

  been and—”

  She interrupted him.

  “It was rather a shock at first,” she admitted. Her tone was easy and conversational. “But there is no such thing as Death, really, you know, only Change.” She added: “As a matter of fact, Gervase is standing just behind your left shoulder now. I can see him distinctly.”

  Major Riddle’s left shoulder twitched slightly. He looked at Lady Chevenix-Gore rather doubtfully.

  She smiled at him, a vague, happy smile.

  “You don’t believe, of course! So few people will. To me, the spirit world is quite as real as this one. But please ask me anything you like, and don’t worry about distressing me. I’m not in the least distressed. Everything, you see, is Fate. One cannot escape one’s Karma. It all fits in—the mirror—everything.”

  “The mirror, madame?” asked Poirot.

  She nodded her head towards it vaguely.

  “Yes. It’s splintered, you see. A symbol! You know Tennyson’s poem? I used to read it as a girl—though, of course, I didn’t realise then the esoteric side of it. ‘The mirror cracked from side to side. “The curse is come upon me!” cried the Lady of Shalott.’ That’s what happened to Gervase. The Curse came upon him suddenly. I think, you know, most very old families have a curse . . . the mirror cracked. He knew that he was doomed! The Curse had come!”

  “But, madame, it was not a curse that cracked the mirror—it was a bullet!”

  Lady Chevenix-Gore said, still in the same sweet vague manner:

  “It’s all the same thing, really . . . It was Fate.”

  “But your husband shot himself.”

  Lady Chevenix-Gore smiled indulgently.

  “He shouldn’t have done that, of course. But Gervase was always impatient. He could never wait. His hour had come—he went forward to meet it. It’s all so simple, really.”

  Major Riddle, clearing his throat in exasperation, said sharply:

  “Then you weren’t surprised at your husband’s taking his own life? Had you been expecting such a thing to happen?”

  “Oh, no.” Her eyes opened wide. “One can’t always foresee the future. Gervase, of course, was a very strange man, a very unusual man. He was quite unlike anyone else. He was one of the Great Ones born again. I’ve known that for some time. I think he knew it himself. He found it very hard to conform to the silly little standards of the everyday world.” She added, looking over Major Riddle’s shoulder, “He’s smiling now. He’s thinking how foolish we all are. So we are really. Just like children. Pretending that life is real and that it matters . . . Life is only one of the Great

  Illusions.”

  Feeling that he was fighting a losing battle, Major Riddle asked desperately:

  “You can’t help us at all as to why your husband should have taken his life?”

  She shrugged her thin shoulders.

  “Forces move us—they move us . . . You cannot understand. You move only on the material plane.”

  Poirot coughed.

  “Talking of the material plane, have you any idea, madame, as to how your husband has left his money?”

  “Money?” she stared at him. “I never think of money.”

  Her tone was disdainful.

  Poirot switched to another point.

  “At what time did you come downstairs to dinner tonight?”

  “Time? What is Time? Infinite, that is the answer. Time is infinite.”

  Poirot murmured:

  “But your husband, madame, was rather particular about time—especially, so I have been told, as regards the dinner hour.”

  “Dear Gervase,” she smiled indulgently. “He was very foolish about that. But it made him happy. So we were never late.”

  “Were you in the drawing room, madame, when the first gong went?”

  “No, I was in my room then.”

  “Do you remember who was in the drawing room when you did come down?”

  “Nearly everybody, I think,” said Lady Chevenix-Gore vaguely.
“Does it matter?”

  “Possibly not,” admitted Poirot. “Then there is something else. Did your husband ever tell you that he suspected he was being robbed?”

  Lady Chevenix-Gore did not seem much interested in the question.

  “Robbed? No, I don’t think so.”

  “Robbed, swindled—victimized in some way—?”

  “No—no—I don’t think so . . . Gervase would have been very angry if anybody had dared to do anything like that.”

  “At any rate he said nothing about it to you?”

  “No—no.” Lady Chevenix-Gore shook her head, still without much real interest. “I should have remembered. . . .”

  “When did you last see your husband alive?”

  “He looked in, as usual, on his way downstairs before dinner. My maid was there. He just said he was going down.”

  “What has he talked about most in the last few weeks?”

  “Oh, the family history. He was getting on so well with it. He found that funny old thing, Miss Lingard, quite invaluable. She looked up things for him in the British Museum—all that sort of thing. She worked with Lord Mulcaster on his book, you know. And she was tactful—I mean, she didn’t look up the wrong things. After all, there are ancestors one doesn’t want raked up. Gervase was very sensitive. She helped me, too. She got a lot of information for me about Hatshepsut. I am a reincarnation of Hatshepsut, you know.”

  Lady Chevenix-Gore made this announcement in a calm voice.

  “Before that,” she went on, “I was a Priestess in Atlantis.”

  Major Riddle shifted a little in his chair.

  “Er—er—very interesting,” he said. “Well, really, Lady Chevenix-Gore, I think that will be all. Very kind of you.”

  Lady Chevenix-Gore rose, clasping her oriental robes

  about her.

  “Goodnight,” she said. And then, her eyes shifting to a point behind Major Riddle. “Goodnight, Gervase dear. I wish you could come, but I know you have to stay here.” She added in an explanatory fashion, “You have to stay in the place where you’ve passed over for at least twenty-four hours. It’s some time before you can move about freely and communicate.”

  She trailed out of the room.

  Major Riddle wiped his brow.

  “Phew,” he murmured. “She’s a great deal madder than I ever thought. Does she really believe all that nonsense?”

  Poirot shook his head thoughtfully.