Midsummer Mysteries Read online

  ‘If that is all,’ said Raymond West as Joyce came to a stop, ‘I will give my verdict at once. Indigestion, spots before the eyes after meals.’

  ‘It isn’t all,’ said Joyce. ‘You have got to hear the sequel. I read it in the paper two days later under the heading of “Sea Bathing Fatality”. It told how Mrs Dacre, the wife of Captain Denis Dacre, was unfortunately drowned at Landeer Cove, just a little farther along the coast. She and her husband were staying at the time at the hotel there, and had declared their intention of bathing, but a cold wind sprang up. Captain Dacre had declared it was too cold, so he and some other people in the hotel had gone off to the golf links near by. Mrs Dacre, however, had said it was not too cold for her and she went off alone down to the cove. As she didn’t return her husband became alarmed, and in company with his friends went down to the beach. They found her clothes lying beside a rock, but no trace of the unfortunate lady. Her body was not found until nearly a week later when it was washed ashore at a point some distance down the coast. There was a bad blow on her head which had occurred before death, and the theory was that she must have dived into the sea and hit her head on a rock. As far as I could make out her death would have occurred just twenty-four hours after the time I saw the bloodstains.’

  ‘I protest,’ said Sir Henry. ‘This is not a problem—this is a ghost story. Miss Lemprière is evidently a medium.’

  Mr Petherick gave his usual cough.

  ‘One point strikes me—’ he said, ‘that blow on the head. We must not, I think, exclude the possibility of foul play. But I do not see that we have any data to go upon. Miss Lemprière’s hallucination, or vision, is interesting certainly, but I do not see clearly the point on which she wishes us to pronounce.’

  ‘Indigestion and coincidence,’ said Raymond, ‘and anyway you can’t be sure that they were the same people. Besides, the curse, or whatever it was, would only apply to the actual inhabitants of Rathole.’

  ‘I feel,’ said Sir Henry, ‘that the sinister seafaring man has something to do with this tale. But I agree with Mr Petherick, Miss Lemprière has given us very little data.’

  Joyce turned to Dr Pender who smilingly shook his head.

  ‘It is a most interesting story,’ he said, ‘but I am afraid I agree with Sir Henry and Mr Petherick that there is very little data to go upon.’

  Joyce then looked curiously at Miss Marple, who smiled back at her. ‘I, too, think you are just a little unfair, Joyce dear,’ she said. ‘Of course, it is different for me. I mean, we, being women, appreciate the point about clothes. I don’t think it is a fair problem to put to a man. It must have meant a lot of rapid changing. What a wicked woman! And a still more wicked man.’

  Joyce stared at her.

  ‘Aunt Jane,’ she said. ‘Miss Marple, I mean, I believe—I do really believe you know the truth.’

  ‘Well, dear,’ said Miss Marple, ‘it is much easier for me sitting here quietly than it was for you—and being an artist you are so susceptible to atmosphere, aren’t you? Sitting here with one’s knitting, one just sees the facts. Bloodstains dropped on the pavement from the bathing dress hanging above, and being a red bathing dress, of course, the criminals themselves did not realize it was bloodstained. Poor thing, poor young thing!’

  ‘Excuse me, Miss Marple,’ said Sir Henry, ‘but you do know that I am entirely in the dark still. You and Miss Lemprière seem to know what you are talking about, but we men are still in utter darkness.’

  ‘I will tell you the end of the story now,’ said Joyce. ‘It was a year later. I was at a little east coast seaside resort, and I was sketching, when suddenly I had that queer feeling one has of something having happened before. There were two people, a man and a woman, on the pavement in front of me, and they were greeting a third person, a woman dressed in a scarlet poinsettia chintz dress. “Carol, by all that is wonderful! Fancy meeting you after all these years. You don’t know my wife? Joan, this is an old friend of mine, Miss Harding.”

  ‘I recognized the man at once. It was the same Denis I had seen at Rathole. The wife was different—that is, she was a Joan instead of a Margery; but she was the same type, young and rather dowdy and very inconspicuous. I thought for a minute I was going mad. They began to talk of going bathing. I will tell you what I did. I marched straight then and there to the police station. I thought they would probably think I was off my head, but I didn’t care. And as it happened everything was quite all right. There was a man from Scotland Yard there, and he had come down just about this very thing. It seems—oh, it’s horrible to talk about that the police had got suspicions of Denis Dacre. That wasn’t his real name—he took different names on different occasions. He got to know girls, usually quiet inconspicuous girls without many relatives or friends, he married them and insured their lives for large sums and then—oh, it’s horrible! The woman called Carol was his real wife, and they always carried out the same plan. That is really how they came to catch him. The insurance companies became suspicious. He would come to some quiet seaside place with his new wife, then the other woman would turn up and they would all go bathing together. Then the wife would be murdered and Carol would put on her clothes and go back in the boat with him. Then they would leave the place, wherever it was, after inquiring for the supposed Carol and when they got outside the village Carol would hastily change back into her own flamboyant clothes and her vivid make-up and would go back there and drive off in her own car. They would find out which way the current was flowing and the supposed death would take place at the next bathing place along the coast that way. Carol would play the part of the wife and would go down to some lonely beach and would leave the wife’s clothes there by a rock and depart in her flowery chintz dress to wait quietly until her husband could rejoin her.

  ‘I suppose when they killed poor Margery some of the blood must have spurted over Carol’s bathing suit, and being a red one they didn’t notice it, as Miss Marple says. But when they hung it over the balcony it dripped. Ugh!’ she gave a shiver. ‘I can see it still.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Sir Henry, ‘I remember very well now. Davis was the man’s real name. It had quite slipped my memory that one of his many aliases was Dacre. They were an extraordinarily cunning pair. It always seemed so amazing to me that no one spotted the change of identity. I suppose, as Miss Marple says, clothes are more easily identified than faces; but it was a very clever scheme, for although we suspected Davis it was not easy to bring the crime home to him as he always seemed to have an unimpeachable alibi.’

  ‘Aunt Jane,’ said Raymond, looking at her curiously, ‘how do you do it? You have lived such a peaceful life and yet nothing seems to surprise you.’

  ‘I always find one thing very like another in this world,’ said Miss Marple. ‘There was Mrs Green, you know, she buried five children—and every one of them insured. Well, naturally, one began to get suspicious.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘There is a great deal of wickedness in village life. I hope you dear young people will never realize how very wicked the world is.’

  The Double Clue

  ‘But above everything—no publicity,’ said Mr Marcus Hardman for perhaps the fourteenth time.

  The word publicity occurred throughout his conversation with the regularity of a leitmotif. Mr Hardman was a small man, delicately plump, with exquisitely manicured hands and a plaintive tenor voice. In his way, he was somewhat of a celebrity and the fashionable life was his profession. He was rich, but not remarkably so, and he spent his money zealously in the pursuit of social pleasure. His hobby was collecting. He had the collector’s soul. Old lace, old fans, antique jewellery—nothing crude or modern for Marcus Hardman.

  Poirot and I, obeying an urgent summons, had arrived to find the little man writhing in an agony of indecision. Under the circumstances, to call in the police was abhorrent to him. On the other hand, not to call them in was to acquiesce in the loss of some of the gems of his collection. He hit upon Poirot a
s a compromise.

  ‘My rubies, Monsieur Poirot, and the emerald necklace said to have belonged to Catherine de’ Medici. Oh, the emerald necklace!’

  ‘If you will recount to me the circumstances of their disappearance?’ suggested Poirot gently.

  ‘I am endeavouring to do so. Yesterday afternoon I had a little tea party—quite an informal affair, some half a dozen people or so. I have given one or two of them during the season, and though perhaps I should not say so, they have been quite a success. Some good music—Nacora, the pianist, and Katherine Bird, the Australian contralto—in the big studio. Well, early in the afternoon, I was showing my guests my collection of medieval jewels. I keep them in the small wall safe over there. It is arranged like a cabinet inside, with coloured velvet background, to display the stones. Afterwards we inspected the fans—in the case on the wall. Then we all went to the studio for music. It was not until after everyone had gone that I discovered the safe rifled! I must have failed to shut it properly, and someone had seized the opportunity to denude it of its contents. The rubies, Monsieur Poirot, the emerald necklace—the collection of a lifetime! What would I not give to recover them! But there must be no publicity! You fully understand that, do you not, Monsieur Poirot? My own guests, my personal friends! It would be a horrible scandal!’

  ‘Who was the last person to leave this room when you went to the studio?’

  ‘Mr Johnston. You may know him? The South African millionaire. He has just rented the Abbotburys’ house in Park Lane. He lingered behind a few moments, I remember. But surely, oh, surely it could not be he!’

  ‘Did any of your guests return to this room during the afternoon on any pretext?’

  ‘I was prepared for that question, Monsieur Poirot. Three of them did so. Countess Vera Rossakoff, Mr Bernard Parker, and Lady Runcorn.’

  ‘Let us hear about them.’

  ‘The Countess Rossakoff is a very charming Russian lady, a member of the old régime. She has recently come to this country. She had bade me goodbye, and I was therefore somewhat surprised to find her in this room apparently gazing in rapture at my cabinet of fans. You know, Monsieur Poirot, the more I think of it, the more suspicious it seems to me. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘Extremely suspicious; but let us hear about the others.’

  ‘Well, Parker simply came here to fetch a case of miniatures that I was anxious to show to Lady Runcorn.’

  ‘And Lady Runcorn herself?’

  ‘As I dare say you know, Lady Runcorn is a middle-aged woman of considerable force of character who devotes most of her time to various charitable committees. She simply returned to fetch a handbag she had laid down somewhere.’

  ‘Bien, monsieur. So we have four possible suspects. The Russian countess, the English grande dame, the South African millionaire, and Mr Bernard Parker. Who is Mr Parker, by the way?’

  The question appeared to embarrass Mr Hardman considerably.

  ‘He is—er—he is a young fellow. Well, in fact, a young fellow I know.’

  ‘I had already deduced as much,’ replied Poirot gravely. ‘What does he do, this Mr Parker?’

  ‘He is a young man about town—not, perhaps, quite in the swim, if I may so express myself.’

  ‘How did he come to be a friend of yours, may I ask?’

  ‘Well—er—on one or two occasions he has—performed certain little commissions for me.’

  ‘Continue, monsieur,’ said Poirot.

  Hardman looked piteously at him. Evidently the last thing he wanted to do was to continue. But as Poirot maintained an inexorable silence, he capitulated.

  ‘You see, Monsieur Poirot—it is well known that I am interested in antique jewels. Sometimes there is a family heirloom to be disposed of—which, mind you, would never be sold in the open market or to a dealer. But a private sale to me is a very different matter. Parker arranges the details of such things, he is in touch with both sides, and thus any little embarrassment is avoided. He brings anything of that kind to my notice. For instance, the Countess Rossakoff has brought some family jewels with her from Russia. She is anxious to sell them. Bernard Parker was to have arranged the transaction.’

  ‘I see,’ said Poirot thoughtfully. ‘And you trust him implicitly?’

  ‘I have had no reason to do otherwise.’

  ‘Mr Hardman, of these four people, which do you yourself suspect?’

  ‘Oh, Monsieur Poirot, what a question! They are my friends, as I told you. I suspect none of them—or all of them, whichever way you like to put it.’

  ‘I do not agree. You suspect one of those four. It is not Countess Rossakoff. It is not Mr Parker. Is it Lady Runcorn or Mr Johnston?’

  ‘You drive me into a corner, Monsieur Poirot, you do indeed. I am most anxious to have no scandal. Lady Runcorn belongs to one of the oldest families in England; but it is true, it is most unfortunately true, that her aunt, Lady Caroline, suffered from a most melancholy affliction. It was understood, of course, by all her friends, and her maid returned the teaspoons, or whatever it was, as promptly as possible. You see my predicament!’

  ‘So Lady Runcorn had an aunt who was a kleptomaniac? Very interesting. You permit that I examine the safe?’

  Mr Hardman assenting, Poirot pushed back the door of the safe and examined the interior. The empty velvet-lined shelves gaped at us.

  ‘Even now the door does not shut properly,’ murmured Poirot, as he swung it to and fro. ‘I wonder why? Ah, what have we here? A glove, caught in the hinge. A man’s glove.’

  He held it out to Mr Hardman.

  ‘That’s not one of my gloves,’ the latter declared.

  ‘Aha! Something more!’ Poirot bent deftly and picked up a small object from the floor of the safe. It was a flat cigarette case made of black moiré.

  ‘My cigarette case!’ cried Mr Hardman.

  ‘Yours? Surely not, monsieur. Those are not your—initials.’

  He pointed to an entwined monogram of two letters executed in platinum.

  Hardman took it in his hand.

  ‘You are right,’ he declared. ‘It is very like mine, but the initials are different. A “B” and a “P”. Good heavens—Parker!’

  ‘It would seem so,’ said Poirot. ‘A somewhat careless young man—especially if the glove is his also. That would be a double clue, would it not?’

  ‘Bernard Parker!’ murmured Hardman. ‘What a relief! Well, Monsieur Poirot, I leave it to you to recover the jewels. Place the matter in the hands of the police if you think fit—that is, if you are quite sure that it is he who is guilty.’

  ‘See you, my friend,’ said Poirot to me, as we left the house together, ‘he has one law for the titled, and another law for the plain, this Mr Hardman. Me, I have not yet been ennobled, so I am on the side of the plain. I have sympathy for this young man. The whole thing was a little curious, was it not? There was Hardman suspecting Lady Runcorn; there was I, suspecting the Countess and Johnston; and all the time, the obscure Mr Parker was our man.’

  ‘Why did you suspect the other two?’

  ‘Parbleu! It is such a simple thing to be a Russian refugee or a South African millionaire. Any woman can call herself a Russian countess; anyone can buy a house in Park Lane and call himself a South African millionaire. Who is going to contradict them? But I observe that we are passing through Bury Street. Our careless young friend lives here. Let us, as you say, strike while the iron is in the fire.’

  Mr Bernard Parker was at home. We found him reclining on some cushions, clad in an amazing dressing-gown of purple and orange. I have seldom taken a greater dislike to anyone than I did to this particular young man with his white, effeminate face and affected lisping speech.

  ‘Good morning, monsieur,’ said Poirot briskly. ‘I come from Mr Hardman. Yesterday, at the party, somebody has stolen all his jewels. Permit me to ask you, monsieur—is this your glove?’

  Mr Parker’s mental processes did not seem very rapid. He stared at the glove, as though gather
ing his wits together.

  ‘Where did you find it?’ he asked at last.

  ‘Is it your glove, monsieur?’

  Mr Parker appeared to make up his mind.

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ he declared.

  ‘And this cigarette case, is that yours?’

  ‘Certainly not. I always carry a silver one.’

  ‘Very well, monsieur. I go to put matters in the hands of the police.’

  ‘Oh, I say, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ cried Mr Parker in some concern. ‘Beastly unsympathetic people, the police. Wait a bit. I’ll go round and see old Hardman. Look here—oh, stop a minute.’

  But Poirot beat a determined retreat.

  ‘We have given him something to think about, have we not?’ he chuckled. ‘Tomorrow we will observe what has occurred.’

  But we were destined to have a reminder of the Hardman case that afternoon. Without the least warning the door flew open, and a whirlwind in human form invaded our privacy, bringing with her a swirl of sables (it was as cold as only an English June day can be) and a hat rampant with slaughtered ospreys. Countess Vera Rossakoff was a somewhat disturbing personality.

  ‘You are Monsieur Poirot? What is this that you have done? You accuse that poor boy! It is infamous. It is scandalous. I know him. He is a chicken, a lamb—never would he steal. He has done everything for me. Will I stand by and see him martyred and butchered?’

  ‘Tell me, madame, is this his cigarette case?’ Poirot held out the black moiré case.

  The Countess paused for a moment while she inspected it.

  ‘Yes, it is his. I know it well. What of it? Did you find it in the room? We were all there; he dropped it then, I suppose. Ah, you policemen, you are worse than the Red Guards—’

  ‘And is this his glove?’

  ‘How should I know? One glove is like another. Do not try to stop me he must be set free. His character must be cleared. You shall do it. I will sell my jewels and give you much money.’

  ‘Madame—’