"Looks fit enough, doesn't he?"
Frobisher sighed. His shrewd little eyes stole sideways, considering Hercule Poirot.
Presently he said: "I know who you are, you know."
"Ah that, it is no secret!"
Poirot waved a royal hand. He was not incognito, the gesture seemed to say. He was travelling as himself.
After a minute or two Frobisher asked: "Did the girl get you down over this business?"
"The business -?"
"The business of young Hugh... Yes, I see you know all about it. But I can't quite see why she went to you... Shouldn't have thought this sort of thing was in your line - meantersay it's more a medical show."
"All kinds of things are in my line... You would be surprised."
"I mean I can't see quite what she expected you could do."
"Miss Maberly," said Poirot, "is a fighter."
Colonel Frobisher nodded a warm assent.
"Yes, she's a fighter all right. She's a fine kid. She won't give up. All the same, you know, there are some things that you can't fight..."
His face looked suddenly old and tired.
Poirot dropped his voice still lower. He murmured discreetly: "There is - insanity, I understand, in the family?"
Frobisher nodded.
"Only crops up now and again," he murmured. "Skips a generation or two. Hugh's grandfather was the last."
Poirot threw a quick glance in the direction of the other three. Diana was holding the conversation well, laughing and bantering Hugh. You would have said that the three of them had not a care in the world.
"What form did the madness take?" Poirot asked softly.
"The old boy became pretty violent in the end. He was perfectly all right up to thirty - normal as could be. Then he began to go a bit queer.
It was some time before people noticed it. Then a lot of rumours began going around. People started talking properly. Things happened that were hushed up. But - well," he raised his shoulders "ended up as mad as a hatter, poor devil! Homicidal! Had to be certified."
He paused for a moment and then added:
"He lived to be quite an old man, I believe... That's what Hugh is afraid of, of course. That's why he doesn't want to see a doctor. He's afraid of being shut up and living shut up for years. Can't say I blame him. I'd feel the same."
"And Admiral Chandler, how does he feel?"
"It's broken him up completely," Frobisher spoke shortly.
"He is very fond of his son?"
"Wrapped up in the boy. You see, his wife was drowned in a boating accident when the boy was only ten years old. Since then he's lived for nothing but the child."
"Was he very devoted to his wife?"
"Worshipped her. Everybody worshipped her. She was - she was one of the loveliest women I've ever known." He paused a moment and then said jerkily, "Care to see her portrait?"
"I should like to see it very much."
Frobisher pushed back his chair and rose.
Aloud he said: "Going to show M. Poirot one or two things, Charles.
He's a bit of a connoisseur."
The Admiral raised a vague hand. Frobisher tramped along the terrace and Poirot followed him. For a moment Diana's face dropped its mask of gaiety and looked an agonised question. Hugh, too, raised his head, and looked steadily at the small man with the big black moustache.
Poirot followed Frobisher into the house. It was so dim at first coming in out of the sunlight that he could hardly distinguish one article from another. But he realised that the house was full of old and beautiful things.
Colonel Frobisher led the way to the Picture Gallery. On the panelled walls hung portraits of dead and gone Chandlers. Faces stern and gay, men in court dress or in Naval uniform. Women in satin and pearls.
Finally Frobisher stopped under a portrait at the end of the gallery.
"Painted by Orpen," he said gruffly.
They stood looking up at a tall woman, her hand on a greyhound's collar. A woman with auburn hair and an expression of radiant vitality.
"Boy's the spitting image of her," said Frobisher. "Don't you think so?"
"In some things, yes."
"He hasn't got her delicacy - her femininity, of course. He's a masculine edition - but in all the essential things -" He broke off. "Pity he inherited from the Chandlers the one thing he could well have done without..."
They were silent. There was melancholy in the air all around them - as though dead and gone Chandlers sighed for the taint that lay in their blood and which, remorselessly, from time to time, they passed on.
Hercule Poirot turned his head to look at his companion. George Frobisher was still gazing up at the beautiful woman on the wall above him.
Poirot said softly: "You knew her well..."
Frobisher spoke jerkily.
"We were boy and girl together. I went off as a subaltern to India when she was sixteen... When I got back - she was married to Charles Chandler."
"You knew him well also?"
"Charles is one of my oldest friends. He's my best friend - always has been."
"Did you see much of them - after the marriage?"
"Used to spend most of my leaves here. Like a second home to me, this place. Charles and Caroline always kept my room here - ready and waiting..." He squared his shoulders, suddenly thrust his head forward pugnaciously. "That's why I'm here now - to stand by in case I'm wanted. If Charles needs me - I'm here."
Again the shadow of tragedy crept over them.
"And what do you think - about all this?" Poirot asked.
Frobisher stood stiffly. His brows came down over his eyes.
"What I think is, the least said the better. And to be frank, I don't see what you're doing in the business, M. Poirot. I don't see why Diana roped you in and got you down here."
"You are aware that Diana Maberly's engagement to Hugh Chandler has been broken off?"
"Yes, I know that."
"And you know the reason for it?"
Frobisher replied stiffly: "I don't know anything about that. Young people manage these things between them. Not my business to butt in."
Poirot said: "Hugh Chandler told Diana that it was not right that they should marry, because he was going out of his mind."
He saw the beads of perspiration break out on Frobisher's forehead.
Frobisher said: "Have we got to talk about the damned thing? What do you think you can do? Hugh's done the right thing, poor devil. It's not his fault, it's heredity - germ plasm - brain cells... But once he knew, well, what else could he do but break the engagement? It's one of those things that just has to be done."
"If I could be convinced of that -"
"You can take it from me."
"But you have told me nothing."
"I tell you I don't want to talk about it."
"Why did Admiral Chandler force his son to leave the Navy?"
"Because it was the only thing to be done."
"Why?"
Frobisher shook an obstinate head.
Poirot murmured softly: "Was it to do with some sheep being killed?"
The other man said angrily: "So you've heard about that?"
"Diana told me."
"That girl had far better keep her mouth shut."
"She did not think it was conclusive."
"She doesn't know."
"What doesn't she know?"
Unwillingly, jerkily, angrily, Frobisher spoke:
"Oh well, if you must have it... Chandler heard a noise that night.
Thought it might be someone got in the house. Went out to investigate.
Light in the boy's room. Chandler went in. Hugh asleep on bed - dead asleep - in his clothes. Blood on the clothes. Basin in the room full of blood. His father couldn't wake him. Next morning heard about sheep being found with their throats cut. Questioned Hugh. Boy didn't know anything about it. Didn't remember going out - and his shoes found by the side door caked in mud. Couldn't explain the blood in the basin.
Couldn't explain anything. Poor devil didn't know, you understand.
"Charles came to me, talked it over. What was the best thing to be done? Then it happened again - three nights later. After that - well, you can see for yourself. The boy had got to leave the service. If he was here, under Charles' eye, Charles could watch over him. Couldn't afford to have a scandal in the Navy. Yes, it was the only thing to be done."
Poirot asked: "And since then?"
Frobisher said fiercely, "I'm not answering any more questions. Don't you think Hugh knows his own business best?"
Hercule Poirot did not answer. He was always loath to admit that anyone could know better than Hercule Poirot.
III
As they came into the hall, they met Admiral Chandler coming in. He stood for a moment, a dark figure silhouetted against the bright light outside.
He said in a low, gruff voice: "Oh there you both are. M. Poirot, I would like a word with you. Come into my study."
Frobisher went out through the open door, and Poirot followed the Admiral. He had rather the feeling of having been summoned to the quarter-deck to give an account of himself.
The Admiral motioned Poirot to take one of the big easy chairs and himself sat down in the other. Poirot, whilst with Frobisher, had been impressed by the other's restlessness, nervousness and irritability - all the signs of intense mental strain. With Admiral Chandler he felt a sense of hopelessness, of quiet, deep despair...
With a deep sigh. Chandler said: "I can't help being sorry Diana has brought you into this... Poor child, I know how hard it is for her. But well - it is our own private tragedy, and I think you will understand, M.
Poirot, that we don't want outsiders."
"I can understand your feeling, certainly."
"Diana, poor child, can't believe it... I couldn't at first. Probably wouldn't believe it now if I didn't know -"
He paused.
"Know what?"
"That it's in the blood. The taint, I mean."
"And yet you agreed to the engagement?"
Admiral Chandler flushed.
"You mean, I should have put my foot down then? But at the time I'd no idea. Hugh takes after his mother - nothing about him to remind you of the Chandlers. I hoped he'd taken after her in every way. From his childhood upwards, there's never been a trace of abnormality about him until now. I couldn't know that - dash it all, there's a trace of insanity in nearly every old family!"
Poirot said softly: "You have not consulted a doctor?"
Chandler roared: "No, and I'm not going to! The boy's safe enough here with me to look after him. They shan't shut him up between four walls like a wild beast..."
"He is safe here, you say. But are others safe?"
"What do you mean by that?"
Poirot did not reply. He looked steadily into Admiral Chandler's sad, dark eyes.
The Admiral said bitterly: "Each man to his trade. You're looking for a criminal! My boy's not a criminal, M. Poirot."
"Not yet."
"What do you mean by 'not yet'?"
"These things increase... Those sheep -"
"Who told you about the sheep?"
"Diana Maberly. And also your friend, Colonel Frobisher."
"George would have done better to keep his mouth shut."
"He is a very old friend of yours, is he not?"
"My best friend," the Admiral said gruffly.
"And he was a friend of - your wife's, too?"
Chandler smiled.
"Yes. George was in love with Caroline, I believe. When she was very young. He's never married. I believe that's the reason. Ah well, I was the lucky one - or so I thought. I carried her off - only to lose her."
He sighed and his shoulders sagged.
Poirot said: "Colonel Frobisher was with you when your wife was drowned?"
Chandler nodded.
"Yes, he was with us down in Cornwall when it happened. She and I were out in the boat together - he happened to stay at home that day.
I've never understood how that boat came to capsize ... Must have sprung a sudden leak. We were right out in the bay - strong tide running. I held her up as long as I could..." His voice broke. "Her body was washed up two days later. Thank the Lord we hadn't taken little Hugh out with us! At least, that's what I thought at the time. Now - well better for Hugh, poor devil, perhaps, if he had been with us. If it had all been finished and done for then..."
Again there came that deep, hopeless sigh.
"We're the last of the Chandlers, M. Poirot. There will be no more Chandlers at Lyde after we're gone. When Hugh got engaged to Diana, I hoped - well, it's no good talking of that. Thank God, they didn't marry. That's all I can say!"
IV
Hercule Poirot sat on a seat in the rose garden. Beside him sat Hugh
Chandler. Diana Maberly had just left them.
The young man turned a handsome, tortured face towards his companion.
He said: "You've got to make her understand, M. Poirot."
He paused for a minute and then went on: "You see, Di's a fighter. She won't give in. She won't accept what she's darned well got to accept.
She - she will go on believing that I'm - sane."
"While you yourself are quite certain that you are - pardon me insane?"
The young man winced. He said: "I'm not actually hopelessly off my head yet - but it's getting worse. Diana doesn't know, bless her. She's only seen me when I am - all right."
"And when you are - all wrong, what happens?"
Hugh Chandler took a long breath. Then he said: "For one thing - I dream. And when I dream, I am mad. Last night, for instance - I wasn't a man any longer. I was first of all a bull - a mad bull - racing about in blazing sunlight - tasting dust and blood in my mouth - dust and blood...
And then I was a dog - a great slavering dog. I had hydrophobia children scattered and fled as I came - men tried to shoot me someone set down a great bowl of water for me and I couldn't drink. I couldn't drink..."
He paused. "I woke up. And I knew it was true. I went over to the washstand. My mouth was parched - horribly parched - and dry. I was thirsty. But I couldn't drink, M. Poirot... I couldn't swallow... Oh, my God, I wasn't able to drink..."
Hercule Poirot made a gentle murmur. Hugh Chandler went on. His hands were clenched on his knees. His face was thrust forward, his eyes were half closed as though he saw something coming towards him.
"And there are things that aren't dreams. Things that I see when I'm wide awake. Spectres, frightful shapes. They leer at me. And sometimes I'm able to fly, to leave my bed, and fly through the air, to ride the winds - and fiends bear me company!"
"Tcha, tcha," said Hercule Poirot.
It was a gentle, deprecating little noise.
Hugh Chandler turned to him.
"Oh, there isn't any doubt. It's in my blood. It's my family heritage. I can't escape. Thank God I found it out in time! Before I'd married Diana. Suppose we'd had a child and handed on this frightful thing to him!"
He laid a hand on Poirot's arm.
"You must make her understand. You must tell her. She's got to forget.
She's got to. There will be someone else someday. There's young Steve Graham - he's crazy about her and he's an awfully good chap.
She'd be happy with him - and safe. I want her - to be happy. Graham's hard up, of course, and so are her people, but when I'm gone they'll be all right."
Hercule's voice interrupted him.
"Why will they be 'all right' when you are gone?"
Hugh Chandler smiled. It was a gentle, lovable smile.
He said: "There's my mother's money. She was an heiress, you know. It came to me. I've left it all to Diana."
Hercule Poirot sat back in his chair. He said: "Ah!"
Then he said: "But you may live to be quite an old man, Mr Chandler."
Hugh Chandler shook his head.
He said sharply: "No, M. Poirot. I am not going to live to be an old man."<
br />
Then he drew back with a sudden shudder.
"My God! Look!" He stared over Poirot's shoulder. "There - standing by you... it's a skeleton - its bones are shaking. It's calling to me beckoning-"
His eyes, the pupils widely dilated, stared into the sunshine. He leaned suddenly sideways as though collapsing.
Then, turning to Poirot, he said in an almost childlike voice: "You didn't see - anything?"
Slowly, Hercule Poirot shook his head.
Hugh Chandler said hoarsely: "I don't mind this so much - seeing things. It's the blood I'm frightened of. The blood in my room - on my clothes... We had a parrot. One morning it was there in my room with its throat cut - and I was lying on the bed with the razor in my hand wet with its blood!"
He leant closer to Poirot.
"Even just lately things have been killed," he whispered. "All around in the village - out on the downs. Sheep, young lambs - a collie dog.
Father locks me in at night, but sometimes - sometimes - the door's open in the morning. I must have a key hidden somewhere but I don't know where I've hidden it. I don't know. It isn't I who do these things it's someone else who comes into me - who takes possession of me who turns me from a man into a raving monster who wants blood and who can't drink water..."
Suddenly he buried his face in his hands.
After a minute or two, Poirot asked: "I still do not understand why you have not seen a doctor?"
Hugh Chandler shook his head. He said: "Don't you really understand?
Physically I'm strong. I'm as strong as a bull. I might live for years years - shut up between four walls! That I can't face! It would be better to go out altogether... There are ways, you know. An accident, cleaning a gun... that sort of thing. Diana will understand... I'd rather take my own way out!"
He looked defiantly at Poirot, but Poirot did not respond to the challenge. Instead he asked mildly:
"What do you eat and drink?"
Hugh Chandler flung his head back. He roared with laughter.
"Nightmares after indigestion? Is that your idea?"
Poirot merely repeated gently: "What do you eat and drink?"
"Just what everybody else eats and drinks."
Short Stories Page 159
