"But why did he steal his own diamond?" I asked, puzzled.
"For many reasons. To begin with, Lady Yardly was getting restive."
"Lady Yardly?"
"You comprehend she was left much alone in California. Her husband was amusing himself elsewhere. Mr Rolf was handsome, he had an air about him of romance. But au fond, he is very business-like, ce monsieur! He made love to Lady Yardly, and then he blackmailed her. I taxed the lady with the truth the other night. and she admitted it. She swore that she had only been indiscreet, and I believe her. But, undoubtedly, Rolf had letters of hers that could be twisted to bear a different interpretation. Terrified by the threat of a divorce, and the prospect of being separated from her children, she agreed to all he wished. She had no money of her own, and she was forced to permit him to substitute a paste replica for the real stone. The coincidence of the date of the appearance of 'the Western Star' struck me at once. All goes well. Lord Yardly prepares to range himself – to settle down. And then comes the menace of the possible sale of the diamond. The substitution will be discovered. Without doubt she writes off frantically to Gregory Rolf who has just arrived in England. He soothes her by promising to arrange all – and prepares for a double robbery. In this way he will quiet the lady, who might conceivably tell all to her husband, an affair which would not suit our blackmailer at all, he will have £50,000 insurance money (aha, you had forgotten that!), and he will still have the diamond! At this point I put my finger in the pie. The arrival of a diamond expert is announced. Lady Yardly, as I felt sure she would, immediately arranges a robbery – and does it very well too! But Hercule Poirot, he sees nothing but facts. What happens in actuality? The lady switches off the light, bangs the door, throws the necklace down the passage, and screams. She had already wrenched out the diamond with pliers upstairs -"
"But we saw the necklace round her neck!" I objected.
"I demand pardon, my friend. Her hand concealed the part of it where the gap would have shown. To place a piece of silk in the door beforehand is child's play! Of course, as soon as Rolf read of the robbery, he arranged his own little comedy. And very well he played it!"
"What did you say to him?" I asked with lively curiosity.
"I said to him that Lady Yardly had told her husband all, that I was empowered to recover the jewel, and that if it were not immediately handed over proceedings would be taken. Also a few more little lies which occurred to me. He was as wax in my hands!"
I pondered the matter.
"It seems a little unfair on Mary Marvell. She has lost her diamond through no fault of her own."
"Bah!" said Poirot brutally. "She has a magnificent advertisement. That is all she cares for, that one! Now the other, she is different. Bonne mère, très femme!"
"Yes," I said doubtfully, hardly sharing Poirot's views on femininity. "I suppose it was Rolf who sent her the duplicate letters."
"Pas du tout," said Poirot briskly. "She came by the advice of Mary Cavendish to seek my aid in her dilemma. Then she heard that Mary Marvell, whom she knew to be her enemy, had been here, and she changed her mind, jumping at a pretext that you, my friend, offered her. A very few questions sufficed to show me that you told her of the letters, not she you! She jumped at the chance your words offered."
"I don't believe it," I cried, stung.
"Si, si, mon ami, it is a pity that you study not the psychology. She told you that the letters were destroyed? Oh, la la, never does a woman destroy a letter if she can avoid it! Not even if it would be more prudent to do so!"
"It's all very well," I said, my anger rising, "but you've made a perfect fool of me! From beginning to end! No, it's all very well to try to explain it away afterwards. There really is a limit!"
"But you were so enjoying yourself, my friend. I had not the heart to shatter your illusions."
"It's no good. You've gone a bit too far this time."
"Mon Dieu! but how you enrage yourself for nothing, mon ami!"
"I'm fed up!" I went out, banging the door. Poirot had made an absolute laughing-stock of me. I decided he needed a sharp lesson. I would let some time elapse before I forgave him. He had encouraged me to make a perfect fool of myself!
THE TRAGEDY AT MARSDON MANOR
I had been called away from town for a few days, and on my return found Poirot in the act of strapping up his small valise.
"A la bonne heure, Hastings. I feared you would not have returned in time to accompany me."
"You are called away on a case, then?"
"Yes, though I am bound to admit that, on the face of it, the affair does not seem promising. The Northern Union Insurance Company have asked me to investigate the death of a Mr Maltravers who a few weeks ago insured his life with them for the large sum of fifty thousand pounds."
"Yes?" I said, much interested.
"There was, of course, the usual suicide clause in the policy. In the event of his committing suicide within a year the premiums would be forfeited. Mr Maltravers was duly examined by the Company's own doctor, and although he was a man slightly past the prime of life was passed as being in quite sound health. However, on Wednesday last – the day before yesterday – the body of Mr Maltravers was found in the grounds of his house in Essex, Marsdon Manor, and the cause of his death is described as some kind of internal haemorrhage. That in itself would be nothing remarkable, but sinister rumours as to Mr Maltravers' financial position have been in the air of late, and the Northern Union have ascertained beyond any possible doubt that the deceased gentleman stood upon the verge of bankruptcy. Now that alters matters considerably. Maltravers had a beautiful young wife, and it is suggested that he got together all the ready money he could for the purpose of paying the premiums on a life insurance for his wife's benefit, and then committed suicide. Such a thing is not uncommon. In any case, my friend Alfred Wright, who is a director of the Northern Union, has asked me to investigate the facts of the case, but, as I told him, I am not very hopeful of success. If the cause of the death had been heart failure, I should have been more sanguine. Heart failure may always be translated as the inability of the local G. P. to discover what his patient really did die of, but a haemorrhage seems fairly definite. Still, we can but make some necessary enquiries. Five minutes to pack your bag, Hastings, and we will take a taxi to Liverpool Street."
About an hour later, we alighted from a Great Eastern train at the little station of Marsdon Leigh. Enquiries at the station yielded the information that Marsdon Manor was about a mile distant. Poirot decided to walk, and we betook ourselves along the main street.
"What is our plan of campaign?" I asked.
"First I will call upon the doctor. I have ascertained that there is only one doctor in Marsdon Leigh, Dr Ralph Bernard. Ah, here we are at his house."
The house in question was a kind of superior cottage, standing back a little from the road. A brass plate on the gate bore the doctor's name. We passed up the path and rang the bell.
We proved to be fortunate in our call. It was the doctor's consulting hour, and for the moment there were no patients waiting for him. Dr Bernard was an elderly man, high-shouldered and stooping, with a pleasant vagueness of manner.
Poirot introduced himself and explained the purpose of our visit, adding that Insurance Companies were bound to investigate fully in a case of this kind.
"Of course, of course," said Dr Bernard vaguely. "I suppose, as he was such a rich man, his life was insured for a big sum?"
"You consider him a rich man, doctor?"
The doctor looked rather surprised.
"Was he not? He kept two cars, you know, and Marsdon Manor is a pretty big place to keep up, although I believe he bought it very cheap."
"I understand that he had had considerable losses of late," said Poirot, watching the doctor narrowly.
The latter, however, merely shook his head sadly.
"Is that so? Indeed. It is fortunate for his wife, then, that there is this life insurance. A very beautiful and char
ming young creature, but terribly unstrung by this sad catastrophe. A mass of nerves, poor thing. I have tried to spare her all I can, but of course the shock was bound to be considerable."
"You have been attending Mr Maltravers recently?"
"My dear sir, I never attended him."
"What?"
"I understand Mr Maltravers was a Christian Scientist – or something of that kind."
"But you examined the body?"
"Certainly. I was fetched by one of the undergardeners."
"And the cause of death was clear?"
"Absolutely. There was blood on the lips, but most of the bleeding must have been internal."
"Was he still lying where he had been found?"
"Yes, the body had not been touched. He was lying on the edge of a small plantation. He had evidently been out shooting rooks, a small rook rifle lay beside him. The haemorrhage must have occurred quite suddenly. Gastric ulcer, without a doubt."
"No question of his having been shot, eh?"
"My dear sir!"
"I demand pardon," said Poirot humbly. "But, if my memory is not at fault, in the case of a recent murder, the doctor first gave a verdict of heart failure – altering it when the local constable pointed out that there was a bullet wound through the head!"
"You will not find any bullet wounds on the body of Mr Maltravers," said Dr Bernard dryly. "Now, gentlemen, if there is nothing further -"
We took the hint.
"Good morning, and many thanks to you, doctor, for so kindly answering our questions. By the way, you saw no need for an autopsy?"
"Certainly not." The doctor became quite apoplectic. "The cause of death was clear, and in my profession we see no need to distress unduly the relatives of a dead patient."
And, turning, the doctor slammed the door sharply in our faces.
"And what do you think of Dr Bernard, Hastings?" enquired Poirot, as we proceeded on our way to the Manor.
"Rather an old ass."
"Exactly. Your judgments of character are always profound, my friend."
I glanced at him uneasily, but he seemed perfectly serious. A twinkle, however, came into his eye, and he added slyly: "That is to say, when there is no question of a beautiful woman!"
I looked at him coldly.
On our arrival at the Manor-house, the door was opened to us by a middle-aged parlormaid. Poirot handed her his card, and a letter from the Insurance Company for Mrs Maltravers. She showed us into a small morning-room, and retired to tell her mistress. About ten minutes elapsed, and then the door opened, and a slender figure in widow's weeds stood upon the threshold.
"Monsieur Poirot?" she faltered.
"Madame!" Poirot sprang gallantly to his feet and hastened towards her. "I cannot tell you how I regret to derange you in this way. But what will you? Les affaires – they know no mercy."
Mrs Maltravers permitted him to lead her to a chair. Her eyes were red with weeping, but the temporary disfigurement could not conceal her extraordinary beauty. She was about twenty-seven or -eight, and very fair, with large blue eyes and a pretty pouting mouth.
"It is something about my husband's insurance, is it? But must I be bothered now – so soon?"
"Courage, my dear madame. Courage! You see, your late husband insured his life for rather a large sum, and in such a case the Company always has to satisfy itself as to a few details. They have empowered me to act for them. You can rest assured that I will do all in my power to render the matter not too unpleasant for you. Will you recount to me briefly the sad events of Wednesday?"
"I was changing for tea when my maid came up – one of the gardeners had just run to the house. He had found -"
Her voice trailed away. Poirot pressed her hand sympathetically.
"I comprehend. Enough! You had seen your husband earlier in the afternoon?"
"Not since lunch. I had walked down to the village for some stamps, and I believe he was out pottering round the grounds."
"Shooting rooks, eh?"
"Yes, he usually took his little rook rifle with him, and I heard one or two shots in the distance."
"Where is this little rook rifle now?"
"In the hall, I think."
She led the way out of the room and found and handed the little weapon to Poirot, who examined it cursorily.
"Two shots fired, I see," he observed, as he handed it back. "And now, madame, if I might see -"
He paused delicately.
"The servant shall take you," she murmured, averting her head.
The parlormaid, summoned, led Poirot upstairs. I remained with the lovely and unfortunate woman. It was hard to know whether to speak or remain silent. I essayed one or two general reflections to which she responded absently, and in a very few minutes Poirot rejoined us.
"I thank you for all your courtesy, madame. I do not think you need be troubled any further with this matter. By the way, do you know anything of your husband's financial position?"
She shook her head.
"Nothing whatever. I am very stupid over business things."
"I see. Then you can give us no clue as to why he suddenly decided to insure his life? He had not done so previously, I understand."
"Well, we had only been married a little over a year. But, as to why he insured his life, it was because he had absolutely made up his mind that he would not live long. He had a strong premonition of his own death. I gather that he had had one haemorrhage already, and that he knew that another one would prove fatal. I tried to dispel these gloomy fears of his, but without avail. Alas, he was only too right!"
Tears in her eyes, she bade us a dignified farewell. Poirot made a characteristic gesture as we walked down the drive together.
"Eh bien, that is that! Back to London, my friend, there appears to be no mouse in this mouse hole. And yet -"
"Yet what?"
"A slight discrepancy, that is all! You noticed it? You did not? Still, life us full of discrepancies, and assuredly the man cannot have taken his own life – there is no poison that would fill his mouth with blood. No, no, I must resign myself to the fact that all is clear and above-board – but who is this?"
A tall young man was striding up the drive towards us. He passed us without making any sign, but I noted that he was not ill-looking, with a lean, deeply bronzed face that spoke of life in a tropic clime. A gardener who was sweeping up leaves had paused for a minute in his task, and Poirot ran quickly up to him.
"Tell me, I pray you, who is that gentleman? Do you know him?"
"I don't remember his name, sir, though I did hear it. He was staying down here last week for a night. Tuesday, it was."
"Quick, mon ami, let us follow him."
We hastened up the drive after the retreating figure. A glimpse of a black-robed figure on the terrace at the side of the house, and our quarry swerved and we after him, so that we were witnesses of the meeting.
Mrs Maltravers almost staggered where she stood, and her face blanched noticeably.
"You," she gasped. "I thought you were on the sea – on your way to East Africa?"
"I got some news from my lawyers that detained me," explained the young man. "My old uncle in Scotland died unexpectedly and left me some money. Under the circumstances I thought it better to cancel my passage. Then I saw this bad news in the paper and I came down to see if there was anything I could do. You'll want some one to look after things for you a bit perhaps."
At that moment they became aware of our presence. Poirot stepped forward, and with many apologies explained that he had left his stick in the hall. Rather reluctantly, it seemed to me, Mrs Maltravers made the necessary introduction.
"Monsieur Poirot, Captain Black."
A few minutes' chat ensued, in the course of which Poirot elicited the fact that Captain Black was putting up at the Anchor Inn. The missing stick not having been discovered (which was not surprising), Poirot uttered more apologies and we withdrew.
We returned to the village at a great pace
, and Poirot made a bee line for the Anchor Inn.
"Here we establish ourselves until our friend the Captain returns," he explained. "You notice that I emphasised the point that we were returning to London by the first train? Possibly you thought I meant it. But no – you observed Mrs Maltravers' face when she caught sight of this young Black? She was clearly taken aback, and he – eh bien, he was very devoted, did you nor think so? And he was here on Tuesday night – the day before Mr Maltravers died. We must investigate the doings of Captain Black, Hastings."
In about half an hour we espied our quarry approaching the inn. Poirot went out and accosted him and presently brought him up to the room we had engaged.
"I have been telling Captain Black of the mission which brings us here," he explained. "You can understand, monsieur le capitaine, that I am anxious to arrive at Mr Maltravers' state of mind immediately before his death, and that at the same time I do not wish to distress Mrs Maltravers unduly by asking her painful questions. Now, you were here just before the occurrence, and can give us equally valuable information."
"I'll do anything I can to help you, I'm sure," replied the young soldier; "but I'm afraid I didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. You see, although Maltravers was an old friend of my people's, I didn't know him very well myself."
"You came down – when?"
"Tuesday afternoon. I went up to town early Wednesday morning, as my boat sailed from Tilbury about twelve o'clock. But some news I got made me alter my plans, as I dare say you heard me explain to Mrs Maltravers."
"You were returning to East Africa, I understand?"
"Yes. I've been out there ever since the War – a great country."
"Exactly. Now what was the talk about at dinner on Tuesday night?"
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