“It is possible that she finds it helpful,” he said. “She needs, at this moment, to create for herself a world of illusion so that she can escape the stark reality of her husband’s death.”
“She seems almost certifiable to me,” said Major Riddle. “A long farrago of nonsense without one word of sense in it.”
“No, no, my friend. The interesting thing is, as Mr. Hugo Trent casually remarked to me, that amidst all the vapouring there is an occasional shrewd thrust. She showed it by her remark about Miss Lingard’s tact in not stressing undesirable ancestors. Believe me, Lady Chevenix-Gore is no fool.”
He got up and paced up and down the room.
“There are things in this affair that I do not like. No, I do not like them at all.”
Riddle looked at him curiously.
“You mean the motive for his suicide?”
“Suicide—suicide! It is all wrong, I tell you. It is wrong psychologically. How did Chevenix-Gore think of himself? As a Colossus, as an immensely important person, as the centre of the universe! Does such a man destroy himself? Surely not. He is far more likely to destroy someone else—some miserable crawling ant of a human being who had dared to cause him annoyance . . . Such an act he might regard as necessary—as sanctified! But self-destruction? The destruction of such a Self?”
“It’s all very well, Poirot. But the evidence is clear enough. Door locked, key in his own pocket. Window closed and fastened. I know these things happen in books—but I’ve never come across them in real life. Anything else?”
“But yes, there is something else.” Poirot sat down in the chair. “Here I am. I am Chevenix-Gore. I am sitting at my desk. I am determined to kill myself—because, let us say, I have made a discovery concerning some terrific dishonour to the family name. It is not very convincing, that, but it must suffice.
“Eh bien, what do I do? I scrawl on a piece of paper the word SORRY. Yes, that is quite possible. Then I open a drawer of the desk, take out the pistol which I keep there, load it, if it is not loaded, and then—do I proceed to shoot myself? No, I first turn my chair round—so, and I lean over a little to the right—so—and then I put the pistol to my temple and fire!”
Poirot sprang up from his chair, and wheeling round, demanded:
“I ask you, does that make sense? Why turn the chair round? If, for instance, there had been a picture on the wall there, then, yes, there might be an explanation. Some portrait which a dying man might wish to be the last thing on earth his eyes would see, but a window curtain—ah non, that does not make sense.”
“He might have wished to look out of the window. Last view out over the estate.”
“My dear friend, you do not suggest that with any conviction. In fact, you know it is nonsense. At eight minutes past eight it was dark, and in any case the curtains are drawn. No, there must be some other explanation. . . .”
“There’s only one as far as I can see. Gervase Chevenix-Gore was mad.”
Poirot shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.
Major Riddle rose.
“Come,” he said. “Let us go and interview the rest of the party. We may get at something that way.”
VII
After the difficulties of getting a direct statement from Lady Chevenix-Gore, Major Riddle found considerable relief in dealing with a shrewd lawyer like Forbes.
Mr. Forbes was extremely guarded and cautious in his statements, but his replies were all directly to the point.
He admitted that Sir Gervase’s suicide had been a great shock to him. He should never have considered Sir Gervase the kind of man who would take his own life. He knew nothing of any cause for such an act.
“Sir Gervase was not only my client, but was a very old friend. I have known him since boyhood. I should say that he had always enjoyed life.”
“In the circumstances, Mr. Forbes, I must ask you to speak quite candidly. You did not know of any secret anxiety or sorrow in Sir Gervase’s life?”
“No. He had minor worries, like most men, but there was nothing of a serious nature.”
“No illness? No trouble between him and his wife?”
“No. Sir Gervase and Lady Chevenix-Gore were devoted to each other.”
Major Riddle said cautiously:
“Lady Chevenix-Gore appears to hold somewhat curious views.”
Mr. Forbes smiled—an indulgent, manly smile.
“Ladies,” he said, “must be allowed their fancies.”
The chief constable went on:
“You managed all Sir Gervase’s legal affairs?”
“Yes, my firm, Forbes, Ogilvie and Spence, have acted for the Chevenix-Gore family for well over a hundred years.”
“Were there any—scandals in the Chevenix-Gore family?”
Mr. Forbes’s eyebrows rose.
“Really, I fail to understand you?”
“M. Poirot, will you show Mr. Forbes the letter you showed me?”
In silence Poirot rose and handed the letter to Mr. Forbes with a little bow.
Mr. Forbes read it and his eyebrows rose still more.
“A most remarkable letter,” he said. “I appreciate your question now. No, so far as my knowledge went, there was nothing to justify the writing of such a letter.”
“Sir Gervase said nothing of this matter to you?”
“Nothing at all. I must say I find it very curious that he should not have done so.”
“He was accustomed to confide in you?”
“I think he relied on my judgment.”
“And you have no idea as to what this letter refers?”
“I should not like to make any rash speculations.”
Major Riddle appreciated the subtlety of this reply.
“Now, Mr. Forbes, perhaps you can tell us how Sir Gervase has left his property.”
“Certainly. I see no objection to such a course. To his wife, Sir Gervase left an annual income of six thousand pounds chargeable on the estate, and the choice of the Dower House or the town house in Lowndes Square, whichever she should prefer. There were, of course, several legacies and bequests, but nothing of an outstanding nature. The residue of his property was left to his adopted daughter, Ruth, on condition that, if she married, her husband should take the name of Chevenix-Gore.”
“Was nothing left to his nephew, Mr. Hugo Trent?”
“Yes. A legacy of five thousand pounds.”
“And I take it that Sir Gervase was a rich man?”
“He was extremely wealthy. He had a vast private fortune apart from the estate. Of course, he was not quite so well-off as in the past. Practically all invested incomes have felt the strain. Also, Sir Gervase had dropped a good deal of money over a certain company—the Paragon Synthetic Rubber Substitute in which Colonel Bury persuaded him to invest a good deal of money.”
“Not very wise advice?”
Mr. Forbes sighed.
“Retired soldiers are the worst sufferers when they engage in financial operations. I have found that their credulity far exceeds that of widows—and that is saying a good deal.”
“But these unfortunate investments did not seriously affect Sir Gervase’s income?”
“Oh, no, not seriously. He was still an extremely rich man.”
“When was this will made?”
“Two years ago.”
Poirot murmured:
“This arrangement, was it not possibly a little unfair to Mr. Hugo Trent, Sir Gervase’s nephew? He is, after all, Sir Gervase’s nearest blood relation.”
Mr. Forbes shrugged his shoulders.
“One has to take a certain amount of family history into account.”
“Such as—?”
Mr. Forbes seemed slightly unwilling to proceed.
Major Riddle said:
“You mustn’t think we’re unduly concerned with raking up old scandals or anything of that sort. But this letter of Sir Gervase’s to M. Poirot has got to be explained.”
“There is certainly nothing scandalous
in the explanation of Sir Gervase’s attitude to his nephew,” said Mr. Forbes quickly. “It was simply that Sir Gervase always took his position as head of the family very seriously. He had a younger brother and sister. The brother, Anthony Chevenix-Gore, was killed in the war. The sister, Pamela, married, and Sir Gervase disapproved of the marriage. That is to say, he considered that she ought to obtain his consent and approval before marrying. He thought that Captain Trent’s family was not of sufficient prominence to be allied with a Chevenix-Gore. His sister was merely amused by his attitude. As a result, Sir Gervase has always been inclined to dislike his nephew. I think that dislike may have influenced him in deciding to adopt a child.”
“There was no hope of his having children of his own?”
“No. There was a stillborn child about a year after his marriage. The doctors told Lady Chevenix-Gore that she would never be able to have another child. About two years later he adopted Ruth.”
“And who was Mademoiselle Ruth? How did they come to settle upon her?”
“She was, I believe, the child of a distant connection.”
“That I had guessed,” said Poirot. He looked up at the wall which was hung with family portraits. “One can see that she was of the same blood—the nose, the line of the chin. It repeats itself on these walls many times.”
“She inherits the temper too,” said Mr. Forbes dryly.
“So I should imagine. How did she and her adopted father get on?”
“Much as you might imagine. There was a fierce clash of wills more than once. But in spite of these quarrels I believe there was also an underlying harmony.”
“Nevertheless, she caused him a good deal of anxiety?”
“Incessant anxiety. But I can assure you not to the point of causing him to take his own life.”
“Ah, that, no,” agreed Poirot. “One does not blow one’s brains out because one has a headstrong daughter! And so mademoiselle inherits! Sir Gervase, he never thought of altering his will?”
“Ahem!” Mr. Forbes coughed to hide a little discomposure. “As a matter of fact, I took instructions from Sir Gervase on my arrival here (two days ago, that is to say) as to the drafting of a new will.”
“What’s this?” Major Riddle hitched his chair a little closer. “You didn’t tell us this.”
Mr. Forbes said quickly:
“You merely asked me what the terms of Sir Gervase’s will were. I gave you the information for which you asked. The new will was not even properly drawn up—much less signed.”
“What were its provisions? They may be some guide to Sir Gervase’s state of mind.”
“In the main, they were the same as before, but Miss Chevenix-Gore was only to inherit on condition that she married Mr. Hugo Trent.”
“Aha,” said Poirot. “But there is a very decided difference there.”
“I did not approve of the clause,” said Mr. Forbes. “And I felt bound to point out that it was quite possible it might be contested successfully. The Court does not look upon such conditional bequests with approval. Sir Gervase, however, was quite decided.”
“And if Miss Chevenix-Gore (or, incidentally, Mr. Trent) refused to comply?”
“If Mr. Trent was not willing to marry Miss Chevenix-Gore, then the money went to her unconditionally. But if he was willing and she refused, then the money went to him instead.”
“Odd business,” said Major Riddle.
Poirot leaned forward. He tapped the lawyer on the knee.
“But what is behind it? What was in the mind of Sir Gervase when he made that stipulation? There must have been something very definite . . . There must, I think, have been the image of another man . . . a man of whom he disapproved. I think, Mr. Forbes, that you must know who that man was?”
“Really, M. Poirot, I have no information.”
“But you could make a guess.”
“I never guess,” said Mr. Forbes, and his tone was scandalized.
Removing his pince-nez, he wiped them with a silk handkerchief and inquired:
“Is there anything else that you desire to know?”
“At the moment, no,” said Poirot. “Not, that is, as far as I am concerned.”
Mr. Forbes looked as though, in his opinion, that was not very far, and bent his attention on the chief constable.
“Thank you, Mr. Forbes. I think that’s all. I should like, if I may, to speak to Miss Chevenix-Gore.”
“Certainly. I think she is upstairs with Lady Chevenix-Gore.”
“Oh, well, perhaps I’ll have a word with—what’s his name?—Burrows, first, and the family history woman.”
“They’re both in the library. I will tell them.”
VIII
“Hard work, that,” said Major Riddle, as the lawyer left the room. “Extracting information from these old-fashioned legal wallahs takes a bit of doing. The whole business seems to me to center about the girl.”
“It would seem so—yes.”
“Ah, here comes Burrows.”
Godfrey Burrows came in with a pleasant eagerness to be of use. His smile was discreetly tempered with gloom and showed only a fraction too much teeth. It seemed more mechanical than spontaneous.
“Now, Mr. Burrows, we want to ask you a few questions.”
“Certainly, Major Riddle. Anything you like.”
“Well, first and foremost, to put it quite simply, have you any ideas of your own about Sir Gervase’s suicide?”
“Absolutely none. It was the greatest shock to me.”
“You heard the shot?”
“No; I must have been in the library at the time, as far as I can make out. I came down rather early and went to the library to look up a reference I wanted. The library’s right the other side of the house from the study, so I shouldn’t hear anything.”
“Was anyone with you in the library?” asked Poirot.
“No one at all.”
“You’ve no idea where the other members of the household were at that time?”
“Mostly upstairs dressing, I should imagine.”
“When did you come to the drawing room?”
“Just before M. Poirot arrived. Everybody was there then—except Sir Gervase, of course.”
“Did it strike you as strange that he wasn’t there?”
“Yes, it did, as a matter of fact. As a rule he was always in the drawing room before the first gong sounded.”
“Have you noticed any difference in Sir Gervase’s manner lately? Has he been worried? Or anxious? Depressed?”
Godfrey Burrows considered.
“No—I don’t think so. A little—well, preoccupied, perhaps.”
“But he did not appear to be worried about any one definite matter?”
“Oh, no.”
“No—financial worries of any kind?”
“He was rather perturbed about the affairs of one particular company—the Paragon Synthetic Rubber Company to be exact.”
“What did he actually say about it?”
Again Godfrey Burrows’ mechanical smile flashed out, and again it seemed slightly unreal.
“Well—as a matter of fact—what he said was, ‘Old Bury’s either a fool or a knave. A fool, I suppose. I must go easy with him for Vanda’s sake.’ ”
“And why did he say that—for Vanda’s sake?” inquired Poirot.
“Well, you see, Lady Chevenix-Gore was very fond of Colonel Bury, and he worshipped her. Followed her about like a dog.”
“Sir Gervase was not—jealous at all?”
“Jealous?” Burrows stared and then laughed. “Sir Gervase jealous? He wouldn’t know how to set about it. Why, it would never have entered his head that anyone could ever prefer another man to him. Such a thing couldn’t be, you understand.”
Poirot said gently:
“You did not, I think, like Sir Gervase Chevenix-Gore very much?”
Burrows flushed.
“Oh, yes, I did. At least—well, all that sort of thing strikes one as rather ridiculous now
adays.”
“All what sort of thing?” asked Poirot.
“Well, the feudal motif, if you like. This worship of ancestry and personal arrogance. Sir Gervase was a very able man in many ways, and had led an interesting life, but he would have been more interesting if he hadn’t been so entirely wrapped up in himself and his own egoism.”
“Did his daughter agree with you there?”
Burrows flushed again—this time a deep purple.
He said:
“I should imagine Miss Chevenix-Gore is quite one of the moderns! Naturally, I shouldn’t discuss her father with her.”
“But the moderns do discuss their fathers a good deal!” said Poirot. “It is entirely in the modern spirit to criticize your parents!”
Burrows shrugged his shoulders.
Major Riddle asked:
“And there was nothing else—no other financial anxiety? Sir Gervase never spoke of having been victimized?”
“Victimized?” Burrows sounded very astonished. “Oh, no.”
“And you yourself were on quite good terms with him?”
“Certainly I was. Why not?”
“I am asking you, Mr. Burrows.”
The young man looked sulky.
“We were on the best of terms.”
“Did you know that Sir Gervase had written to M. Poirot asking him to come down here?”
“No.”
“Did Sir Gervase usually write his own letters?”
“No, he nearly always dictated them to me.”
“But he did not do so in this case?”
“No.”
“Why was that, do you think?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“You can suggest no reason why he should have written this particular letter himself?”
“No, I can’t.”
“Ah!” said Major Riddle, adding smoothly, “Rather curious. When did you last see Sir Gervase?”
“Just before I went to dress for dinner. I took him some letters to sign.”
“What was his manner then?”
“Quite normal. In fact I should say he was feeling rather pleased with himself about something.”
Poirot stirred a little in his chair.
“Ah?” he said. “So that was your impression, was it? That he was pleased about something. And yet, not so very long afterwards, he shoots himself. It is odd, that!”
Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories Page 60
