by Mark Place
“'I dare say. It'll have to get on without him. By the way things are going, it's likely that there'll be some urgent business down here for him to attend to! Send up the housekeeper, and don't let either of the Parkers give you and Pollard the slip. Did any of the household come in here this morning?”
The doctor reflected. “No, they stood outside in the corridor while Pollard and I came in.”
“Sure of that?”
“Absolutely certain.” The doctor departed on his mission.
“'Good man, that” said Japp approvingly. “Some of these sporting doctors are first-class fellows. Well, I wonder who shot this chap. It looks like one of the three in the house. I hardly suspect the housekeeper. She's had eight years to shoot him in if she wanted to. I wonder who these Parkers are? They're not a prepossessing looking couple.”
Miss Clegg appeared at this juncture. She was a thin, gaunt woman with neat grey hair parted in the middle, very staid and calm in manner. Nevertheless there was an air of efficiency about her which commanded respect. In answer to Japp's questions, she explained that she had been with the dead man for fourteen years. He had been a generous and considerate master. She had never seen Mr and Mrs Parker until three days ago, when they arrived unexpectedly to stay. She was of the opinion that they had asked themselves - the master had certainly not seemed pleased to see them. The cuff-links which Japp showed her had not belonged to Mr Protheroe - she was sure of that. Questioned about the pistol, she said that she believed her master had a weapon of that kind. He kept it locked up. She had seen it once some years ago, but could not say whether this was the same one. She had heard no shot last night, but that was not surprising, as it was a big, rambling house, and her rooms and those prepared for the Parkers were at the other end of the building. She did not know what time Mr Protheroe had gone to bed - he was still up when she retired at half past nine. It was not his habit to go at once to bed when he went to his room. Usually he would sit up half the night, reading and smoking. He was a great smoker. Then Poirot interposed a question: “Did your master sleep with his window open or shut, as a rule?” Miss Clegg considered. “It was usually open, at any rate at the top.”
“Yet now it is closed. Can you explain that?”
“No, unless he felt a draught and shut it.” Japp asked her a few more questions and then dismissed her. Next he interviewed the Parkers separately. Mrs Parker was inclined to be hysterical and tearful; Mr Parker was full of bluster and abuse. He denied that the cuff-link was his, but as his wife had previously recognized it, this hardly improved matters for him; and as he had also denied ever having been in Protheroe's room, Japp considered that he had sufficient evidence to apply for a warrant. Leaving Pollard in charge, Japp bustled back to the village and got into telephonic communication with headquarters. Poirot and I strolled back to the inn. “You're unusually quiet” I said. “Doesn't the case interest you?”
“Au contraire, it interests me enormously. But it puzzles me also.”
“The motive is obscure” I said thoughtfully, “but I'm certain that Parker's a bad lot. The case against him seems pretty clear but for the lack of motive, and that may come out later.”
“Nothing struck you as being especially significant, although overlooked by Japp?” I looked at him curiously.
“What have you got up your sleeve, Poirot?”
“What did the dead man have up his sleeve?”
“Oh, that handkerchief!”
“Exactly, the handkerchief.”
“A sailor carries his handkerchief in his sleeve” I said thoughtfully. “An excellent point, Hastings, though not the one I had in mind.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes, over and over again I go back to the smell of cigarette smoke.”
“I didn't smell any” I cried wonderingly.
“No more did I, mon ami.”
I looked earnestly at him. It is so difficult to know when Poirot is pulling one's leg, but he seemed thoroughly in earnest and was frowning to himself. The inquest took place two days later. In the meantime other evidence had come to light. A tramp had admitted that he had climbed over the wall into the Leigh House garden, where he often slept in a shed that was left unlocked. He declared that at twelve o'clock he had heard two men quarrelling loudly in a room on the first floor. One was demanding a sum of money; the other was angrily refusing. Concealed behind a bush, he had seen the two men as they passed and repassed the lighted window. One he knew well as being Mr Protheroe, the owner of the house; the other he identified positively as Mr Parker. It was clear now that the Parkers had come to Leigh House to blackmail Protheroe, and when later it was discovered that the dead man's real name was Wendover, and that he had been a lieutenant in the Navy and had been concerned in the blowing up of the first-class cruiser Merrythought, in the 90’s, the case seemed to be rapidly clearing. It was supposed that Parker, cognizant of the part Wendover had played, had tracked him down and demanded hush-money which the other refused to pay. In the course of the quarrel, Wendover drew his revolver, and Parker snatched it from him and shot him, subsequently endeavouring to give it the appearance of suicide.
Parker was committed for trial, reserving his defence. We had attended the police-court proceedings. As we left, Poirot nodded his head. “It must be so” he murmured to himself. “Yes, it must be so. I will delay no longer.”
He went into the post office, and wrote off a note which he despatched by special messenger. I did not see to whom it was addressed. Then we returned to the inn where we had stayed on that memorable weekend. Poirot was restless, going to and from the window. “I await a visitor” he explained. “It cannot be - surely it cannot be that I am mistaken? No, here she is.” To my utter astonishment, in another minute Miss Clegg walked into the room. She was less calm than usual, and was breathing hard as though she had been running. I saw the fear in her eyes as she looked at Poirot.
“Sit down, mademoiselle” he said kindly. “I guessed rightly, did I not?” For answer she burst into tears. “Why did you do it?” asked Poirot gently. “Why?”
“I loved him so” she answered. “I was nursemaid to him when he was a little boy. Oh, be merciful to me!”
“I will do all I can. But you understand that I cannot permit an innocent man to hang - even though he is an unpleasing scoundrel.”
She sat up and said in a low voice: “Perhaps in the end I could not have, either. Do whatever must be done.” Then, rising, she hurried from the room. “Did she shoot him?” I asked, utterly bewildered.
Poirot smiled and shook his head. “He shot himself. Do you remember that he carried his handkerchief in his right sleeve? That showed me that he was left-handed. Fearing exposure, after his stormy interview with Mr Parker, he shot himself. In the morning Miss Clegg came to call him as usual and found him lying dead. As she has just told us, she had known him from a little boy upward, and was filled with fury against the Parkers, who had driven him to this shameful death. She regarded them as murderers, and then suddenly she saw a chance of making them suffer for the deed they had inspired. She alone knew that he was left-handed. She changed the pistol to his right hand, closed and bolted the window, dropped the bit of cuff-link she had picked up in one of the downstairs rooms, and went out, locking the door and removing the key.”
“Poirot” I said, in a burst of enthusiasm, “you are magnificent. All that from the one little clue of the handkerchief!”
“And the cigarette smoke. If the window had been closed, and all those cigarettes smoked, the room ought to have been full of stale tobacco. Instead, it was perfectly fresh, so I deduced at once that the window must have been open all night, and only closed in the morning, and that gave me a very interesting line of speculation. I could conceive of no circumstances under which a murderer could want to shut the window. It would be to his advantage to leave it open, and pretend that the murderer had escaped that way, if the theory of suicide did not go down. Of course, the tramp's evidence, when I heard
it, confirmed my suspicions. He could never have overheard that conversation unless the window had been open.”
“Splendid?” I said heartily. “Now, what about some tea?”
“Spoken like a true Englishman” said Poirot with a sigh. “I suppose it is not likely that I could obtain here a glass of sirop?”
The Lemesurier Inheritance
BY
AGATHA CHRISTIE
The Lemesurier Inheritance
In company with Poirot, I have investigated many strange cases, but none, I think, to compare with that extraordinary series of events which held our interest over a period of many years, and which culminated in the ultimate problem brought to Poirot to solve. Our attention was first drawn to the family history of the Lemesuriers one evening during the war. Poirot and I had but recently come together again, renewing the old days of our acquaintanceship in Belgium.
He had been handling some little matter for the War Office-disposing of it to their entire satisfaction; and we had been dining at the Carlton with a Brass Hat who paid Poirot heavy compliments in the intervals of the meal. The Brass Hat had to rush away to keep an appointment with someone, and we finished our coffee in a leisurely fashion before following his example. As we were leaving the room, I was hailed by a voice which struck a familiar note, and turned to see Captain Vincent Lemesurier, a young fellow whom I had known in France. He was with an older man whose likeness to him proclaimed him to be of the same family. Such proved to be the case, and he was introduced to us as Mr Hugo Lemesurier, uncle of my young friend. I did not really know Captain Lemesurier at all intimately, but he was a pleasant young fellow, somewhat dreamy in manner, and I remembered hearing that he belonged to an old and exclusive family with a property in Northumberland which dated from before the Reformation.
Poirot and I were not in a hurry, and at the younger man’s invitation, we sat down at the table without two new-found friends, and chattered pleasantly enough on various matters. The elder Lemesurier was a man of about forty, with a touch of the scholar in his stooping shoulders; he was engaged at the moment upon some chemical research work for the Government, it appeared. Our conversation was interrupted by a tall dark young man who strode up to the table, evidently labouring under some agitation of mind.
“Thank goodness I’ve found you both!” he exclaimed.
“What’s the matter, Roger?”
“Your guv’nor, Vincent. Bad fall. Young horse.” The rest trailed off, as he drew the other aside. In a few minutes our two friends had hurriedly taken leave of us. Vincent Lemesurier’s father had had a serious accident while trying a young horse, and was not expected to live until morning. Vincent had gone deadly white, and appeared almost stunned by the news. In a way, I was surprised-for from the few words he had let fall on the subject while in France, I had gathered that he and his father were not on particularly friendly terms, and so his display of filial feeling now rather astonished me. The dark young man, who had been introduced to us as a cousin, Mr Roger Lemesurier, remained behind, and we three strolled out together.
“Rather a curious business, this” observed the young man. “It would interest M. Poirot, perhaps. I’ve heard of you, you know, M. Poirot-from Higginson.” (Higginson was our Brass Hat friend.) “He says you’re a whale on psychology.”
“I study the psychology, yes” admitted my friend cautiously.
“Did you see my cousin’s face? He was absolutely bowled over, wasn’t he? Do you know why? A good old-fashioned family curse! Would you care to hear about it?”
“It would be most kind of you to recount it to me.”
Roger Lemesurier looked at his watch. “Lots of time. I’m meeting them at King’s Cross. Well, M. Poirot, the Lemesuriers are an old family. Way back in medieval times, a Lemesurier became suspicious of his wife. He found the lady in a compromising situation. She swore that she was innocent, but old Baron Hugo didn’t listen. She had one child, a son-and he swore that the boy was no child of his and should never inherit. I forget what he did-some pleasing medieval fancy like walling up the mother and son alive; anyway, he killed them both, and she died protesting her innocence and solemnly cursing the Lemesuriers forever. No first-born son of a Lemesurier should ever inherit-so the curse ran. Well, time passed, and the lady’s innocence was established beyond doubt. I believe that Hugo wore a hair shirt and ended up his days on his knees in a monk’s cell. But the curious thing is that from that day to this, no first-born son ever has succeeded to the estate. It’s gone to brothers, to nephews, to second sons-never to the eldest son. Vincent’s father was the second of five sons, the eldest of whom died in infancy. Of course, all through the war, Vincent has been convinced that whoever else was doomed, he certainly was. But strangely enough, his two younger brothers have been killed, and he himself has remained unscathed.”
“An interesting family history” said Poirot thoughtfully. “But now his father is dying, and he, as the eldest son, succeeds?”
“Exactly. A curse has gone rusty-unable to stand the strain of modern life.” Poirot shook his head, as though deprecating the other’s jesting tone. Roger Lemesurier looked at his watch again, and declared that he must be off. The sequel to the story came on the morrow, when we learned of the tragic death of Captain Vincent Lemesurier. He had been travelling north by the Scotch mail-train, and during the night must have opened the door of the compartment and jumped out on the line. The shock of his father’s accident coming on top of the shell-shock was deemed to have caused temporary mental aberration. The curious superstition prevalent in the Lemesurier family was mentioned, in connection with the new heir, his father’s brother, Ronald Lemesurier, whose only son had died on the Somme.
I suppose our accidental meeting with young Vincent on the last evening of his life quickened our interest in anything that pertained to the Lemesurier family, for we noted with some interest two years later the death of Ronald Lemesurier, who had been a confirmed invalid at the time of his succession to the family estates. His brother John succeeded him, a hale, hearty man with a boy at Eton.
Certainly an evil destiny overshadowed the Lemesuriers. On his very next holiday the boy managed to shoot himself fatally. His father’s death, which occurred quite suddenly after being stung by a wasp, gave the estate over to the youngest brother of the five-Hugo, whom we remembered meeting on the fatal night at the Carlton. Beyond commenting on the extraordinary series of misfortunes which befell the Lemesuriers, we had taken no personal interest in the matter, but the time was now close at hand when we were to take a more active part. One morning ‘Mrs Lemesurier’ was announced. She was a tall, active woman, possibly about thirty years of age, who conveyed by her demeanour a great deal of determination and strong common sense. She spoke with a faint transatlantic accent.
“M. Poirot? I am pleased to meet you. My husband, Hugo Lemesurier, met you once many years ago, but you will hardly remember the fact.”
“I recollect it perfectly, madame. It was at the Carlton.”
“That’s quite wonderful of you. M. Poirot, I’m very worried.”
“What about, Madame?”
“My elder boy-I’ve two boys, you know. Ronald’s eight, and Gerald’s six.”
“Proceed, madame: why should you be worried about little Ronald?”
“M. Poirot, within the last six months he has had three narrow escapes from death: once from drowning-when we were all down at Cornwall this summer; once when he fell from the nursery window; and once from ptomaine poisoning.”
Perhaps Poirot’s face expressed rather too eloquently what he thought, for Mrs Lemesurier hurried on with hardly a moment’s pause: “Of course I know you think I’m just a silly fool of a woman, making mountains out of molehills.”
“No, indeed, madame. Any mother might be excused for being upset at such occurrences, but I hardly see where I can be of any assistance to you. I am notle bon Dieu to control the waves; for the nursery window I should suggest some iron bars; and for the food-what can e
qual a mother’s care?”
“But why should these things happen to Ronald and not to Gerald?”
“The chance, madame-le hasard!”
“You think so?”
“What do you think, madame-you and your husband?”
A shadow crossed Mrs Lemesurier’s face. “It’s no good going to Hugo-he won’t listen. As perhaps you may have heard, there’s supposed to be a curse on the family-no eldest son can succeed. Hugo believes in it. He’s wrapped up in the family history, and he’s superstitious to the last degree. When I go to him with my fears, he just says it’s the curse, and we can’t escape it. But I’m from the States, M. Poirot, and over there we don’t believe much in curses. We like them as belonging to a real high-toned old family-it gives a sort of cachet, don’t you know. I was just a musical comedy actress in a small part when Hugo met me-and I thought his family curse was just too lovely for words. That kind of thing’s all right for telling round the fire on a winter’s evening, but when it comes to one’s own children-I just adore my children, M. Poirot. I’d do anything for them.”
“So you decline to believe in the family legend, madame?”
“Can a legend saw through an ivy stem?”
“What is that you are saying, madame?” cried Poirot, an expression of great astonishment on his face.
“I said, can a legend-or a ghost, if you like to call it that-saw through an ivy stem? I’m not saying anything about Cornwall. Any boy might go out too far and get into difficulties-though Ronald could swim when he was four years old. But the ivy’s different. Both the boys were very naughty. They’d discovered they could climb up and down by the ivy. They were always doing it. One day-Gerald was away at the time-Ronald did it once too often, and the ivy gave way and he fell. Fortunately he didn’t damage himself seriously. But I went out and examined the ivy: it was cut through, M. Poirot-deliberately cut through.”
“It is very serious what you are telling me there, madame. You say your younger boy was away from home at the moment?”
