Hercule Poirot 100 Years (1916 - 2016)

by Mark Place

  “That's very tame” I said, disappointed. “Suppose there are none?”

  “There will be! I can promise you that. Our old doctor may give as many certificates as he pleases. He cannot stop several hundred tongues from wagging. And they will wag to some purpose, I can tell you that.” Our train for town left at eleven the following morning. Before we started for the station, Poirot expressed a wish to see Miss Freda Stanton, the niece mentioned to us by the dead woman. We found the house where she was lodging easily enough. With her was a tall, dark young man whom she introduced in some con-fusion as Mr Jacob Radnor. Miss Freda Stanton was an extremely pretty girl of the old Cornish type - dark hair and eyes and rosy cheeks. There was a flash in those same dark eyes which told of a temper that it would not be wise to provoke.

  “Poor Auntie” she said, when Poirot had introduced himself, and explained his business. “It's terribly sad. I've been wishing all the morning that I'd been kinder and more patient.”

  “You stood a great deal, Freda” interrupted Radnor.

  “Yes, Jacob, but I've got a sharp temper, I know. After all, it was only silliness on Auntie's part. I ought to have just laughed and not minded. Of course, it's all nonsense her thinking that Uncle was poisoning her. She was worse after any food he gave her - but I'm sure it was only from thinking about it. She made up her mind she would be, and then she was.”

  “What was the actual cause of your disagreement, mademoiselle?” Miss Stanton hesitated, looking at Radnor. That young gentle-man was quick to take the hint. “I must be getting along, Freda. See you this evening. Goodbye, gentlemen; you're on your way to the station, I suppose?” Poirot replied that we were, and Radnor departed. “You are affianced, is it not so?” demanded Poirot, with a sly smile. Freda Stanton blushed and admitted that such was the case. “And that was really the whole trouble with Auntie” she added.

  “She did not approve of the match for you?”

  “Oh, it wasn't that so much. But you see, she” The girl came to a stop. “Yes?” encouraged Poirot gently……… “It seems rather a horrid thing to say about her - now she's dead. But you'll never understand unless I tell you. Auntie was absolutely infatuated with Jacob.”'

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes, wasn't it absurd? She was over fifty, and he's not quite thirty! But there it was. She was silly about him I had to tell her at last that it was me he was after - and she carried on dreadfully.

  She wouldn't believe a word of it, and was so rude and insulting that it's no wonder I lost my temper. I talked it over with Jacob, and we agreed that the best thing to do was for me to clear out for a bit till she came to her senses. Poor Auntie - I suppose she was in a queer state altogether.”

  “It would certainly seem so. Thank you, mademoiselle, for making things so clear to me.” A little to my surprise, Radnor was waiting for us in the street below. “I can guess pretty well what Freda has been telling you” he remarked. “It was a most unfortunate thing to happen, and very awkward for me, as you can imagine. I need hardly say that it was none of my doing. I was pleased at first, because I imagined the old woman was helping on things with Freda. The whole thing was absurd - but extremely unpleasant.”

  “When are you and Miss Stanton going to be married?”

  “Soon, I hope. Now, M. Poirot, I'm going to be candid with you. I know a bit more than Freda does. She believes her uncle to be innocent. I'm not so sure. But I can tell you one thing: I'm going to keep my mouth shut about what I do know. Let sleeping dogs lie. I don't want my wife's uncle tried and hanged for murder.”

  “Why do you tell me all this?”

  “Because I've heard of you, and I know you're a clever man. It's quite possible that you might ferret out a case against him. But I put it to you - what good is that? The poor woman is past help, and she'd have been the last person to want a scandal - why, she'd turn in her grave at the mere thought of it.”

  “You are probably right there. You want me to - hush it up, then?”

  “That's my idea. I'll admit frankly that I'm selfish about it. I've got my way to make and I'm building up a good little business as a tailor and outfitter.”

  “Most of us are selfish, Mr Radnor. Not all of us admit it so freely. I will do what you ask - but I tell you frankly you will not succeed in hushing it up.”

  “Why not?”

  Poirot held up a finger. It was market day, and we were passing the market - a busy hum came from within. “The voice of the people - that is why, Mr Radnor. Ah, we must run, or we shall miss our train.”

  “Very interesting, is it not, Hastings?” said Poirot, as the train steamed out of the station. He had taken out a small comb from his pocket, also a micro-scopic mirror, and was carefully arranging his moustache, the symmetry of which had become slightly impaired during our brisk run.

  “You seem to find it so” I replied. “To me, it is all rather sordid and unpleasant. There's hardly any mystery about it.”

  “I agree with you; there is no mystery whatever.”

  “I suppose we can accept the girl's rather extraordinary story of her aunt's infatuation? That seemed the only fishy part to me. She was such a nice, respectable woman.”

  “There is nothing extraordinary about that - it is completely ordinary. If you read the papers carefully, you will find that often a nice respectable woman of that age leaves a husband she has lived with for twenty years, and sometimes a whole family of children as well, in order to link her life with that of a young man considerably her junior. You admire les femmes, Hastings; you prostrate yourself before all of them who are good-looking and have the good taste to smile upon you; but psychologically you know nothing whatever about them. In the autumn of a woman's life, there comes always one mad moment when she longs for romance, for adventure - before it is too late. It comes none the less surely to a woman because she is the wife of a respectable dentist in a country town?”

  “And you think”

  “That a clever man might take advantage of such a moment.”

  “I shouldn't call Pengelley so clever” I mused. “He's got the whole town by the ears. And yet I suppose you're right. The only two men who know anything, Radnor and the doctor, both want to hush it up. He's managed that somehow. I wish we'd seen the fellow.”'

  “You can indulge your wish. Return by the next train and invent an aching molar.” I looked at him keenly. “I wish I knew what you considered so interesting about the case.”

  “My interest is very aptly summed up by a remark of yours, Hastings. After interviewing the maid, you observed that for someone who was not going to say a word, she had said a good deal 'eh!” I said doubtfully; then I harped back to my original criticism: “I wonder why you made no attempt to see Pengelley?”

  “Mon ami, I give him just three months. Then I shall see him for as long as I please - in the dock.” For once I thought Poirot's prognostications were going to be proved wrong. The time went by, and nothing transpired as to our Cornish case. Other matters occupied us, and I had nearly forgotten the Pengelley tragedy when it was suddenly recalled to me by a short paragraph in the paper which stated that an order to exhume the body of Mrs Pengelley had been obtained from the Home Secretary. A few days later, and 'The Cornish Mystery' was the topic of every paper. It seemed that gossip had never entirely died down, and when the engagement of the widower to Miss Marks, his secretary, was announced, the tongues burst out again louder than ever. Finally a petition was sent to the Home Secretary; the body was exhumed; large quantities of arsenic were discovered; and Mr Pengelley was arrested and charged with the murder of his wife. Poirot and I attended the preliminary proceedings. The evidence was much as might have been expected. Dr Adams admitted that the symptoms of arsenical poisoning might easily be mistaken for those of gastritis. The Home Office expert gave his evidence; the maid Jessie poured out a flood of voluble information, most of which was rejected, but which certainly strengthened the case against the prisoner. Freda Stanton gave evidence as to her a
unt's being worse whenever she ate food prepared by her husband. Jacob Radnor told how he had dropped in unexpectedly on the day of Mrs Pengelley's death, and found Pengelley replacing the bottle of weed-killer on the pantry shelf, Mrs Pengelley's gruel being on the table close by. Then Miss Marks, the fair-haired secretary, was called, and wept and went into hysterics and admitted that there had been 'passages' between her and her employer, and that he had promised to marry her in the event of anything happening to his wife. Pengelley reserved his defence and was sent for trial. Jacob Radnor walked back with us to our lodgings.

  “You see, M. Radnor” said Poirot, “I was right. The voice of the people spoke - and with no uncertain voice. There was to be no hushing up of this case.”

  “You were quite right” sighed Radnor. “Do you see any chance of his getting off?”

  “Well, he has reserved his defence. He may have something up the sleeve, as you English say. Come in with us, will you not?” Radnor accepted the invitation. I ordered two whiskies and sodas and a cup of chocolate. The last order caused consternation, and I much doubted whether it would ever put in an appearance. “Of course” continued Poirot, “I have a good deal of experience in matters of this kind. And I see only one loophole of escape for our friend.”

  “What is it?”

  “That you should sign this paper.” With the suddenness of a conjuror, he produced a sheet of paper covered with writing. “What is it?”

  “A confession that you murdered Mrs Pengelley.” There was a moment's pause; then Radnor laughed. “You must be mad!”

  “No, no, my friend, I am not mad. You came here; you started a little business; you were short of money. Mr Pengelley was a man very well-to-do. You met his niece; she was inclined to smile upon you. But the small allowance that Pengelley might have given her upon her marriage was not enough for you. You must get rid of both the uncle and the aunt; then the money would come to her, since she was the only relative. How cleverly you set about it! You made love to that plain middle-aged woman until she was your slave. You implanted in her doubts of her husband. She discovered first that he was deceiving her - then, under your guidance, that he was trying to poison her. You were often at the house; you had opportunities to introduce the arsenic into her food. But you were careful never to do so when her husband was away. Being a woman, she did not keep her suspicions to herself. She talked to her niece; doubtless she talked to other women friends. Your only difficulty was keeping up separate relations with the two women, and even that was not so difficult as it looked. You explained to the aunt that, to allay the suspicions of her husband, you had to pretend to pay court to the niece. And the younger lady needed little convincing - she would never seriously consider her aunt as a rival.”

  “But then Mrs Pengelley made up her mind, without saying anything to you, to consult me. If she could be really assured, beyond any possible doubt, that her husband was trying to poison her, she would feel justified in leaving him, and linking her life with yours - which is what she imagined you wanted her to do. But that did not suit your book at all. You did not want a detective prying around. A favourable minute occurs. You are in the house when Mr Pengelley is getting some gruel for his wife, and you introduce the fatal dose. The rest is easy. Apparently anxious to hush matters up, you secretly foment them. But you reckoned without Hercule Poirot, my intelligent young friend.' Radnor was deadly pale, but he still endeavoured to carry off matters with a high hand.”

  “Very interesting and ingenious, but why tell me all this?”

  “Because, monsieur, I represent - not the law, but Mrs Pengelley. For her sake, I give you a chance of escape. Sign this paper, and you shall have twenty-four hours' start - twenty-four hours before I place it in the hands of the police.”

  Radnor hesitated. “You can't prove anything.”

  “Can't I? I am Hercule Poirot. Look out of the window, monsieur. There are two men in the street. They have orders not to lose sight of you.” Radnor strode across to the window and pulled aside the blind, then shrank back with an oath.

  “You see, monsieur? Sign - it is your best chance.”

  “What guarantee have I”

  “That I shall keep faith? The word of Hercule Poirot. You will sign? Good. Hastings, be so kind as to pull that left-hand blind half-way up. That is the signal that Mr Radnor may leave unmolested.”

  White, muttering oaths. Radnor hurried from the room. Poirot nodded gently. “A coward! I always knew it.”

  “It seems to me, Poirot, that you've acted in a criminal manner” I cried angrily. “You always preach against sentiment. And here you are letting a dangerous criminal escape out of sheer sentimentality.”

  “That was not sentiment - that was business” replied Poirot. “Do you not see, my friend, that we have no shadow of proof against him? Shall I get up and say to twelve stolid Cornishmen that, I Hercule Poirot, knows? They would laugh at me. The only chance was to frighten him and get a confession that way. Those two loafers that I noticed outside came in very useful. Pull down the blind again, will you, Hastings? Not that there was any reason for raising it. It was part of the raise en scene. Well, well, we must keep our word. Twenty-four hours, did I say? So much longer for poor Mr Pengelley - and it is not more than he deserves; for mark you, he deceived his wife. I am very strong on the family life, as you know. Ah, well, twenty-four hours - and then? I have great faith in Scotland Yard. They will get him, mon ami; they will get him.”

  The Adventure Of The

  Egyptian Tomb

  BY

  AGATHA CHRISTIE

  I have always considered that one of the most thrilling and dramatic of the many adventures I have shared with Poirot was that of our investigation into the strange series of deaths which followed upon the discovery and opening of the Tomb of King Men-her-Ra. Hard upon the discovery of the Tomb of Tutankh-Amen by Lord Carnarvon, Sir John Willard and Mr Bleibner of New York, pursuing their excavations not far from Cairo, in the vicinity of the Pyramids of Gizeh, came unexpectedly on a series of funeral chambers.

  The greatest interest was aroused by their discovery. The Tomb appeared to be that of King Men-her-Ra, one of those shadowy kings of the Eighth Dynasty, when the Old Kingdom was falling into decay. Little was known about this period, and the discoveries were fully reported in the newspapers. An event soon occurred which took a profound hold on the public mind. Sir John Willard died quite suddenly of heart failure. The more sensational newspapers immediately took the opportunity of reviving all the old superstitious stories connected with the ill luck of certain Egyptian treasures.

  The unlucky Mummy at the British Museum, that hoary old chestnut, was dragged out with fresh zest, was quietly denied by the Museum, but nevertheless enjoyed all its usual vogue. A fortnight later Mr Bleibner died of acute blood poisoning, and a few days afterwards a nephew of his shot himself in New York. The "Curse of Men-her-Ra" was the talk of the day, and the magic power of dead and gone Egypt was exalted to a fetish point. It was then that Poirot received a brief note from Lady Willard, widow of the dead archaeologist, asking him to go and see her at her house in Kensington Square. I accompanied him. Lady Willard was a tall, thin woman, dressed in deep mourning. Her haggard face bore eloquent testimony to her recent grief.

  "It is kind of you to have come so promptly, Monsieur Poirot."

  "I am at your service, Lady Willard. You wished to consult me?"

  "You are, I am aware, a detective, but it is not only as a detective that I wish to consult you. You are a man of original views, I know, you have imagination, experience of the world -tell me, Monsieur Poirot, what are your views on the supernatural?"

  Poirot hesitated for a moment before he replied. He seemed to be considering. Finally he said: "Let us not misunderstand each other, Lady Willard. It is not a general question that you are asking me there. It has a personal application, has it not? You are referring obliquely to the death of your late husband?"

  "That is so," she admitted.

&n
bsp; "You want me to investigate the circumstances of his death?"

  "I want you to ascertain for me exactly how much is newspaper chatter, and how much may be said to be founded on fact. Three deaths, Monsieur Poirot -each one explicable taken by itself, but taken together surely an almost unbelievable coincidence, and all within a month of the opening of the tomb! It may be mere superstition, it may be some potent curse from the past that operates in ways undreamed of by modern science. The fact remains -three deaths! And I am afraid, Monsieur Poirot, horribly afraid. It may not yet be the end."

  "For whom do you fear?"

  "For my son. When the news of my husband's death came I was ill. My son, who has just come down from Oxford, went out there. He brought the -the body home, but now he has gone out again, in spite of my prayers and entreaties. He is so fascinated by the work that he intends to take his father's place and carry on the system of excavations. You may think me a foolish, credulous woman, but, Monsieur Poirot, I am afraid. Supposing that the spirit of the dead King is not yet appeased? Perhaps to you I seem to be talking nonsense"

  "No, indeed, Lady Willard," said Poirot quickly. "I, too, believe in the force of superstition, one of the greatest forces the world has ever known."

  I looked at him in surprise. I should never have credited Poirot with being superstitious. But the little man was obviously in earnest.

  "What you really demand is that I shall protect your son? I will do my utmost to keep him from harm."

  "Yes, in the ordinary way, but against an occult influence?"

  "In volumes of the Middle Ages, Lady Willard, you will find many ways of counteracting black magic. Perhaps they knew more than we moderns with all our boasted science. Now let us come to facts, that I may have guidance. Your husband had always been a devoted Egyptologist, hadn't he?"

  "Yes, from his youth upwards. He was one of the greatest living authorities upon the subject."

  "But Mr Bleibner, I understand, was more or less of an amateur?"