The Last Seance

by Agatha Christie

  ‘I—I don’t know what you mean,’ gasped Dinsmead.

  ‘I think you do,’ Mortimer took up a second teacup and filled a second test-tube. He fixed a red label to one and a blue label to the other.

  ‘The red-labelled one,’ he said, ‘contains tea from your daughter Charlotte’s cup, the other from your daughter Magdalen’s. I am prepared to swear that in the first I shall find four or five times the amount of arsenic than in the latter.’

  ‘You are mad,’ said Dinsmead.

  ‘Oh! dear me, no. I am nothing of the kind. You told me today, Mr Dinsmead, that Magdalen is your daughter. Charlotte was the child you adopted, the child who was so like her mother that when I held a miniature of that mother in my hand today I mistook it for one of Charlotte herself. Your own daughter was to inherit the fortune, and since it might be impossible to keep your supposed daughter Charlotte out of sight, and someone who knew the mother might have realized the truth of the resemblance, you decided on, well—a pinch of white arsenic at the bottom of a teacup.’

  Mrs Dinsmead gave a sudden high cackle, rocking herself to and fro in violent hysterics.

  ‘Tea,’ she squeaked, ‘that’s what he said, tea, not lemonade.’

  ‘Hold your tongue, can’t you?’ roared her husband wrathfully.

  Mortimer saw Charlotte looking at him, wide-eyed, wondering, across the table. Then he felt a hand on his arm, and Magdalen dragged him out of earshot.

  ‘Those,’ she pointed at the phials—‘Daddy. You won’t—’

  Mortimer laid his hand on her shoulder. ‘My child,’ he said, ‘you don’t believe in the past. I do. I believe in the atmosphere of this house. If he had not come to it, perhaps—I say perhaps—your father might not have conceived the plan he did. I keep these two test-tubes to safeguard Charlotte now and in the future. Apart from that, I shall do nothing, in gratitude, if you will, to that hand that wrote S.O.S.’

  The Adventure of the Egyptian Tomb

  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 to 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.

  ‘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?’

  ‘Oh, quite. He was a very wealthy man who dabbled freely in any subject that happened to take his fancy. My husband managed to interest him in Egyptology, and it was his money that was so useful in financing the expedition.’

  ‘And the nephew? What do you know of his tastes? Was he with the party at all?’

  ‘I do not think so. In fact I never knew of his existence till I read of his death in the paper. I do not think he and Mr Bleibner can have been at all intimate. He never spoke of having any relations.’

  ‘Who are the other members of the party?’

  ‘Well, there’s Dr Tosswill, a minor official connected with the British Museum; Mr Schneider of the Metropolitan Museum in New York; a young American secretary; Dr Ames, who accompanies the expedition in his professional capacity; and Hassan, my husband’s devoted native servant.’

  ‘Do you remember the name of the American secretary?’

  ‘Harper, I think, but I cannot be sure. He had not been with Mr Bleibner very long, I know. He was a very pleasant young fellow.’

  ‘Thank you, Lady Willard.’

  ‘If there is anything else—’

  ‘For the moment, nothing. Leave it now in my hands, and be assured that I will do all that is humanly possible to protect your son.’

  They were not exactly reassuring words, and I observed Lady Willard wince as he uttered them. Yet, at the same time, the fact that he had not pooh-poohed her fears seemed in itself t
o be a relief to her.

  For my part I had never before suspected that Poirot had so deep a vein of superstition in his nature. I tackled him on the subject as we went homewards. His manner was grave and earnest.

  ‘But yes, Hastings. I believe in these things. You must not underrate the force of superstition.’

  ‘What are we going to do about it?’

  ‘Toujours pratique, the good Hastings! Eh bien, to begin with we are going to cable to New York for fuller details of young Mr Bleibner’s death.’

  He duly sent off his cable. The reply was full and precise. Young Rupert Bleibner had been in low water for several years. He had been a beach-comber and a remittance man in several South Sea islands, but had returned to New York two years ago, where he had rapidly sunk lower and lower. The most significant thing, to my mind, was that he had recently managed to borrow enough money to take him to Egypt. ‘I’ve a good friend there I can borrow from,’ he had declared. Here, however, his plans had gone awry. He had returned to New York cursing his skinflint of an uncle who cared more for the bones of dead and gone kings than his own flesh and blood. It was during his sojourn in Egypt that the death of Sir John Willard had occurred. Rupert had plunged once more into his life of dissipation in New York, and then, without warning, he had committed suicide, leaving behind him a letter which contained some curious phrases. It seemed written in a sudden fit of remorse. He referred to himself as a leper and an outcast, and the letter ended by declaring that such as he were better dead.

  A shadowy theory leapt into my brain. I had never really believed in the vengeance of a long dead Egyptian king. I saw here a more modern crime. Supposing this young man had decided to do away with his uncle—preferably by poison. By mistake, Sir John Willard receives the fatal dose. The young man returns to New York, haunted by his crime. The news of his uncle’s death reaches him. He realizes how unnecessary his crime has been, and stricken with remorse takes his own life.

  I outlined my solution to Poirot. He was interested.

  ‘It is ingenious what you have thought of there—decidedly it is ingenious. It may even be true. But you leave out of count the fatal influence of the Tomb.’

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  ‘You still think that has something to do with it?’

  ‘So much so, mon ami, that we start for Egypt tomorrow.’

  ‘What?’ I cried, astonished.

  ‘I have said it.’ An expression of conscious heroism spread over Poirot’s face. Then he groaned. ‘But oh,’ he lamented, ‘the sea! The hateful sea!’

  It was a week later. Beneath our feet was the golden sand of the desert. The hot sun poured down overhead. Poirot, the picture of misery, wilted by my side. The little man was not a good traveller. Our four days’ voyage from Marseilles had been one long agony to him. He had landed at Alexandria the wraith of his former self, even his usual neatness had deserted him. We had arrived in Cairo and had driven out at once to the Mena House Hotel, right in the shadow of the Pyramids.

  The charm of Egypt had laid hold of me. Not so Poirot. Dressed precisely the same as in London, he carried a small clothes-brush in his pocket and waged an unceasing war on the dust which accumulated on his dark apparel.

  ‘And my boots,’ he wailed. ‘Regard them, Hastings. My boots, of the neat patent leather, usually so smart and shining. See, the sand is inside them, which is painful, and outside them, which outrages the eyesight. Also the heat, it causes my moustaches to become limp—but limp!’

  ‘Look at the Sphinx,’ I urged. ‘Even I can feel the mystery and the charm it exhales.’

  Poirot looked at it discontentedly.

  ‘It has not the air happy,’ he declared. ‘How could it, half-buried in sand in that untidy fashion. Ah, this cursed sand!’

  ‘Come, now, there’s a lot of sand in Belgium,’ I reminded him, mindful of a holiday spent at Knocke-sur-mer in the midst of ‘Les dunes impeccables’ as the guide-book had phrased it.

  ‘Not in Brussels,’ declared Poirot. He gazed at the Pyramids thoughtfully. ‘It is true that they, at least, are of a shape solid and geometrical, but their surface is of an unevenness most unpleasing. And the palm-trees I like them not. Not even do they plant them in rows!’

  I cut short his lamentations, by suggesting that we should start for the camp. We were to ride there on camels, and the beasts were patiently kneeling, waiting for us to mount, in charge of several picturesque boys headed by a voluble dragoman.

  I pass over the spectacle of Poirot on a camel. He started by groans and lamentations and ended by shrieks, gesticulations and invocations to the Virgin Mary and every Saint in the calendar. In the end, he descended ignominiously and finished the journey on a diminutive donkey. I must admit that a trotting camel is no joke for the amateur. I was stiff for several days.

  At last we neared the scene of the excavations. A sunburnt man with a grey beard, in white clothes and wearing a helmet, came to meet us.

  ‘Monsieur Poirot and Captain Hastings? We received your cable. I’m sorry that there was no one to meet you in Cairo. An unforeseen event occurred which completely disorganized our plans.’

  Poirot paled. His hand, which had stolen to his clothes-brush, stayed its course.

  ‘Not another death?’ he breathed.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sir Guy Willard?’ I cried.

  ‘No, Captain Hastings. My American colleague, Mr Schneider.’

  ‘And the cause?’ demanded Poirot.

  ‘Tetanus.’

  I blanched. All around me I seemed to feel an atmosphere of evil, subtle and menacing. A horrible thought flashed across me. Supposing I were next?

  ‘Mon Dieu,’ said Poirot, in a very low voice, ‘I do not understand this. It is horrible. Tell me, monsieur, there is no doubt that it was tetanus?’

  ‘I believe not. But Dr Ames will tell you more than I can do.’

  ‘Ah, of course, you are not the doctor.’

  ‘My name is Tosswill.’

  This, then, was the British expert described by Lady Willard as being a minor official at the British Museum. There was something at once grave and steadfast about him that took my fancy.

  ‘If you will come with me,’ continued Dr Tosswill. ‘I will take you to Sir Guy Willard. He was most anxious to be informed as soon as you should arrive.’

  We were taken across the camp to a large tent. Dr Tosswill lifted up the flap and we entered. Three men were sitting inside.

  ‘Monsieur Poirot and Captain Hastings have arrived, Sir Guy,’ said Tosswill.

  The youngest of the three men jumped up and came forward to greet us. There was a certain impulsiveness in his manner which reminded me of his mother. He was not nearly so sunburnt as the others, and that fact, coupled with a certain haggardness round the eyes, made him look older than his twenty-two years. He was clearly endeavouring to bear up under a severe mental strain.

  He introduced his two companions, Dr Ames, a capable-looking man of thirty-odd, with a touch of greying hair at the temples, and Mr Harper, the secretary, a pleasant lean young man wearing the national insignia of horn-rimmed spectacles.

  After a few minutes’ desultory conversation the latter went out, and Dr Tosswill followed him. We were left alone with Sir Guy and Dr Ames.

  ‘Please ask any questions you want to ask, Monsieur Poirot,’ said Willard. ‘We are utterly dumbfounded at this strange series of disasters, but it isn’t—it can’t be, anything but coincidence.’

  There was a nervousness about his manner which rather belied the words. I saw that Poirot was studying him keenly.

  ‘Your heart is really in this work, Sir Guy?’

  ‘Rather. No matter what happens, or what comes of it, the work is going on. Make up your mind to that.’

  Poirot wheeled round on the other.

  ‘What have you to say to that, monsieur le docteur?’

  ‘Well,’ drawled the doctor, ‘I’m not for quitting myself.’

  Poirot made one o
f those expressive grimaces of his.

  ‘Then, évidemment, we must find out just how we stand. When did Mr Schneider’s death take place?’

  ‘Three days ago.’

  ‘You are sure it was tetanus?’

  ‘Dead sure.’

  ‘It couldn’t have been a case of strychnine poisoning, for instance?’

  ‘No, Monsieur Poirot, I see what you’re getting at. But it was a clear case of tetanus.’

  ‘Did you not inject anti-serum?’

  ‘Certainly we did,’ said the doctor drily. ‘Every conceivable thing that could be done was tried.’

  ‘Had you the anti-serum with you?’

  ‘No. We procured it from Cairo.’

  ‘Have there been any other cases of tetanus in the camp?’

  ‘No, not one.’

  ‘Are you certain that the death of Mr Bleibner was not due to tetanus?’

  ‘Absolutely plumb certain. He had a scratch upon his thumb which became poisoned, and septicaemia set in. It sounds pretty much the same to a layman, I dare say, but the two things are entirely different.’

  ‘Then we have four deaths—all totally dissimilar, one heart failure, one blood poisoning, one suicide and one tetanus.’

  ‘Exactly, Monsieur Poirot.’

  ‘Are you certain that there is nothing which might link the four together?’

  ‘I don’t quite understand you?’

  ‘I will put it plainly. Was any act committed by those four men which might seem to denote disrespect to the spirit of Men-her-Ra?’

  The doctor gazed at Poirot in astonishment.

  ‘You’re talking through your hat, Monsieur Poirot. Surely you’ve not been guyed into believing all that fool talk?’

  ‘Absolute nonsense,’ muttered Willard angrily.

  Poirot remained placidly immovable, blinking a little out of his green cat’s eyes.