Frustrated by his inability to find me, my Belgian friend had set about discovering all he could about Barnabas Pandy and almost the first thing he found out was that Pandy had been represented in all matters of a legal nature by Peter Vout, the firm’s senior partner.
Poirot, unlike me, had made an appointment—or rather his valet, George, had made one for him. He arrived punctually and was shown into Vout’s office by a girl far less obtrusive than Rowland McCrodden’s Miss Mason. He tried to conceal his shock when he saw the room in which the solicitor worked.
‘Welcome, welcome,’ said Vout, rising from his chair to shake his visitor’s hand. He had an engaging smile and snow-white hair that peaked and curled in random tufts. ‘You must be Herc-ule Poir-ot—is that correct?’
‘C’est parfait,’ said Poirot approvingly. Rare indeed was the Englishman who could pronounce both the Christian name and the family name correctly. Was it appropriate, however, to feel admiration for any man who could work in conditions such as these? The room was an extraordinary sight. It was large, about twenty feet by fifteen, with a high ceiling. Pushed up against the wall on the right were Vout’s large mahogany desk and green leather chair. In front of those stood two straight-backed armchairs in brown leather. In the right-hand third of the room there was also a bookcase, a lamp and a fireplace. On the mantelpiece above the fire there was an invitation to a dinner of the Law Society.
The other two thirds of the available space were occupied by scruffy cardboard boxes, piled high, one atop another, to form an enormous and uneven edifice that was breathtaking in its grotesqueness. It would have been impossible to walk around or through the boxes. Effectively, their presence reduced the size of the room to a degree that any sane person would have found intolerable. Many of the boxes were open, with things spilling out of them: yellowing papers, broken picture frames, old cloths with dirt stains on them. Beyond the gargantuan box-structure was a window at which hung strips of pale yellow material that could not hope to cover the glass in front of which they dangled.
‘C’est le cauchemar,’ Poirot murmured.
‘I see you’ve spotted the curtains.’ Vout sounded apologetic. ‘One could make this room more appealing to the eye if one replaced them. They’re terribly old. I’d have one of the office girls pull them down, but, as you can see, no one can reach them.’
‘Because of the boxes?’
‘Well, my mother died three years ago. There’s much to be sorted out, and I’ve yet to make inroads, I’m afraid. Not all the boxes are Mama’s possessions, mind you. A lot of it is my own … paraphernalia.’ He sounded quite happy with the situation. ‘Please, do be seated, M. Poirot. How may I be of assistance?’
Poirot lowered himself into one of the available armchairs. ‘You do not mind working in here, with … the paraphernalia?’ he persisted.
‘I see you’re fascinated by it, M. Poirot. I expect you’re one of those chaps who likes everything to be ship-shape at all times, are you?’
‘Most assuredly I am, monsieur. I am inordinately fond of the shape of the ship. It is necessary for me to be in a tidy environment if I am to think clearly and productively. It is not so for you?’
‘I’m not going to let a few old boxes bother me.’ Vout chuckled. ‘I don’t notice them from one day to the next. I’ll tackle them at some point. Until then … why let them worry me?’
With a small twitch of the eyebrows, Poirot moved on to the subject he had come to discuss. Vout expressed regret at the death of his dear old friend Barnabas Pandy, and regaled Poirot with all the same facts that Rowland McCrodden was (perhaps at that very moment) relating to me: Welsh slate mines; Combingham Hall Estate; two granddaughters, Lenore and Annabel; two great-grandchildren, Ivy and Timothy. Vout also offered a detail about Barnabas Pandy that was absent from Rowland Rope’s account: he mentioned the faithful and long-serving Kingsbury. ‘More like a younger brother to Barnabas, was Kingsbury. He felt like a member of the family more than a servant—though he was always most conscientious when it came to performing his tasks. Naturally, Barnabas made arrangements for him to be looked after. A bequest …’
‘Ah yes, the will,’ said Poirot. ‘I would like to hear about it.’
‘Well, I don’t see what harm it would do to tell you. Barnabas wouldn’t have minded, and his testamentary affairs were very simple—just what one would expect, in fact. But … might I ask why you’re interested?’
‘It has been suggested to me—indirectly—that Monsieur Pandy was murdered.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Vout laughed and rolled his eyes. ‘Murder, eh? No, not a bit of it. Barnabas drowned. Fell asleep while in the tub, sank under the water and, sadly …’ He left the obvious conclusion unstated.
‘That is the official story. However, the possibility has been raised that the death was made to look like an accident, when in fact it was deliberate.’
Vout was shaking his head emphatically. ‘Tommyrot! Goodness me, someone’s been rumour-mongering for all he’s worth, eh? Or she—it’s usually the ladies who like to gossip. We chaps are much too sensible to waste our time stirring up trouble.’
‘You are certain, then, that Monsieur Pandy’s death was accidental?’ asked Poirot.
‘Couldn’t be more so.’
‘How are you able to state this with such conviction? Were you present in the bathroom when he died?’
Vout looked affronted. ‘Of course I wasn’t in the bathroom with him! Wasn’t there at all! Seventh of December, wasn’t it? My wife and I were at my nephew’s wedding that day, as it happens. In Coventry.’
Poirot smiled politely. ‘I simply wished to suggest that if you were not in the room when he died, and not at Combingham Hall, then you are not in a position to say definitively that the death of Monsieur Pandy was accidental. If someone had crept into the bathroom and pushed him under the water … How would you know this had happened, or had not happened, if you were at a wedding in Coventry?’
‘It’s only that I know the family,’ Vout said eventually, with a concerned frown. ‘I’m a dear friend to them all, as they are to me. I know who was at the Hall when the tragedy occurred: Lenore, Annabel, Ivy and Kingsbury, and I can assure you that none of them would have raised a finger against Barnabas. The idea is unthinkable! I have witnessed their grief first-hand, M. Poirot.’
Poirot mouthed to himself the words ‘C’est ca.’ His suspicion had been correct. Vout was one of those people who believed in things like murder, and evil, and all forms of serious unpleasantness only when they did not affect him personally. Were he to read in a newspaper that a maniac had chopped five members of the same family into small pieces, he would not question it. Suggest to him, though, that a man he regarded as a friend might have been murdered, and you would never succeed in persuading him that it was possible.
‘Please tell me about Monsieur Pandy’s will,’ said Poirot.
‘As I say, Kingsbury was left a tidy sum: enough to be comfortable for the remainder of his days. The house and estate are left in trust for Ivy and Timothy, on the understanding that Lenore and Annabel may continue to live there for the rest of their lives. All the money and other assets, of which there are plenty, go to Lenore and Annabel. Each is now, in her own right, an extremely wealthy woman.’
‘So an inheritance might provide a motive,’ said Poirot.
Vout sighed impatiently. ‘M. Poirot, please hear what I’m trying to tell you. There is simply no circumstance—’
‘Yes, yes, I hear. Most people would assume that a man of ninety-four will die reasonably soon. But if someone needed money immediately … if to wait a year would have dire consequences for that person …’
‘I tell you, you’re barking up the wrong tree, man!’ There was alarm in Vout’s eyes and in his voice. ‘They are a delightful family.’
‘You are their good friend, monsieur,’ Poirot reminded him gently.
‘Quite! I am! Do you think I would continue a friendship with a family that con
tained a murderer? Barnabas was not murdered. I can prove it. He …’ Vout stopped. A new pinkness suffused his cheeks.
‘Anything you are able to tell me will be most helpful,’ said Poirot.
Vout looked glum. Having said something he hadn’t intended to say, he now lacked the gumption to find an ingenious way out of it.
‘Well, I suppose it won’t do any harm if I tell you.’ He sighed. ‘I can’t help thinking Barnabas knew he was going to die. I saw him shortly before his death and … well, he seemed to know that his time was coming to an end.’
‘What gave you this impression?’
‘The last time I saw him, he struck me as a man from whose shoulders a great weight had been lifted. It was as if he was at peace. He smiled in a particular way, made certain oblique remarks about the need to set certain matters straight now before it was too late. I had the sense that he thought death was imminent, and it turned out to be so, sadly.’
‘Dommage,’ Poirot agreed. ‘Still, it is better to meet the inevitable end with a peaceful spirit, is it not? Which matters did Monsieur Pandy wish to set straight?’
‘Hmmph? Oh, there was a man who had been his … well, his enemy really, if the word doesn’t sound fanciful. Vincent Lobb, the chap’s name was. At our last meeting, Barnabas announced that he wished to send a letter to this fellow and suggest that the two of them might perhaps be reconciled.’
‘A sudden urge to forgive an old enemy,’ muttered Poirot. ‘That is interesting. If someone wanted this making of peace not to take place … Was this letter to Monsieur Lobb ever sent?’
‘It was,’ said Vout. ‘I told Barnabas I thought it was an excellent initiative, and he sent it off that very day. I don’t know if he received a reply. It was really only a few days later that he … passed on. Very sad. Though he’d had a good innings at ninety-four! I suppose an answering letter might have arrived after his death, but I think Annabel or Lenore would have told me if it had.’
‘What was the cause of the ill will between Messieurs Pandy and Lobb?’ Poirot asked.
‘I’m afraid I can’t help you there. Barnabas never told me.’
‘I should be grateful if you could tell me about the family,’ said Poirot. ‘Was it—is it—a happy household at Combingham Hall?’
‘Oh, very happy. Very happy indeed. Lenore is a tower of strength. Both Annabel and Ivy admire her enormously. Annabel adores Lenore’s children—and her beloved dog, of course. Hopscotch. He’s a character! A big beast. Likes to leap up and lick you! Stubborn, mind you, but very affectionate. And as for young Timothy—that boy will go far. He is possessed of a shrewd mind and heaps of determination. I can see him being Prime Minister one day. Barnabas often said so. “That boy could be anything he set out to be,” he often said. “Anything at all.” Barnabas was devoted to them all, and they to him.’
‘Truly you describe the perfect family,’ said Poirot. ‘Yet no family is without its troubles. There must have been something that was less than perfect.’
‘Well … I wouldn’t say … I mean, obviously life is never without its infelicities, but for the most part … As I said before, M. Poirot: it is ladies who enjoy scurrilous gossip. Barnabas loved his family—and Kingsbury—and they loved him back. That is all I shall say. As there is no question of the death being anything but an accident, I see no reason to delve into a good man’s private life and that of his family in search of unsavoury morsels.’
Seeing that Vout had resolved to disclose no more, Poirot thanked him for his help and left.
‘But there is more to be disclosed,’ he said to nobody in particular as he stood on the pavement of Drury Lane. ‘Most certainly, there is more, and I shall find out what it is. Not one unsavoury morsel will escape from Hercule Poirot!’
CHAPTER 8
Poirot Issues Some Instructions
I found Poirot waiting for me in my office when I returned to Scotland Yard. He appeared to be lost in thought, muttering soundlessly to himself as I entered the room. He looked as dandified as ever, his remarkable moustaches appearing particularly well tended.
‘Poirot! At last!’
Startled out of his reverie, he rose to his feet. ‘Mon ami Catchpool! Where have you been? There is a matter I wish to discuss with you that is causing me much conster-nation.’
‘Let me guess,’ I said. ‘A letter, signed in your name although not written or sent by you, accusing Rowland McCrodden’s son John of the murder of Barnabas Pandy.’
Poirot looked dumbfounded. ‘Mon cher … Somehow, you know. You will tell me how, I’m sure. Ah, but you say “letter”, not “letters”! Does that mean you are unaware of the others?’
‘Others?’
‘Oui, mon ami. To Mrs Sylvia Rule, Miss Annabel Treadway and Mr Hugo Dockerill.’
Annabel? I knew that I had heard the name recently, but could not think where. Then I remembered: Rowland McCrodden had told me that one of Pandy’s granddaughters was called Annabel.
‘Quite correct,’ said Poirot, when I asked. ‘Miss Treadway is indeed the granddaughter of Monsieur Pandy.’
‘Then who are the other two? What were their names again?’
‘Sylvia Rule and Hugo Dockerill. They are two people—and Annabel Treadway is a third, and John McCrodden a fourth—who received letters signed in my name, accusing them of the murder of Barnabas Pandy. Most of these people have presented themselves at my home to berate me for having sent these letters that I did not send, and failed to pay attention when I explained that I did not send them! It has been enervating and discouraging, mon ami. And not one of them has been able to show me the letter they received.’
‘I might be able to help on that front,’ I told him.
His eyes widened. ‘Do you have one of the letters? You do! You must, then, have the one sent to John McCrodden, since his was the name you mentioned. Ah! It is a pleasure to be in your office, Catchpool. There is no unsightly mountain of boxes!’
‘Boxes? Why should there be?’
‘There should not, my friend. But tell me, how can you have the letter that John McCrodden received? He told me he tore it into pieces and sent those pieces to his father.’
I explained about the Super’s telegram and my meeting with Rowland Rope, trying to omit nothing that might be important. He nodded eagerly as I spoke.
When I had finished, he said, ‘This is most fortuitous. Without realizing it, we have been highly efficient and—how do you say it?—in concert with one another! While you were speaking to Rowland McCrodden, I was speaking to the solicitor of Barnabas Pandy.’ He then told me what he had found out and what he had failed to find out. ‘There is something more, perhaps a great deal more, that Peter Vout did not wish to tell me about the family of Barnabas Pandy. And, since he is absolutely certain that Pandy was not murdered, he feels no obligation to divulge what he knows. Still, I have an idea—one that Rowland Rope might be able to assist with, if he is willing. I must speak with him at the earliest opportunity. But first, show me John McCrodden’s letter.’
I handed it over. Poirot’s eyes blazed with anger as he read it.
‘It is inconceivable that Hercule Poirot should write and send such a thing as this, Catchpool. It is so poorly formulated and inelegantly written! I am insulted to think that anyone could believe it came from me.’
I tried to cheer him: ‘None of the recipients knows you. If they did, they would have known, as I did the moment I saw it, that it was not your handiwork.’
‘There is much to consider. I will make a list. We must get to work, Catchpool.’
‘I’m afraid I must get to work, Poirot. By all means, speak to Rowland Rope—he is eager to speak to you—but I’m afraid you will have to count me out if you’re planning to take any further action with regard to Barnabas Pandy.’
‘How can I not act, mon ami? Why do you think the four letters were sent? Someone wishes to put in my head the idea that Barnabas Pandy was murdered. Is it not understandable that I am curious?
Now, there is something I need you to do for me.’
‘Poirot—’
‘Yes, yes, you need to do your work. Je comprends. This I will allow you to do, once you have helped me. It is only a small task, and one that can be accomplished far more easily by you than by me. Find out where all four were on the day that Barnabas Pandy died: Sylvia Rule, Hugo Dockerill, Annabel Treadway and John McCrodden. The solicitor, Vout, told me that Mademoiselle Treadway was at home when her grandfather died, at Combingham Hall. Find out if she says the same thing. Now, it is of vital importance that you ask each of them in precisely the same way: the same questions, in the same order. Is that clear? I have realized that this is the way to distinguish most effectively one person’s character from another’s. Also, I am interested in this Eustace with whom Madame Rule is so obsessed. If you could—’
I waved at him to stop, like a railway signalman in the face of an out-of-control train hurtling towards him.
‘Poirot, please! Who is Eustace? No—don’t answer that. I have work to do. Barnabas Pandy’s death has been officially recorded as an accident. I’m afraid that means I can’t very well go around demanding that people furnish me with alibis.’
‘Not straightforwardly, of course,’ Poirot agreed. He stood up and started to smooth imaginary creases from his clothing. ‘I am sure you will find an ingenious way around the problem. Good day, mon ami. Come and see me when you are able to give me the information I require. And—yes, yes!—then you will do your work assigned to you by Scotland Yard.’
CHAPTER 9
Four Alibis
Later that same evening, John McCrodden received a telephone call at the house where he lived. His landlady answered.
‘It’s John McCrodden you’re after, is it? Not John Webber? McCrodden, yes? All right, I’ll get him. Saw him a minute ago. He’s probably upstairs in his room. You need to talk to him, do you? Then I’ll get him. You wait there. I’ll get him.’
The Mystery of Three Quarters Page 6
