‘So you weren’t at Turville College’s Christmas Fair?’ asked the caller.
‘Christmas Fair? Of course—wouldn’t miss it!—but that was much later.’
‘Really? What was the date of the fair?’
‘Well, I can’t remember the date—don’t have a head for that sort of thing, I’m afraid. But I can tell you when Christmas is: twenty-fifth of December, same as every year!’ Dockerill chuckled. ‘I expect the fair was the twenty-third or something. What, my dearest?’
A woman’s voice could be heard in the background: brisk and slightly weary.
‘Aha … Ah! Wait a moment!’ said Hugo Dockerill. ‘My wife Jane has just reminded me that we would have broken up for the Christmas holidays long before the twenty-third. Yes, of course, she’s quite right. You’re quite right, Jane, dear. So … Ah! If you’d be good enough to hold on, Jane’s going to check last year’s calendar to see when exactly the fair was. What’s that, my dearest? Yes, yes, of course, you’re absolutely correct. She’s quite correct. Of course the Christmas Fair was not the day before Christmas Eve—ridiculous notion!’
The caller heard a woman’s voice say, ‘Seventh of December.’
‘I have it on good authority that our Christmas Fair last year was on December the seventh. Now, what was the date you wanted to ask me about again? I’m rather confused.’
‘December the seventh. Were you at the fair that day, Mr Dockerill?’
‘Indeed I was! Jolly affair, it was. Always is. We at Turville know how to …’ He broke off suddenly, then said, ‘Jane says you won’t be interested in what I’m saying and that I should stick to answering your questions.’
‘From what hour until what hour were you at the fair?’
‘Start to finish, I expect. There was a supper afterwards, which usually finishes … Jane, when does …? Thank you, my dearest. Around eight o’clock, Jane says. Look here, it might be simpler if you were to speak to Jane directly.’
‘I would be glad to,’ said the caller. Within the space of a minute, she had all the information she needed: according to Jane Dockerill, she and Hugo had been at the Christmas Fair on the seventh of December from when it started at eleven in the morning until when the supper finished at eight. Yes, Timothy Lavington had been present too, but not his mother, aunt or sister, who had been planning to attend but cancelled at the last minute. Freddie Rule had been there too, with his mother Sylvia, his sister Mildred and his sister’s fiancé Eustace.
The caller said thank you and was about to say goodbye when Mrs Dockerill said, ‘Wait a moment. You don’t get rid of me that easily.’
‘Was there something else, ma’am?’
‘Yes, there is. Hugo has twice mislaid the letter he was sent, accusing him of murder, which I realize is distinctly unhelpful. Well, I’m pleased to say that I’ve found it. I shall take it to Inspector Catchpool at Scotland Yard as soon as I am free to come to London. Now, I don’t know if Barnabas Pandy was murdered or not—I’m inclined to think not, since to accuse four people of the same murder strikes me as more of a parlour game than a serious accusation, particularly when one fraudulently signs the name “Hercule Poirot” at the bottom of those letters—but just in case Mr Pandy was murdered, and in case this is a serious investigation and not some demented person’s idea of a joke, there are two things I should tell you straight away.’
‘Go on,’ said the caller, her note-taking pencil at the ready.
‘Sylvia Rule and her future son-in-law loathe one another. And poor Mildred, trapped in between them, is understandably perplexed and distraught about it all. Something must be done to avoid the direst consequences for the whole family. Poor Freddie is quite miserable enough already. I don’t know how this relates to the death of Barnabas Pandy, but you asked about the Rule family, so I thought you should know, in case it’s relevant.’
‘Thank you.’
‘The other thing I need to tell you is about the Lavingtons—Timothy’s family, the family of Barnabas Pandy. It was I who answered the telephone to Annabel on the morning of the fair. Annabel is Timothy’s aunt. She lied to me.’
‘About what?’
‘She told me that she and her sister and niece couldn’t come to the fair because of a problem with the motorcar that was supposed to bring them. I don’t believe that was the truth. She sounded upset and … shifty. Not at all her usual self. And later, Lenore Lavington, Timothy’s mother, referred to having missed the fair on account of being very tired that day. None of it added up. Now, I don’t know what all this means, or how my husband has managed to get himself drawn into it, but then I’m not a police inspector, so it’s not my job to find out, is it? It’s your job,’ said Jane Dockerill.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said the caller, who, at that moment, had quite forgotten that her job was something altogether different and nothing to do with investigating crimes that might or might not have been committed.
THE SECOND QUARTER
CHAPTER 10
Some Important Questions
‘What the devil possessed you, Catchpool?’ Superintendent Nathaniel Bewes roared in my ear.
‘What do you mean, sir?’
He had been shouting for some time about my many deficiencies, but so far it had all been rather abstract.
‘Last night! The telephone call you made—or, should I say, had some woman make for you!’
Ah, so that was it.
‘You told me the letter to John McCrodden was not sent by Poirot, and I fell for it! Well, I’m not falling for any more clap-trap, so you needn’t bother feeding me any. Do I make myself clear? I send you to see Rowly McCrodden to straighten things out, and what do you do instead? Collude with Poirot to pester Rowly’s son still further. No, don’t pretend this had nothing to do with you. I know that Poirot came here to see you—’
‘That was because—’
‘—and I know that the woman who telephoned John McCrodden and demanded to hear his alibi for the day that this Pandy fellow died said she was doing so “on behalf of Inspector Edward Catchpool of Scotland Yard”. Do you think I’m an imbecile? She was not acting on your behalf at all, was she? She was doing the bidding of Hercule Poirot! Like you, she is a mere cog in his machine. Well, I won’t stand for it, do you hear me? Please explain to me why you and Poirot are determined to accuse an innocent man of a murder that wasn’t a murder at all. Do you understand the correct meaning of the word “alibi”, Catchpool?’
‘Yes, s—’
‘It does not mean where someone was at a particular moment. I am presently in my office talking to you, more’s the pity, but that is my whereabouts, not my alibi. Do you know why? Because no murder has been committed while I stand here talking to you. I shouldn’t have to explain this to you!’
He was bound to be wrong, I thought. Somewhere in the world, a murder was probably being committed, or had been committed, since he had started to bellow at me some twenty minutes earlier. More than one murder, very likely—and the Super was jolly lucky not to be among this potentially large and international group of victims. If I were someone who could ever be pushed over the edge into performing an act of violence, that moment would surely have come approximately ten minutes ago. Instead, and to my great regret, I seem to be a person who can balance quietly on the edge he is pushed towards for as long as anybody feels inclined to yell at him.
‘Why does John McCrodden need to offer an alibi when the death of Barnabas Pandy is not a criminal matter? Why?’ Bewes demanded.
‘Sir, if you would allow me to answer …’ I stopped, and there followed an awkward silence. I had expected the Super to interrupt me.
‘If a telephone call was made to John McCrodden last night, it had nothing to do with me,’ I said. ‘Nothing at all. If someone used my name in order to find out where John McCrodden was on the day Barnabas Pandy died, then I can only think that … well, that person must have hoped to use the authority of Scotland Yard to make McCrodden talk.’
�
��Poirot must be behind it,’ said the Super. ‘Poirot and some other little helper of his.’
‘Sir, the letter to John McCrodden was not the only one. Four were sent. Three other people also received a letter—signed in Poirot’s name, though not from him—accusing them of the murder of Barnabas Pandy.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Catchpool!’
I told him the names of the other three recipients, and that one of them was Pandy’s granddaughter, who had been in the house with him when he died. ‘I spoke to Rowland McCrodden yesterday, as you asked me to, and he was keen to find out as much as he could about who sent the letters. He wants Poirot to investigate, so if Poirot has had some woman ask John McCrodden for an alibi, it might be … you know … helpful to Rowland McCrodden in the long run. If it sheds any light on anything, I mean.’
The Super groaned. ‘Catchpool, from whom do you imagine I heard about the call to John McCrodden?’
I was feeling relieved that he’d lowered the volume of his voice, until he bellowed, ‘From Rowly, of course!’ next to my ear. ‘He wants to know why I’ve permitted someone from Scotland Yard to demand an alibi from his son instead of doing what I promised I would, which was to put a stop to the whole infernal business! You can tell Poirot that it’s very likely John McCrodden was in Spain in December when Pandy died. Spain! Can’t kill someone in England if you’re in Spain, can you?’
I took a deep breath and said, ‘Rowland McCrodden wants to understand what’s going on. He might have been angry to hear that his son was asked for an alibi, but I’m sure he still wants to pursue some form of enquiry until he gets an answer. There is only one way to put a stop to this: by working out who sent the four letters, and why. If there’s a chance that Barnabas Pandy was murdered—’
‘If I hear you make that suggestion again, Catchpool, I might just swing for you!’
‘I know his death was recorded as an accident, sir, but if someone believes that it wasn’t—’
‘Then that someone is wrong!’ In one of his more reasonable moods, and in a circumstance that did not cause distress to ‘Rowly’ Rope, the Super would have conceded that of course it was possible a mistake might have been made, that a crime had gone undetected. There was no point trying to persuade him of this today, however.
‘You’re right about one thing, Catchpool,’ he said. ‘Rowly does want answers, and quickly. Therefore, until this matter is resolved, you are relieved of all official duties. You will assist Poirot in bringing this matter to a satisfactory conclusion.’
I was unsure how I felt about this. I used to worry about not knowing how I felt in certain situations, but I had more recently decided to treat them as a convenient opportunity to feel nothing at all. The Super had made his decision, and there could be no argument.
I discovered, when he next spoke, that it was not merely a decision that had been made but also concrete arrangements: ‘You will find Poirot waiting for you in your office.’ Bewes glanced at his watch. ‘Yes, he will certainly be there by now. The two of you are expected at Rowly’s offices in fifty minutes’ time. That should be long enough for you to get there. Off you go! The sooner this strange affair is resolved, the happier I shall be.’ He smiled unexpectedly, as if to tempt me with a glimpse of what his future happiness might look like.
Poirot was waiting for me in my office as advertised. ‘Mon pauvre ami!’ he cried when he saw me. ‘You have had the down-dressing, I think, from the superintendent?’ His eyes twinkled.
‘How did you guess?’ I asked.
‘He was ready to direct his fury at me, until I suggested to him that if he did so, I would leave without delay and offer no further assistance to his good friend Rowland Rope.’
‘I see,’ I said testily. ‘Well, you needn’t worry. He got it all out of his system in the end. I don’t suppose he told you about Spain, did he?’
‘Spain?’
‘John McCrodden might have been too obstinate to volunteer an alibi, but his father told the Super that he was probably in Spain when Pandy died.’
‘Probably? No sound alibi contains the word “probably”.’
‘I know that. I’m only telling you what the Super said.’
As we left the building, Poirot said, ‘It is another question to add to the list: was John McCrodden in Spain on the seventh of December or not?’
I had assumed we would walk to the offices of Donaldson & McCrodden, but Poirot had arranged for a car to take us. As we set off, he produced a small piece of paper from his pocket. ‘Here, you see, is the list,’ he said. ‘A pencil, please, Catchpool.’
I passed him one from my pocket, and he added the newest question at the bottom of the page.
The list was headed ‘Important Questions’ and was so much the sort of thing that Poirot would compose—so quintessentially him—that I found the last of my annoyance dissolving away.
The list read as follows:
Important Questions
1. Was Barnabas Pandy murdered?
2. If so, by whom, and why?
3. Who wrote the four letters?
4. Does the writer of the letters sincerely suspect all four? Or does he only suspect one of them? Or does he suspect none of them?
5. If the author of the letters suspects none of the four, what was the purpose of sending the letters?
6. Why were the letters signed in the name of Hercule Poirot?
7. What information is Peter Vout withholding?
8. Why were Barnabas Pandy and Vincent Lobb enemies?
9. Where is the typewriter on which the four letters were typed?
10. Did Barnabas Pandy know he was going to die?
11. Why does Annabel Treadway seem so sad? What secrets is she keeping?
12. Did Kingsbury, Barnabas Pandy’s valet, kill him? If so, why?
13. Why did Annabel Treadway and Lenore and Ivy Lavington decide not to go to the Turville College Christmas Fair?
14. Was John McCrodden in Spain when Barnabas Pandy died?
‘Why do you suspect Kingsbury?’ I asked Poirot. ‘And why is the typewriter important? One is much the same as another, surely?’
‘Aha, the typewriter!’ He smiled. Then, as if he had just answered my second question, he went back to the first. ‘I ask about Kingsbury because of what Annabel Treadway said on the telephone last night, mon ami. If she was in Ivy Lavington’s bedroom with Lenore and Ivy when Monsieur Pandy died, then only Kingsbury was in the house and unobserved at the relevant time. If the death was murder, he is the most likely murderer, non?’
‘I suppose so. But then, isn’t it peculiar that he received no letter? He’s the only person who had the opportunity to commit the crime, and yet four people with no opportunity are accused of it.’
‘Everything that has happened is peculiar in the extreme,’ said Poirot. ‘I begin to think that I was wrong to rush ahead and think about alibis …’ He shook his head.
‘Now’s a fine time to tell me this, after the battering my eardrums have just taken.’ I could still hear the Super’s rage ringing in my head.
‘Yes, that is unfortunate,’ said Poirot. ‘Ah, well. We must not regret what we have discovered. It will all prove useful, I have no doubt. But now? Now, it is time to think more deeply. For example, if Kingsbury is our killer, then for him not to have received a letter that four innocent people received is perhaps not peculiar at all.’
I asked him what he meant, but he made an enigmatic noise and would say no more.
At the offices of Donaldson & McCrodden, as we climbed the stairs, I prepared for my second encounter with Miss Mason. I had not warned Poirot about her. Instead, I dared to hope for a smoother passage on this occasion, given that Rowland McCrodden was expecting us.
I was soon disappointed. The pink-faced young woman almost threw herself into my arms. ‘Oh, Inspector Catchpool! Thank goodness you’re here! I don’t know what to do!’
‘What’s the matter, Miss Mason? Has something happened?’
‘It’s Mr McCrodden. He won’t open his door. I can’t get in. He must have locked it from the inside, which he never does. And he’s not answering his telephone, and when I knock and call his name, he doesn’t answer. He must be in there. I saw him, with my own eyes, go into his room and close the door less than thirty minutes ago.’
Miss Mason turned to Poirot. ‘And now you’re here, and Mr McCrodden knows you’ve got an appointment, and he still won’t open his door. I can’t help thinking, what if he’s had a fit of some sort?’
‘Catchpool, can you break down Mr McCrodden’s door?’ said Poirot.
I reached out to touch it, preparing to assess how hard it might be to kick it down, when the door opened and there stood Rowland McCrodden. He looked perfectly well—not at all like a man who had suffered an unexpected seizure.
‘Oh, thank heavens!’ said Miss Mason.
‘I must leave at once,’ McCrodden said. ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen.’ Without another word, he walked past us and out of the office. We listened as his feet descended several flights of stairs. Then a door slammed loudly.
Miss Mason rushed after him, calling out, ‘Mr McCrodden, this is most irregular. You can’t go. These two gentlemen are here to see you.’
‘He has already gone, mademoiselle.’
Miss Mason ignored Poirot and continued to howl into the now-empty stairwell: ‘Mr McCrodden! They have an appointment!’
CHAPTER 11
Emerald Green
When I arrived at Scotland Yard the next morning, I was advised by the Super that Rowland McCrodden was keen to meet Poirot and me at our earliest convenience, though there was one condition: it could not be at the offices of Donaldson & McCrodden. We agreed, and an arrangement was made for the three of us to meet at Pleasant’s at two o’clock.
The coffee house was, for once, a suitable temperature—warm but not too hot—and smelled pleasingly of cinnamon and lemons. Our friend Fee Spring rushed over to us. I had expected to be the main focus of her attention, as I usually am, but today she had eyes only for Poirot … and very intensely focused eyes, too. She pushed him into his chair, demanding, ‘Well? Have you done what you promised you would?’
The Mystery of Three Quarters Page 8
