‘That was very decent of you and more than he deserved,’ said Rowland McCrodden.
‘Hmmph? Well, I didn’t see that it would do any harm. The old man—my late friend and client—seemed to have an inkling that he was not long for this world. Having always tended towards a rather fiery and combative attitude, he was suddenly overcome by a desire to make peace with a chap who had been his enemy for many years. I didn’t see that it would do any harm to tell the detective that much, and so I did. Was it enough for him? No! He asked the same question again: could I give him more information, about the family, their relationships? I could have told him considerably more, but why on earth should I share a story that I don’t entirely understand myself and that has no bearing on anything now that my client’s dead? It would cause great unhappiness to certain members of his family if they were to learn the truth, and how do I know that this chap won’t spread it around?’
‘You absolutely do not,’ said Rowland McCrodden. ‘You did the right thing in saying nothing. And, of course, you mustn’t feel obliged to tell me any more than you have. I wouldn’t want you think that because I wish to consult you about my client’s affairs, I expect you to reciprocate in any way. After all, your client is deceased, and it sounds as if there is no immediate problem to be resolved, so perhaps there is no need for you to understand whatever it is that remains unclear.’
Vout frowned. ‘I should like to understand, all the same. And I never have. But you’re right: there is nothing to be resolved, because the story is one of something that didn’t happen, not something that did. If I had been inclined to confide in this detective fellow, which I was not, I’d have had to tell him of events that had failed to transpire—and what would be the point of that?’
The waiter reappeared with two glasses of champagne and one of water. McCrodden took the latter, and Vout whipped the other two off the tray in a proprietorial manner. He did not raise again the question of whether McCrodden might, after all, want some champagne.
‘You’ve aroused my curiosity,’ said McCrodden, as Vout glugged down the contents of the two glasses in quick succession. ‘Unlike this ill-mannered detective, I would never ask anybody to be indiscreet …’
‘I can’t see that it would do any harm to tell you, if I keep the names out of it,’ said Vout. ‘Would you like to hear the story?’
Rowland McCrodden indicated that he would, without displaying anything as vulgar as enthusiasm. Was it possible that this evening might have to be remembered as the only Law Society dinner he had ever enjoyed?
‘The family is not one you’re likely to encounter,’ said Peter Vout. ‘They don’t live in London. And in any case, you’re not an unknown quantity in the way the detective chap was. I have no doubt I can rely on you not to spread any of this about.’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, then: the event that did not occur was the changing of a will.’
‘I see.’
‘My client was an elderly gentleman who had always planned for his two granddaughters to inherit precisely equal amounts of his considerable fortune. He had no living children, you see, and was very much a father figure to his granddaughters, who had lost their parents at a young age.’
‘Tragic,’ Rowland McCrodden said dutifully.
‘About a week before he died, my client invited me to his home to discuss what he described as “a sensitive matter”. For the first time in our long acquaintance, he was particularly—one might say—cagey. He lowered his voice and kept glancing at the drawing room door, saying, “Did you hear someone?” or “Was that footsteps on the staircase?”’
‘He did not want anybody to overhear the conversation?’
‘No, he didn’t. Which was odd, because usually he was rather blunt about his opinions and what he wanted to happen. But in this case, he wished to make a new will that would have adversely affected one of his granddaughters.’
‘Only one?’ McCrodden asked.
‘Yes,’ said Vout. ‘The other would have ended up a spectacularly wealthy woman if the new will had been made, but, as I say, that didn’t happen. Barn—Ahem! My client died in a tragic accident before the new will could be drawn up and signed. And, although she is quite unaware of it, the younger of his two granddaughters would not be the rich woman she is now if her grandfather had lived a little longer, for he planned to cut her off completely, without so much as a penny!’
‘Goodness me.’ Rowland McCrodden forgot that he was supposed to be acting a part. His surprise was genuine. He could only hope that Vout would not sense his excitement.
The younger of his two granddaughters … That was Annabel Treadway. Could she be a cold-blooded killer? McCrodden wondered. Never having met her, he had no trouble believing that she could. He had known many people who were. And in spite of Barnabas Pandy’s best efforts, Miss Treadway might have learned of his intentions and decided to take drastic action to safeguard her inheritance.
‘I tried to make my client see sense, but he was a stubborn old cove,’ said Peter Vout. ‘Wouldn’t listen. Did his usual trick of arguing vigorously with me until I abandoned all attempts to persuade him. It always worked! I’ve never known a man so sure of his own mind and desires as Barn—Ahem! And so full of energy to defend his position, however wrong-headed it was.’
‘Am I to understand that you disagreed with his decision, then? You felt he was treating the younger granddaughter unfairly?’
‘I did.’
‘In your opinion, she had done nothing to deserve it?’
‘I don’t know what she had done, because my friend did not tell me. He was peculiarly oblique in his narration—told me as little as possible. Which made no sense, since I would have needed to know the details in due course in order to arrange the new will. Perhaps he was afraid of being overheard, or perhaps he was merely considering making this change and had not yet finally decided upon it.’
‘Was your client in the habit of inflicting heinous punishments upon those who did not deserve them?’ asked McCrodden.
‘Not as a rule, no. Though, as I say, he had one longstanding enemy—and on the same day, the day he spoke to me about the need to draw up a new will, he announced that he also wished to broker a reconciliation with this chap. I urged him to reflect upon his eagerness to make peace with this fellow, and asked if he might not employ the same approach in relation to his granddaughter. I’m afraid he laughed at me. And then he said something I have remembered ever since.’
‘What was that?’ Rowland McCrodden asked.
‘He said, “There is a difference, Peter, between an unforgivable act and a person of unforgivable character. What matters is not what people have done but who they are. A chap might put not a foot wrong his entire life, and do nothing outward to which the world would vociferously object, yet he might be rotten to the core.”’
‘What was the cause of the longstanding enmity between your client and this other man?’
‘I don’t know, I’m afraid. Ah, well—I don’t suppose it matters, now that he is no longer with us, poor fellow. And, thankfully, his death put a stop to the plan to make a new will, with the result that both granddaughters are equally well provided for. It’s a relief to think that neither of them ever suspected anything was afoot.’
‘You are fond of both women?’ McCrodden asked.
Vout lowered his voice and said, ‘I am. The truth is, I have always felt rather sorry for poor Annab—Ahem!—for the younger granddaughter. The older one was my client’s favourite, and he made no attempt to hide it. She—the eldest—made a good marriage, had two children. The younger granddaughter is … different. My friend found her hard to fathom and was regularly irritated by her refusal to explain herself.’
‘Was there something in particular that he wished her to explain?’ asked McCrodden.
‘Oh, she refused numerous offers of marriage, from a range of deserving and delightful suitors,’ said Vout. ‘My client believed it was fear that stopped her fr
om accepting any of them, and any sort of timidity provoked him to anger. I heard him call Annabel a coward in her presence, more than once. Each time he did, she would start weeping. The worst thing was, she would always agree. It was most unpleasant. I never understood how he could berate her in the way he did, even in the face of her sobbing and pleading guilty to every character flaw that he accused her of possessing.’
McCrodden waited for Vout to realize that he had spoken her name aloud, but he showed no sign of having noticed his mistake. How many glasses of champagne had he taken? He must have worked his way through a bottle by now.
‘There was also the dog, which was a point of bitter contention,’ he went on. ‘Dogs, I should say. First Skittle and then Hopscotch.’
No anonymity was to be granted to the canines of the family, then.
‘The younger granddaughter loved one and loves the other as if they were fully human members of the family,’ said Vout. ‘My client mocked her mercilessly, I’m afraid. Called her disgusting for allowing them to sleep on her bed, but to her they were like children. Her children. Once the old boy locked Skittle out of the house for a whole night. It wasn’t especially cold, but the dog was used to cuddling up with his owner at night, and she thought he’d be bereft to be banished. She was nearly screaming with panic, and my client only laughed at her. In fairness, Skittle didn’t seem particularly perturbed to be excluded. And, in my client’s defence, it was the day that Skittle had …’ Vout came to an awkward halt without finishing his sentence.
‘What were you about to say?’ asked McCrodden.
Vout sighed. ‘It’s funny, but I feel as if telling you that story would be to speak ill of the dead. A dead dog, admittedly, but … Poor Skittle was a lovely animal, really, and he had the best of intentions. Still, the old man was not best pleased.’
McCrodden waited to be enlightened.
Vout took a further glass of champagne from a passing tray—only one this time. He said, ‘My client’s great-grandaughter, Ivy, nearly drowned when she was a little girl. Oh, dear! Whoops! I’ve just told you her name. Ah, well, never mind. You wouldn’t be able to identify her by her Christian name alone. In any case … her name is Ivy. She’s the daughter of my client’s older grand-daughter.’
Ivy, Skittle, Hopscotch, a careless and undetected ‘Annabel’, and an old man with a name that began with ‘Barn—’; Rowland McCrodden thought these snippets might well be sufficient for identification, assuming he had cared enough to pursue the matter—and had he not already known which family Vout was talking about.
‘I think Ivy was three or four years old when it happened,’ said Vout. ‘She was out with her aunt and the dog, walking by a river, and she fell into the water. Her aunt had to leap in after her and haul her out, risking her own life in the process. There was a strong current. They both very nearly died.’
‘Her aunt—do you mean the younger granddaughter?’ asked McCrodden. He was thinking that this story showed Annabel Treadway as being far from a coward.
‘Yes. She was walking a little ahead and had no reason to suppose little Ivy was in any danger. And nor would she have been, except that, being a mischievous child, she decided to roll down the slope of the bank. I don’t know why, but young children can never resist rolling down green slopes, can they? I was the same as a boy.’
‘Unless I have missed part of the story, you have not yet spoken ill of the late Skittle,’ said Rowland McCrodden.
‘Nor shall I,’ said Vout. ‘It wasn’t his fault. He was a dog, and that’s all there is to it. One can’t hold a dog responsible … yet I’m afraid my client did. You see, the aunt—the younger granddaughter—wasn’t the only one who tried to save young Ivy’s life. Skittle did, too. But the poor creature’s efforts at rescue were more of a hindrance than a help—and he scratched Ivy’s face rather badly while trying to save her. Very badly, I’m afraid. From what I hear, he panicked and rather lashed out. Ivy was left badly scarred. Her face … It was most unfortunate. It is unfortunate. I know her mother worries that no man will want her as a wife, for instance, though I’m sure that’s not true. But one can see that it might be a worry.’
‘And your client blamed Skittle for Ivy’s scarred face?’
Vout considered the question. ‘I think he was rational enough to know that the dog meant well. It was more that, well, that he blamed Skittle for existing. And he blamed Annabel—whoops! Still, I trust you to be discreet, old chap—he blamed Annabel even though she saved Ivy’s life, because if it weren’t for her, there would have been no Skittle there in the first place. No one else in the family cares for dogs at all. Interestingly, though, when I last visited my client at his home, I witnessed something I had never seen before …’
McCrodden waited.
‘I saw him give Hopscotch—the current dog—a pat on the head. I thought I must be imagining things. All I had ever seen before was him shooing the dogs away and making cruel remarks about them. Used to say they were nothing but overgrown rats. It brought tears to Annabel’s eyes whenever he said it, which was a source of great amusement to him. “Grow up and stop being a baby,” he would say to her. I think he hoped he could toughen her up. He loved her as much as he loved her older sister, I’m sure of it—he just didn’t approve of her in the same way. And then, of course … well, he must have decided he didn’t love her at all,’ said Vout sadly.
‘Because of his plan to change his will?’
‘Yes. The way he spoke about her when we discussed it … it was clear to me that there was no love left. Something had killed it.’
‘Yet, on that same day, you saw him pat her dog on the head in an affectionate manner?’
‘I did—and most peculiar it was too. He didn’t merely pat Hopscotch: he stroked him under his chin and I’m sure he called him a good boy. It was most unlike him, as I say. Now, where’s that young chap with the drinks?’
CHAPTER 18
Mrs Dockerill’s Discovery
‘You fascinate me, monsieur,’ said Poirot to Rowland McCrodden. ‘Time after time you insist that you will not do for your friend Poirot this small favour—’
‘There was nothing small about it,’ McCrodden protested.
‘—that you will not use the method I suggested to try to extract from Peter Vout the information he is hiding. Then, having refused, you do the very thing I wanted you to do, and you play your part to perfection! No acclaimed actor could have done better!’
The three of us were at Whitehaven Mansions. I had suggested to McCrodden that Poirot and I might meet him at his firm’s offices, but he wouldn’t hear of it. I strongly suspected that he was once again avoiding Miss Mason.
‘I’m rather ashamed that I did it,’ said McCrodden. ‘I do not like to behave deceitfully.’
‘You did so in the best of causes, mon ami.’
‘Yes, well … This new information about Pandy’s will changes everything, doesn’t it?’
‘I should say so,’ I agreed.
‘You are both wrong,’ Poirot told us. ‘It is true that each new fact is potentially useful, but this one, as with so many others we have unearthed, does not seem to take us anywhere.’
‘You are surely not serious?’ said McCrodden. ‘Annabel Treadway had a most persuasive reason to want to do away with her grandfather. It couldn’t be clearer: he was about to alter his will and leave her penniless.’
‘But Lenore and Ivy Lavington have assured me that Mademoiselle Annabel cannot have killed him.’
‘Then they’re lying.’
I tended to agree with McCrodden. ‘However fond they were of Pandy, they might nevertheless lie to protect Annabel,’ I said.
‘I agree,’ said Poirot. ‘That they would lie to save Mademoiselle Annabel’s life and that she might be capable of committing murder in order to secure her material security, given the fearfulness of her nature—both are quite possible. There is, however, a problem: she was ignorant of her grandfather’s wish to alter his will. It cann
ot be her motive if she was unaware of it.’
‘Vout might be mistaken about that,’ I said.
‘A “might” gets us nowhere, Catchpool. Yes, she might have overheard the conversation about the planned new will after all, and yes, her sister and niece might be lying in order to save her—but one cannot rest any certain conclusions upon two “mights” of this kind.’
He was right. When you are desperately casting about for a solution, and suddenly you learn that a vast fortune was at risk of being lost because of a proposed change to a will, it is far too tempting to decide that that must have been the motive.
‘I should like to know what Annabel Treadway did so soon before Pandy died,’ said Rowland McCrodden. ‘It must have been something truly appalling and shocking to him if it induced him to make peace with an enemy he had made tens of years earlier.’
‘We do not know that the two are connected,’ said Poirot.
‘They have to be,’ said McCrodden. ‘When your antipathy towards one person becomes all-consuming, you find that … well, you might decide to dispense with all other feuds and grudges. Nobody wishes to think of himself as having a tendency towards bitterness and hatred.’
‘I find this interesting,’ said Poirot. ‘Please, continue, my friend.’
‘Well, if an unkind impulse towards one person begins to grow inside us at a rapid rate and perhaps get rather out of control, it is only natural that we should feel the need to balance that out with a sort of … ostentatious benevolence. If I were to guess, I should say that, when Pandy decided to cut off Miss Treadway, he balanced this out with a few clear acts of kindliness: seeking to reconcile with his old enemy Vincent Lobb, playing with the dog he usually ignored …’
The Mystery of Three Quarters Page 14
