‘To make himself appear a good and charitable man in his own eyes?’ said Poirot. ‘Oui, je comprend. Then … we might also guess that, when he made that decision, Monsieur Pandy’s bitterness towards Mademoiselle Annabel was very great indeed.’
McCrodden nodded. ‘It would need to have been, yes, for my theory to be correct.’
‘It is your experience with Miss Emerald Mason that has led you to this conclusion?’ Poirot asked him.
‘Yes. When I was first struck by the extent to which I irrationally loathed her, I felt a need to … well, to relinquish a few of my less important grudges.’
‘Did you have many?’ I asked.
‘A few. Doesn’t everybody?’
‘I don’t,’ I said. ‘I can’t think of a single one. Do you have any grudges, Poirot?’
He was prevented from answering by a knock at the door. The valet, George, entered the room. ‘There is a lady here to see you, sir. I told her you were busy, but she said it was urgent.’
‘Then, if it is urgent, we must see her. Did she tell you her name?’
‘She did, sir. Most thoroughly. She identified herself as Jane Dockerill, and also as Mrs Hugo Dockerill, the wife of the housemaster of Timothy Lavington and Frederick Rule at Turville College.’
‘Please show her in, Georges.’
Jane Dockerill was a tiny slip of a thing, with curly dark brown hair, glasses with severe black frames, and a large brown bag that she carried into the room with both hands. It was wider than she was. She moved and spoke quickly. When Poirot stood and introduced himself, she shook his hand at the same time as saying, ‘And who are these other two gentleman?’
‘Rowland McCrodden, solicitor, and Inspector Edward Catchpool of Scotland Yard.’
‘I see,’ said Jane Dockerill. ‘I take it you’ve been discussing this business in which we are all involved?’
We all nodded. It did not occur to us to hold anything back. Jane Dockerill was the most naturally commanding person I could remember being in a room with. Even the Super might have done her bidding without question.
‘Good,’ she said. Then, without pausing for breath, ‘I came here to deliver two items: one you already know about; the other you do not. The first is Hugo’s letter, the one in which he is accused of murder. I thought you would probably need it.’
‘Indeed, madame. Most helpful.’ Poirot had never sounded more like an obedient schoolboy.
Jane Dockerill pulled the letter out of her bag and handed it to him. He read it, then passed it to me. Apart from the recipient’s name and address and the words ‘Dear Mr Dockerill’ at the top, it was identical to the letter received by John McCrodden, right down to the missing ink from the horizontal bar of each letter ‘e’. I passed the letter on to Rowland McCrodden.
‘And now for the item that you were not expecting,’ said Jane Dockerill. ‘Neither, I should like to say, was I expecting it. I was shocked to discover it where I did, and I sincerely hope it does not mean what I think it means.’
She produced from her bag an object that I did not immediately recognize. It was blue—or, rather, there was something blue inside it: blue with tiny flashes of white and yellow. Whatever it was, it was wrapped in cellophane to make an odd-looking parcel.
‘What is inside this package, madame?’ Poirot asked.
‘A dress. It was wrapped when wet. I found it taped to the underside of Timothy Lavington’s bed. I like to keep all the dormitories spotlessly clean, which means—if you’re going to do a thorough job, which I like to—looking under the beds regularly to check there is no rubbish piled up there, or forbidden items stashed away out of sight.’
‘Very commendable, madame.’
Jane Dockerill moved briskly on. ‘Before yesterday, the last time I looked under the beds in Timothy’s dormitory was four weeks ago. I know precisely when it was because it was my first inspection since the holidays. Four weeks ago, this package was not there. Then, yesterday, there it was—taped, as I say, to the bottom of the frame of the bed: Timothy Lavington’s bed. I unwrapped it in Timothy’s presence, to see if he knew what it was. He recognized the dress as belonging to his aunt, but was baffled by its presence in his dorm.’ Pointedly, Jane Dockerill added, ‘A stiff, badly-dried dress, still damp in places. Belonging to his aunt, Annabel Treadway.’
‘This causes you to suspect something?’ Poirot asked her. ‘May I ask what?’
‘Is it not obvious? I suspect—though I pray it’s not true—that Annabel Treadway murdered Barnabas Pandy by drowning him in his bath, for that was how he died. Her dress got wet in the process, and, afraid it would incriminate her, she hid it at Turville, under Timothy’s bed.’
‘As far as we know, Mr Pandy’s death was an accident,’ I felt obliged to say. ‘From an official point of view—’
‘Oh, that means nothing,’ said Jane Dockerill. ‘I now believe Mr Pandy was murdered, whatever anybody else thinks.’
‘Upon what do you base this belief?’ asked Poirot.
‘Common sense and probability,’ she told him. ‘Most accidental deaths are not followed by multiple accusations of murder and strange packages taped to bed frames. This one has been—therefore it seems likely to me that it was indeed a murder.’
Poirot gave a small nod. It was not suggestive of wholehearted agreement.
‘Aren’t you going to open the package?’ said Mrs Dockerill.
‘Oui, bien sûr. Catchpool, if you would be so kind.’
It was easy enough to pull off the tape and unwrap the cellophane. We all looked at the pale blue fabric as it was freed from its wrapping. The spots of yellow and white turned out to be tiny flowers. Parts of the material, deprived of air for weeks, had become slimy.
‘Notice the smell,’ said Jane Dockerill.
‘It is the oil of olives,’ said Poirot. ‘I smell it distinctly. This is the dress that Annabel Treadway wore the day that Barnabas Pandy died. Lenore Lavington described it to me: blue, with flowers of white and yellow. Only in one respect is the fabric of this dress different from the one Madame Lavington described.’
‘For goodness’ sake, don’t keep us in suspense,’ said Jane Dockerill. ‘How is it different?’
‘This dress was clearly wrapped while it was still wet,’ I said.
‘Précisément, Catchpool. Lenore Lavington told me that the dress of his sister was not wet when they stood together in the bathroom on the seventh of December. She offered this as proof that her sister could not have drowned their grandfather. The dress of Annabel Treadway, according to Lenore Lavington—her blue dress, with yellow and white flowers—was completely dry.’
CHAPTER 19
Four More Letters
‘This is quite a development, isn’t it?’ said Jane Dockerill.
‘It is,’ Poirot agreed.
‘I have known Timothy’s mother for many years. She would certainly lie to protect a member of her family—no question about it. Hugo and I can’t say a word to Timothy without her swooping down upon us in a mist of quiet fury to make a range of exaggerated threats: she’ll see to it that Hugo is fired, she’ll remove Timothy and, with him, the kind donations upon which the school so relies.’
Jane Dockerill uncrossed her legs, then crossed them the other way. ‘Schools are terribly unfair places, you know. There are some boys—the ones whose parents have a suitable respect for authority—who are ordered to tuck in their shirts, straighten their ties, pull up their socks, and we do our well-intentioned ordering around safe in the knowledge that no member of those boys’ families will turn up in due course to make our lives a misery. Other boys—and I’m afraid both Timothy Lavington and Freddie Rule fall into this category—can walk around with their blazers torn and their ties all askew, and we all contrive not to notice. Heaven forbid that we should provoke an avoidable encounter with a parent of Lenore Lavington’s stripe!’
‘Madame, who could have taped the parcel containing the dress to the underneath of Timothy Lavington’
s bed?’ Poirot asked her.
‘Almost anybody. Timothy himself—though I know he didn’t do it. He was as surprised to see it as I was. His mother, sister or aunt could have done it during one of their visits. I or my husband could have done it. I didn’t, of course, and neither did Hugo.’ She laughed. ‘The very idea! Hugo would never in a thousand years have been able to find adhesive tape, even if he were to have the bright idea to stick a dress to the frame of a bed.’
‘Is there anybody else?’ asked Poirot.
‘Oh, yes, said Jane Dockerill. ‘As I said: almost everybody. Any of the boys in our house, any boy from one of the other houses who crept in when Timothy’s dorm room was empty. Any teacher. Any parent.’
I heard myself sigh. Poirot murmured, ‘No parameters.’
‘We can narrow it down a bit, you’ll be glad to hear,’ Jane Dockerill said with a wry smile. ‘A person not known at Turville wouldn’t have stood a chance of sneaking in without being stopped and thoroughly interrogated. Like all communities, we suspect outsiders of being bent on our destruction and expel them from the premises whenever we stumble upon them.’ She looked irritated by our lack of reaction. ‘That was a joke.’
Obediently, but too late to please her, Poirot, McCrodden and I all laughed.
‘So it could have been any person from within the school community, including the parent of a pupil?’ Poirot said.
‘It could, I’m afraid.’
‘Have you ever, in this school community or associated with it, encountered a man by the name of John McCrodden?’
At the mention of his son’s name, Rowland McCrodden twitched slightly.
‘No,’ said Jane Dockerill. Her denial appeared genuine.
‘The family of Timothy Lavington … have they visited him at school since Barnabas Pandy died, and since the day you checked under the bed four weeks ago when there was no package stuck there?’
‘Yes. Lenore, Annabel and Timothy’s sister Ivy were at Turville about two weeks ago. Any one of them could have taped the parcel containing the wet dress to the bed frame during that visit.’
‘When did Madame Sylvia Rule last come to the school?’ Poirot asked.
‘Last week,’ said Mrs Dockerill. ‘With Mildred and her fiancé, Eustace.’
‘You put Freddie in the “boys who don’t get ordered around” category,’ I said. ‘Does that mean that Sylvia Rule is as fearsome a prospect as Lenore Lavington?’
‘Sylvia’s unbearable,’ said Jane Dockerill. ‘I should explain that, having lived and worked at Turville for so long, I find approximately two thirds of the parents unbearable, in so many different ways. They are generally far more difficult than the boys. Freddie Rule, Sylvia’s son, is a sweetheart. His good nature must come from his father.’
‘He is a loner, is he not?’ said Poirot.
‘He’s not a popular boy,’ said Jane Dockerill with a sigh. ‘He’s sensitive, complicated, quiet—not a person of high social status. And he feels things very deeply. He couldn’t be more different from Timothy Lavington. Timothy has no use for boys like Freddie. His friends are all like him: loud, confident show-offs. The highest rung of Turville’s social ladder. It broke my heart to see Freddie on his own all the time. I decided that if those stupid boys didn’t want to be his friend, then I would. And I am.’ She smiled. ‘Freddie has become my little helper around the house. I don’t know what I’d do without him. Everybody at Turville knows now: if they bully Freddie, they will have me to deal with.’
‘He has been bullied?’ I asked. ‘Not by Timothy Lavingon, I don’t suppose?’
‘No, never by Timothy, but by plenty of others.’ Jane Dockerill looked angry, suddenly. ‘It’s terribly unfair. Freddie is seen by many as tainted. It’s his mother. There are rumours about her, you see—that she, um, makes her living in a way that is both immoral and unlawful. I don’t expect there’s a shred of truth in these lurid stories.’
‘I see. Madame Dockerill, may I ask you about the Christmas Fair on the seventh of December? Freddie Rule was there, yes? With his mother and sister, and Eustace?’
‘Yes, they were all there.’
‘And Timothy Lavington, and you and your husband?’
‘Of course. I was dashing about all day like a mad creature.’
‘Of the people I have listed, can you be certain that any of them were at the fair for the entire day, from when it started until it closed?’
‘I’ve just told you: they were all there,’ said Jane Dockerill.
‘You were watching them, with your own eyes, for every second of the day?
She looked surprised. ‘No. How could I? I was desperately busy.’
‘Then, pardon me, madame, but how do you know that they were there all day?’
‘Well, they were certainly all at the supper in the evening. And I saw them now and then throughout the day. Where else would they have—?’ She stopped abruptly. ‘Oh. I see what you mean. You’re wondering if one of them might have slipped out to go and kill Barnabas Pandy, then slipped back in?’
‘Is it possible?’ asked Poirot.
‘I suppose, in the sense that you mean … yes, it is possible. Any of them could have absented himself or herself for the required time. They would have needed a means of getting to Combingham Hall, of course.’
After successfully dodging her questions about what next steps he planned to take, Poirot thanked Jane Dockerill, and she left.
‘She has an unhealthy attachment to the Rule boy,’ said Rowland McCrodden, once she had gone.
‘I don’t think that’s true,’ I told him. ‘She feels protective towards a lonely boy is how I should describe it.’
‘I’d be surprised if there were not as many rumours about Mrs Dockerill and young Freddie Rule as there are about Sylvia Rule being a lady of the night,’ said McCrodden.
‘Catchpool, when you visit Turville College, try to hear as many of these rumours as you can,’ Poirot said.
‘The boys are hardly likely to say anything unseemly in the presence of a Scotland Yard inspector,’ I said. ‘Or am I to disguise myself as a bun in the tuck-shop?’
‘You will find a way, Catchpool.’
Poirot ran his fingers along the slimy fabric of the blue dress, then produced a handkerchief to wipe his hand. ‘The dress of Mademoiselle Treadway,’ he murmured. ‘What does it mean? Does it mean that the three ladies of Combingham Hall have lied to me, and Kingsbury also? That they all know Annabel Treadway murdered Monsieur Pandy, and seek to conceal the truth? Or …?’ He turned to me.
‘Or,’ I took my cue, ‘is somebody trying to frame Annabel Treadway?’
‘Exactement! If the aim were to protect Mademoiselle Annabel, the most sensible plan would have been to wash and dry the dress immediately.’
‘What if traces of olive oil would still be detectable even after washing?’ I said. ‘Perhaps the dress had to disappear so that no one would ever ask the question: “Why would there be olive oil on this dress?”’
Poirot said, ‘Mes amis, we have met Jane Dockerill only once. Annabel Treadway has met her many more times, on her visits to Timothy at school. Would she not assume that Madame Dockerill would check every dormitory in her boarding house most thoroughly? Having met her once, that is what I would assume. There must be hundreds of beds at Turville. Why not choose one that belongs to a stranger?’
‘You think, then, that the hiding of the dress under Timothy’s bed is more likely to be an attempt to frame Miss Treadway than evidence of her guilt?’ asked McCrodden.
‘I do not yet know enough …’ Poirot began thoughtfully. ‘Notice that the dress is equally damp all over. Mademoiselle Annabel’s clothing, if she drowned her grandfather, would not have been. The arms would have been extremely wet, but the bottom of the dress? The back of it? Non. These would have been much drier, perhaps not wet at all. And yet, if at the time of wrapping in the cellophane the arms were drenched, while other parts of the dress were dry, the water could have soa
ked through to wet the dress in its entirety.’
‘We may invent as many theories as we like, Poirot, but we know nothing,’ said McCrodden wearily. ‘There are too many possibilities. Reluctant as I am to admit defeat—’
‘You think we ought to give up?’ said Poirot. ‘No, no, my friend. You are quite wrong. There are indeed many possibilities—but we much closer, now, to the truth!’
‘Are we?’ I said. ‘How? Why?’
‘Catchpool, do you not see what is now clear?’
I did not. Neither did Rowland McCrodden.
Poirot laughed at us both, in our ignorance. ‘Thanks to this dress, I am confident that I will soon have all the answers. I do not have them yet, but I will. I intend to set myself a challenge and put a deadline in place. Let us see if Hercule Poirot can beat the clocks!’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked him.
He laughed again. ‘It astonishes me that neither of you sees what I see. A pity, but never mind. Soon, I will explain. Alors, maintenant, it is time for me compose four letters, to be sent to Sylvia Rule, Annabel Treadway, John McCrodden and Hugo Dockerill. And this time, they will be from the real Hercule Poirot!’
THE THIRD QUARTER
CHAPTER 20
The Letters Arrive
Eustace Campbell-Brown was reclining in the drawing room of his fiancée Mildred’s London townhouse when Mildred’s mother bustled into the room holding a letter and a torn envelope with the very tips of her fingers, as if to touch them any more thoroughly might contaminate her. Sylvia Rule gasped in horror at the sight of her future son-in-law, though she had seen him many times before, and sitting in this exact position: with a cigarette in one hand and a book in the other.
‘Good morning,’ said Eustace. He did not think he could get into trouble for saying something so simple.
‘Where is Mildred?’
‘Upstairs, getting dressed. I’m taking her out for the day.’ He smiled.
The Mystery of Three Quarters Page 15
