Sylvia Rule stared at him for a long time. Then she said, ‘How much do you want?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘To leave Mildred alone and disappear for ever. There must be an amount of money that would tempt you.’
Eustace placed his cigarette in the ashtray on the table beside him and put down his book. So, he thought to himself, it had come to this, despite his best efforts to win the esteem of his soon-to-be mother-in-law.
It was time, at last, to stop trying—to stop being polite and charming and to say what he felt like saying for once.
‘Finally, an enticement of money,’ he said. ‘I’ve been wondering how long it would take you. Just think, you could have made me an offer this time last year and I’d have been out of your life long ago.’
‘Then … there is a sum …?’
‘No, Sylvia, there is not. I was teasing you. The fact is, I love Mildred and she loves me. The sooner you get used to that, the happier you will be.’
‘Oh, you are a vile, disgusting man!’
‘I don’t think I am,’ said Eustace quite reasonably. ‘Neither does Mildred. Have you ever considered, Sylvia, that you might be the ghastly one? You are, after all, a murderer. Mildred might not know the truth about you, but I do. Don’t worry—I have no wish to distress her by telling her what I know. But I don’t suppose there’s any chance you might lay off me for a while, is there? In return for my keeping your secret, I mean.’
‘You’re a liar!’ Sylvia Rule’s face had turned white. She lowered herself into an armchair.
‘No, I’m not,’ said Eustace. ‘If it were not true, you would be saying, “What do you mean?” and “What on earth are you on about?” You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.’
At that moment Mildred Rule appeared in the drawing room wearing the blank expression she always wore in the company of her mother and her fiancé. She did not ask why Sylvia looked so ashen-faced, nor why Eustace was glowing with a new, peculiar energy, one she had not seen in him before. She knew that something important had probably happened in her absence, and hoped to avoid finding out what it was. Mildred had recently decided that it was better for her to know nothing about what passed between Sylvia and Eustace, and not to enquire about her mother’s loathing for the man she loved more than anything.
She noticed the letter and torn envelope that her mother was holding. ‘What’s that?’ she asked. If her mother was upset about something other than Eustace, then Mildred was interested to know what it was.
‘It’s another letter from Hercule Poirot,’ said Sylvia Rule.
‘Accusing you of murder again, is he?’ Eustace sneered.
Sylvia passed the letter to Mildred. ‘Read it aloud,’ she said. ‘It mentions you. And him.’
‘“Dear Madame Rule,”’ read Mildred. ‘“It is of vital importance that you attend a meeting at Combingham Hall, home of the deceased Barnabas Pandy, on 24 February, at 2 o’clock. I will be present and so will Inspector Edward Catchpool of Scotland Yard. Others will be present as well. The mystery of the death of Barnabas Pandy, in which we are all interested parties, will be resolved, and a murderer apprehended. Please extend this same invitation to your daughter Mildred and to her fiancé Eustace. It is important that they attend also. Yours sincerely, Hercule Poirot.”’
‘I don’t suppose we have any way of knowing if the letter’s from the real Hercule Poirot this time?’ said Eustace.
‘What shall we do?’ asked Mildred. ‘Shall we go? Or shall we ignore it?’ She hoped that her mother and Eustace would, for once, agree upon a course of action. If they disagreed, Mildred knew her mind would freeze and be unable to make sense of anything.
‘I have no intention of attending,’ said Sylvia Rule.
‘We have to go,’ said Eustace. ‘All of us. Don’t you want to know who this murderer is, Sylvia? I do.’
John McCrodden touched the arm of the woman in his bed. He couldn’t remember her name; it might have been Annie, or Aggie. She was lying on her front, facing away from him. ‘Wake up. Wake up, will you?’
‘I’m awake.’ She rolled over with a yawn. ‘Lucky for you. I don’t take kindly to being woken when it’s my day off work. Though, since it’s you …’ She grinned and reached out to touch John’s face.
He pushed her hand away. ‘I’m not in the mood. Sorry. Look, I’ve got things to do, so you’d better be on your way.’ A peculiar letter had arrived for him and he wanted to read it again, more carefully. He couldn’t concentrate with her still here.
The woman sat up, covering herself with the bed-sheet. ‘Well, you’re charming, aren’t you? Is this how you treat all the girls?’
‘As a matter of fact, it is. I never intend them any harm, but they always take it badly. No doubt you will too.’
‘I suppose you’ll promise to take me out again, as soon as you can, and then I’ll never hear from you again,’ said the woman resentfully, tears forming in the corners of her eyes.
‘No. I’m promising nothing. And I don’t want to take you anywhere. I enjoyed last night, but that’s all it was: one night. You won’t see me again, unless by chance. You may scream at me as you leave, if it makes you feel better.’
Once he’d said that, she was out of his room in seconds. She would doubtless think him callous, but she would be wrong. The cruel thing would have been to allow her to build up her hopes. When he was much younger, John had met a woman and known within moments that here was a person he could love for ever. He had not felt that way about anybody else, before or since. Nor had he spoken of the feeling to a single soul, for it had been too powerful to describe and, in any case, no one would have believed it possible who had not personally fallen into a similar chasm of longing. Humans, as a rule, were doggedly determined not to believe in the experiences of anyone but themselves.
John dressed and took the strange letter over to the chair by the window. He read it once more, shaking his head. Instead of deciding that the four accusations sent in his name were no more than a prank, and resolving to think no more about them, Hercule Poirot had evidently assigned to himself responsibility for solving this murder.
Had anyone paid him to undertake the task? John doubted it. Like Annie or Aggie or whatever her name was, Poirot had chosen to make life more difficult and complicated than it needed to be. He had now sent letters of invitation to a ‘meeting’ about Barnabas Pandy’s death to John and no doubt many other people. Making matters worse, his letter to John contained the unwelcome line: ‘Others will be present as well, including your father, Rowland McCrodden.’
John was no fool. He had known for some time that he had unfairly maligned both his father and Hercule Poirot. He now believed that neither man was responsible for the letter in which he had been accused of murdering Barnabas Pandy. Apologies were owed; there was no getting away from that, but there was nothing John hated more than admitting he had been wrong—especially to two men whose work sometimes led to nooses being placed around people’s necks.
‘I’ll go to Poirot’s meeting,’ he thought. ‘That will have to do, by way of apology. And maybe I’ll find out who sent me that letter.’
John wrote a short note to Poirot saying that he would be at Combingham Hall on 24 February as instructed. He put it in an envelope, which he was about to seal when he remembered Catalina.
Ah, Catalina, his Spanish lady-friend. Now there was a sensible, resourceful woman. Damned attractive, too. She let John come and go as he pleased, without ever applying pressure or crying all over him. She enjoyed his company but managed perfectly well without him, as he did without her. John had not met many people, men or women, whom he felt were his equals, but Catalina most certainly was: a brilliant woman and, now, a brilliant alibi. Good old Catalina!
John walked over to his bed and reached under it for the bundle of her letters that he kept there. Most of them were about King Alfonso XIII and the precariousness of General Miguel Primo de Rivera’s hold on power. Catal
ina was a committed Republican. John smiled. He did not care for politics. What people claimed to stand for meant very little, he had always found, and told you nothing about their true character. It was like judging a person by their choice of socks or handkerchief.
He selected Catalina’s letter dated 21 December 1929 and inserted it in the envelope he would send to Poirot. Pulling out the letter he’d just written, he added, beneath his signature, the words: ‘Alibi for the seventh of December enclosed’.
‘Oh, dear,’ cried Annabel Treadway. ‘Hoppy, what shall I do? A meeting, here? He doesn’t say how many people he’s invited. Lenore will be furious. We shall have to think about the catering, and I haven’t got a head for it at all—not even to talk to Kingsbury or Cook about it. But … oh, goodness. I’m going to have to tell Lenore, and … look, he says that a murderer will be apprehended. Oh, dear!’
Hopscotch lifted his head from Annabel’s lap and gave her a questioning look. They were in the morning room at Combingham Hall, having recently returned from a ball game in the meadow. Hopscotch eyed Annabel hopefully, trying to work out if her latest exclamation might mean that she would soon be ready to run back outside and play a little more.
‘I’m frightened,’ said Annabel. ‘I’m so frightened. Of everything, except you, darling Hoppy.’
The dog rolled over, wanting his tummy to be scratched.
‘What if Lenore forbids Poirot from holding his meeting here?’ As she spoke these words, Annabel was struck by a sudden, powerful realization. ‘Oh!’ she gasped. ‘Even if she forbids it, the truth will come out. There is no way to stop it, not now that Hercule Poirot is involved. Oh, Hoppy, if it weren’t for you …’
She left the sentence unfinished, not wishing to alarm the dog by saying what she would do if she were not so reluctant to leave him alone in the world. Lenore didn’t care about him. Ivy claimed to, but she didn’t love him the way Annabel did, as if he were a fully-fledged member of the family—which he absolutely was. Skittle had been too. ‘One day,’ thought Annabel, ‘the world will be a more enlightened place and we will treat dogs as well as we treat people. Oh, but—I am a dreadful hypocrite!’ She started to cry.
Hopscotch rolled over and placed his paw in her hand in a consolatory manner, but she continued to weep.
‘Look at this, Jane.’ Hugo Dockerill tried to pass his wife the letter he’d just opened. ‘That trickster is pretending to be Poirot again. I suppose I ought to tell him. Poirot, I mean.’
Jane balanced a large pile of laundry on the arm of the nearest sofa, and snatched the paper out of her husband’s hand. She read aloud: “Dear Monsieur Dockerill, It is of vital importance that you and your wife Jane attend a meeting at Combingham Hall …” She mouthed the rest of the words silently. Looking up at Hugo, she said, ‘Why do you think this isn’t from the real Poirot?’
He frowned. ‘Do you think it might be?’
‘Yes. Look at the signature. It’s quite different from the one on the other letter. Quite different. Having met Poirot, I should say that this could well be his handwriting: very neat, with a few fancy touches here and there.’
‘Golly,’ said Hugo. ‘I wonder why he wants us to go to Combingham Hall?’
‘Have you read the letter?’
‘Yes. Twice.’
‘It explains why he wants us to go.’
‘Do you think he’s got to the bottom of it all, then? Who else do you suppose he’s invited?’
‘I would imagine the other three people who were accused in the first lot of letters will be there,’ said Jane.
‘Yes, that would make sense. What do you think, dearest one? Shall we go?’
‘What do you think, Hugo? Do you want to go?’
‘Well, I … I mean … I rather thought you might take a view on that, my dear. I mean … Well, it’s hard to know. Am I … Are we busy on that day?’
Jane laughed affectionately and linked her arm through his. ‘I’m teasing you. We’re busy every day, or at least I am, but of course we must go. I want to know what the great Hercule Poirot has worked out, and who this murderer is. I wish we didn’t have to wait nearly a week. I want to know now what he intends to tell us all.’
CHAPTER 21
The Day of the Typewriters
The Day of the Typewriters, as I will always think of it, turned out to be more interesting than I had expected it to. For one thing, it proved Poirot right: it really is a good test of character to put several people in the exact same situation and examine the difference in their reactions. I had been making a list as I went along, and dreading the moment when I would have to show it to Poirot and hear all about how vastly superior his list would have been. Mine read as follows:
Offices of Donaldson & McCrodden Solicitors
Stanley Donaldson allowed me to test his typewriter. Its letter ‘e’ was not faulty. (Donaldson also confirmed that Rowland Rope was with him for the whole of Saturday 7 December, first at the Athenaeum Club and then at the Palace Theatre.) None of the typewriters that I found in the firm’s offices was the one we are looking for. I tested all of them, and then Miss Emerald Mason insisted on testing them again just to make sure.
Home of Sylvia and Mildred Rule
There was one typewriter in the house. Mrs Rule tried to forbid me from entering and told me I had no business invading her privacy and hounding her when she had done nothing wrong, but then her daughter Mildred persuaded her to cooperate. I tested the typewriter and the letter ‘e’ was perfectly normal.
Eustace Campbell-Brown
Finally we know his last name! Mildred told me where I would find him. I visited him at home. He seemed pleased to find me on his doorstep and was happy for me to test his typewriter. It was not the one we are looking for. As I was leaving, Mr Campbell-Brown said, ‘If I wanted to send letters accusing people of murder, signed in the name of Hercule Poirot, the very first thing I should do is check that the machine I was typing them on had no irregularities that might identify me.’ I did not know quite what to make of this.
John McCrodden
John McCrodden told me, in a rude and surly manner, that he does not own a typewriter. His landlady does, but she assured me that McCrodden had never used it.
Peter Vout
Mr Vout was gracious enough to allow me to check all the typewriters in his firm’s offices, and I found them all to be in good working order.
All Typewriters Not Based in London
Combingham Hall typewriters—Poirot tried to check, but was prevented from doing so.
Turville College’s typewriters—still need to be checked. (I shall go tomorrow.)
Vincent Lobb—does he own a typewriter? If so, it needs to be checked. Still no luck tracking down Lobb.
CHAPTER 22
The Solitary Yellow Square of Cake
‘Good morning, Monsieur McCrodden. You are surprised to see me here, non?’
John McCrodden looked up to find Hercule Poirot peering down at him where he sat cross-legged on the floor beside his market stall, a cloth bag full of coins in his lap. There were no customers around; the market had only just opened. ‘What do you want?’ McCrodden asked. ‘Didn’t you get the letter I sent to you?’
‘From a woman by the name of Catalina? Yes, it arrived.’
‘Then you also received my note in which I undertook to present myself at Combingham Hall on the date you want me there—so why are you here now?’
‘I wished to see you before our meeting at Combingham Hall, at which others will be present. I should like to speak to you alone.’
‘I have customers to deal with.’
‘You do not have them now,’ said Poirot with a polite smile. ‘Tell me, who is this Mademoiselle Catalina?’
McCrodden grimaced. ‘What does it matter to you? She’s nobody you know. If you’re suggesting she isn’t real and I’ve fabricated an alibi for myself, why don’t you go to Spain and talk to her yourself? Her address is on all of her letters, including the one
I sent you.’
Poirot produced the letter from his pocket. ‘It is most convenient for you, this letter,’ he said. ‘‘It is dated the twenty-first of December last year, and it refers to “fourteen days ago today” when you and Mademoiselle Catalina were together in …’—Poirot glanced down at the paper in his hand—‘… Ribadesella. If you were in Ribadesella on the seventh of December, you cannot also have been at Combingham Hall, drowning Barnabas Pandy.’
‘I’m glad we agree about that,’ said McCrodden. ‘Since we do—since we both know that I couldn’t have murdered Pandy—would you care to explain your continued interest in me? Why must I attend a meeting at Combingham Hall on the twenty-fourth of February? And why, when I agree to do so, do you come and pester me at my place of work? It might not be the sort of work that impresses the likes of you and my father, but it’s work all the same. It’s how I earn my living, and you’re getting in my way.’
‘But still you have no customers,’ Poirot pointed out. ‘I interrupt nothing.’
McCrodden sighed. ‘It’s slow at the moment, but it’ll pick up,’ he said. ‘And if it doesn’t, I’ll do something else to earn a crust. What my father has never understood about me is that I don’t much care what I do. It’s only work, and life’s more interesting if you try a few different things. I’ve tried telling him that’s how I see it. You’d think he wouldn’t care if I move from one employment to another, wouldn’t you, when he’s disapproved of every single job I’ve ever had? He hated me being a miner—didn’t want his son getting his hands dirty digging into the cliff like a commoner—but then he didn’t like it when I worked at the clean end either. Didn’t like me making and selling the trinkets, didn’t like me working on a farm, and doesn’t like me working here at the market. Yet he complains when I move around because he only approves of people who stick at things.’
‘Monsieur, I am not here to talk about your father.’
The Mystery of Three Quarters Page 16
