‘I see,’ said Poirot.
What was it, he asked himself, that did not fit? He knew he had heard something that jutted out awkwardly. He knew, furthermore, that he had heard it since getting into the car with Lenore Lavington. What was it?
‘You might be thinking that my sister had the perfect motive to commit murder,’ Lenore said. ‘She did—but she didn’t know she did. Therefore, she didn’t.’
‘Mademoiselle Annabel has also been given the most unshakeable alibi by you and your daughter,’ Poirot reminded her.
‘You say that as if it’s a lie. It’s not a lie. Ivy and I were with Annabel every single second, M. Poirot. And when we all stood in the bathroom together, summoned by Kingsbury, every inch of Annabel’s dress was dry. It is quite impossible that she killed Grandfather.’
‘Tell me, madame: has Mademoiselle Ivy forgiven you?’ Poirot asked. ‘Or does she still keep alive the grievance?’
‘I don’t know. I have no intention of raising the subject again, but I hope that she has. The other day, for the first time, she wore a bracelet I gave her. I think that might have been a sort of peace offering. I gave it to her when Grandfather died, you see. She definitely had not forgiven me then! She told me she would rather die than wear it, and threw it across the room at me. It was a beautiful, hand-carved mourning bracelet made of jet—one I cherished. I suppose I thought that giving it to Ivy would be proof of my love for her. She knew it was precious to me—a treasured gift from a seaside holiday with my late husband Cecil—but she chose to interpret it in the worst possible way.’
‘In what way did she interpret it?’ The gates to the Combingham Hall Estate were now visible in the distance.
‘She accused me of only ever giving her gifts that were things I already owned, not presents I had bought especially for her. She went to her bedroom and started pulling drawers out of chests, looking for a hand-held fan I had once given her—more evidence against me! The fan was also a treasured possession of mine. It had a picture on it of a beautiful lady, dancing, and of course her waist was tiny. Trust Ivy to remember that when I had given her the fan I’d said, “The dancing lady looks like you, darling”—because she did, with her black hair and pale skin. Ivy had loved the fan when I first gave it to her, and taken the comparison as the compliment I intended it to be. Suddenly, however, in the light of the unfortunate events I have already described, she decided I had been duplicitous, and had wanted her to notice the difference between the fan-lady’s dainty waist and her own larger one.’
‘Human relationships are extremely complicated,’ said Poirot.
‘People make them more complicated than they need to be,’ said Lenore disapprovingly. ‘Though, as I say: Ivy recently wore the mourning bracelet I gave her. She made sure that I saw her wearing it, too. It must have been her way of letting me know that she has forgiven me. What else could it mean?’
CHAPTER 26
The Typewriter Experiment
When Lenore Lavington and Poirot arrived at Combingham Hall, they found Kingsbury standing guard beside a small table in the entrance hall. On the table sat two typewriters, side by side.
‘I’ve set up the two machines for Mr Porrott, like you asked, Mrs Lavington,’ he said.
‘Thank you, Kingsbury. That will be all for now.’
The manservant shuffled away. Nobody made a move to close the front door.
Poirot managed to suppress his urge to ask why, in a house the size of Combingham Hall, with so many rooms presumably empty and without function, did such things as dining and the testing of typewriters need to take place in the entrance hall? It made no sense! If Poirot had owned the building, he would have put a grand piano here where the small table had been placed. That was the only thing that might look as if it belonged in this particular spot.
‘Is there a problem, M. Poirot?’ Lenore Lavington asked.
‘Not at all, madame.’ He turned his attention to the two machines in front of him. One was new and shiny; the other had a crack in its side and a deep scratch on its front. Kingsbury had set out, next to the two typewriters, the paper and carbon paper that Poirot would need later to conduct his experiment.
Once he had made himself at home in the bedroom that had been assigned to him, and taken some refreshment, Poirot sat down at the little table and tried first one typewriter, then the other. Both had identical letter ‘e’s with no ink missing at all. There was no need to search for other differences, though search he did. If one did not look, one gave oneself no opportunity to spot any detail that could not have been anticipated, but was nonetheless highly significant.
In his mother tongue of French, Poirot gave thanks to a higher power when he saw that such a detail was present in this instance. He was busy comparing the two pieces of paper on which he had typed precisely the same words when first he heard and then saw Hopscotch. The dog came running down the stairs and across the hall. He leapt up to greet Poirot. Annabel Treadway ran down the stairs after him. ‘Hoppy, down. Down, boy! M. Poirot doesn’t want to have his face licked, I’m sure.’
Indeed Poirot did not. He patted the dog instead, hoping Hopscotch would accept this as a reasonable compromise.
‘Look how pleased he is to see you, M. Poirot! Isn’t he a lovely, affectionate boy?’ Annabel managed to sound sad about it: as if no one but she could appreciate the dog’s good nature.
Eventually Hopscotch remembered that he had been on his way outside, and trotted off into the garden.
Annabel, spotting the two sheets of paper in Poirot’s hands, said, ‘I see you’ve begun your typewriter investigation. Oh, don’t let me interrupt you. Lenore gave me strict orders to leave you alone and let you do your detective work.’
‘I have concluded the experiment, mademoiselle. Would you like to see the results? Tell me, what differences do you notice?’ He passed her the two sheets of paper.
She stared at them for a while before looking up at Poirot. ‘I don’t see anything at all,’ she said. ‘Nothing worthy of note, I mean. The letter “e” is fully present and correct on both pages.’
‘It is. But there is more to look at than the many letters “e”.’
‘The same words are typed on both sheets of paper—“I, Hercule Poirot, have arrived at Combingham Hall, and I will not leave until I have solved the mystery of the death of Barnabas Pandy.” The two versions are identical in every respect, aren’t they? What am I failing to notice?’
‘If I were to tell you the answer, mademoiselle, I would deprive you of the chance to work it out for yourself.’
‘I don’t want to work anything out. I want you to tell us if we’re in danger from a murderer roaming about the place, and protect us if we are, and then … then all I want is to forget!’
‘What do you wish to forget?’
‘All of it. Grandy’s murder, and the reason for it, whatever that turns out to be, and the sickening letter I can’t get out of my mind, even though I burned it.’
‘And a wet blue dress with white and yellow flowers on it?’ Poirot asked.
She looked at him, wide-eyed and apparently uncomprehending. ‘What do you mean?’ she said. ‘I have a blue dress with white and yellow flowers on it. But it isn’t wet.’
‘Where is it?’
‘In my wardrobe.’
‘Are you certain it is there?’
‘Where else would it be? It’s the dress I wore the day Grandy died. I haven’t felt like wearing it since.’
She had not, then, looked for the dress and found that it was missing. Assuming she is telling the truth, Poirot said to himself.
‘Mademoiselle, were you aware that, before he died, your grandfather decided to make a change to his will? He did not, in the end, do so. His death prevented it. But it was his intention to alter his testamentary provisions quite considerably.’
‘No, I didn’t know that. Though Peter Vout, his solicitor, came to the house and the two of them secluded themselves in the drawing room to talk
in private, so perhaps that was …’
Annabel gasped suddenly, and reeled backwards. Poirot moved quickly to catch her, in case she fell.
He helped her to a chair. ‘What is the matter, mademoiselle?’
‘It was me, wasn’t it?’ she said in a whisper. ‘He wished to cut me off. That was why he summoned Peter Vout. Even though I saved Ivy’s life—once he knew, he couldn’t forgive me! Which means I must deserve never to be forgiven,’ Annabel said fiercely. ‘If Grandy was going to alter his will to punish me, that means I deserve nothing. Only to suffer. He was always fair. I never imagined he could love me the way he loved Lenore, but he was always fair.’
‘Mademoiselle, please explain to Poirot. For what could your grandfather not forgive you?’
‘No! Oh, he will get what he wanted—I won’t stand in the way of his wishes—but I will never tell you or anybody. Never!’ Sobbing, she ran up the stairs.
Poirot stared after her, bemused. Then he looked at the house’s open front door, and thought about how easy it would be for him to go back to London and to Whitehaven Mansions, and never return. Officially, no crime had been committed, so he could hardly be blamed for failing to solve a murder.
But of course he would not leave. He was Hercule Poirot!
‘Three days,’ he said to himself. ‘Only three days.’
CHAPTER 27
The Bracelet and the Fan
The next morning, Poirot was on his way to take breakfast when Ivy Lavington ambushed him in the hall. Hopscotch was at her side. He did not try to lick Poirot this time. He seemed, in fact, rather subdued.
‘Where is Aunt Annabel?’ Ivy demanded. ‘What have you done with her?’
‘Is she not at home, here in the house?’ he asked.
‘No. She’s taken one of the cars and gone off somewhere without Hoppy—which she never does. Absolutely never. Not without saying a word to me or Mummy. Did you say something to upset her?’
‘Oui, c’est possible,’ said Poirot with a heavy heart. ‘Sometimes, if lives are to be saved, one must ask unwelcome questions.’
‘Whose lives must be saved?’ asked Ivy. ‘Are you suggesting that whoever killed Grandy intends to kill again?’
‘Without doubt, a murder has been planned.’
‘So is it one life, or more than one? You said “lives”.’
‘Mademoiselle! Sacre tonnerre!’
‘What is it? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
Poirot opened his mouth, but could make no words come out. He was thinking too fast to speak at all.
‘Are you quite well, M. Poirot?’ Ivy looked concerned. ‘Did I say something that frightened you?’
‘Mademoiselle, you said something that has helped me greatly! Please now say nothing for a short while. I need to follow the logic of the theory that is growing in my mind, to see if I am right. I must be right!’
Ivy stood, arms folded, and watched him as he put the various pieces together. Hopscotch, still by her side, also stared at him quizzically.
‘Thank you,’ Poirot said eventually.
‘Well?’ said Ivy. ‘Are you right?’
‘I believe so, yes.’
‘Jolly good! I’m looking forward to hearing your theory. I haven’t been able to think up any of my own.’
‘Do not try,’ Poirot advised. ‘Your speculations would be based upon an entirely false premise, and so you would fail.’
‘What do you mean, a false premise?’
‘All in good time, mademoiselle. All in good time.’
Ivy made a face at him that suggested a mixture of annoyance and admiration. ‘I expect Mummy told you all about the fight we had the day Grandy died?’ She grinned. ‘You’ll know all about my tree-trunk legs. And Mummy will have told you not to say a word to me, for fear of upsetting me all over again.’
‘Mademoiselle, if I might be permitted to say so, you are most pleasing to look at, and there is nothing at all wrong with your size or shape.’
‘Well, I’ve got my scars,’ said Ivy, pointing to her face. ‘But apart from that, I agree. I am a normal, healthy person, and that suits me fine. Mummy thinks I ought to aspire to be no wider than a pipe-cleaner, but food is a madness of hers. She doesn’t eat properly. Never has. Did you notice last night, at dinner?’
‘I am afraid I did not,’ said Poirot, who had been too busy eating his own delicious meal.
‘She puts the odd sliver of something in her mouth every now and then, and swallows it grudgingly, like someone taking a prescribed medicine, but she spends most of each meal prodding things with her fork as if she suspects them of plotting against her. She imagines that the reason I was so angry with her was because I couldn’t bear to hear the truth about my horrible legs. What nonsense! I’m perfectly happy with my legs. What upset me was finding out that Mummy looks at me and sees only, or mainly, a bundle of physical flaws. And her dishonesty—that also enrages me.’
‘Your mother is not honest?’ said Poirot.
‘Oh, she can’t bear the truth. She is almost allergic to it. She would do or say anything to keep me and Timmy happy—I think she feels it’s her duty as a mother—but every so often a scrap of truthfulness slips out, and when it does, she bends over backwards afterwards to deny what is plain to see. I shall never believe her when she says she thinks I’m beautiful. I know it’s a lie. She’d be far better off admitting that she would love it if I starved myself skinny. Instead, she lies and lies about how much she loves me the way I am, and tells herself she’s keeping me happy by doing so.’ Ivy spoke thoughtfully and analytically, with no trace of resentment in her voice. She was, Poirot reflected, a happier and more stable woman than either her mother or her aunt.
‘The thing is, if you try to deny the truth, it creeps out in other ways. I don’t suppose Mummy told you about the time she gave me a fan as a present?’ Ivy laughed. ‘There was a picture of a dark-haired woman on it, and Mummy said, “Doesn’t she look like you, Ivy? Her hair is the same colour, and her dress.” All of which was true—but the woman on the fan had the tiniest waist I had ever seen! And I happened to be on my way out to a dance wearing a rather attention-seeking black and red dress which, looking back, probably didn’t suit me, and would have looked better on someone with a more slender figure, but I didn’t care. I liked the dress, so I wore it. Mummy couldn’t bear it, though, because it accentuated my waist—so she presented me with a rebuke in the guise of a gift. I imagine she hoped I would take one look at the woman on the fan, notice the contrast, and immediately decide to change into something that disguised my waist and made me look smaller.’
‘Your mother told me that she gave to you also a bracelet,’ said Poirot.
Ivy nodded. ‘That was after Grandy died. I took one look at it and thought that I wouldn’t be able to squeeze my hand through it if I tried for a hundred years. It was Mummy’s, and must have fitted her perfectly, but it wasn’t designed for someone of my build. As it turned out, the bracelet did fit me, but only just. I wore it recently, but I don’t think I will again. I wanted Mummy to see it on my wrist at least once. I know she still worries that she’s damaged me irreparably by allowing me to discover that she would like me to be slimmer, and I wanted to show her that I’ve forgiven her. She can’t help being the way she is. And, in my anger, I was terribly unfair to her. The bracelet and the fan were both things she loved and would never have parted with—if she hadn’t given them to me, I mean—but I accused her of giving me second-hand gifts and being unwilling to spend her money on me.’
Ivy gave a rueful smile. ‘I am no more perfect than Mummy is, M. Poirot. I think it’s important to understand that one’s nearest and dearest are not perfect. If one cannot accept that … well, that way lies madness.’
No person, Poirot agreed, could ever be perfect. On the other hand, a puzzle and its solution, once all the loose and messy ends were neatly wrapped up …
‘Did you know, mademoiselle, that your grandfather intended to change
his will, and that he died before he could do so?’
‘No.’ Ivy’s eyes took on a sharper look. ‘How did he plan to change it?’
‘Both his solicitor and your mother tell me that he intended to cut off Mademoiselle Annabel—to leave to her nothing at all.’
‘Why on earth should he want to do that?’ said Ivy. ‘Aunt Annabel is a kind, selfless, entirely good person. There are not many people like her. I am not always kind. Are you, M. Poirot?’
‘I try to be, mademoiselle. It is important to try.’
‘But … it makes no sense,’ Ivy muttered. ‘It can’t be true. Grandfather always favoured Mummy, but he would never have demonstrated his preference so starkly. He knew as well I do that Aunt Annabel would never hurt anybody. I always believed he felt rather guilty for finding her maddening, because he knew she had done nothing to deserve it.’
‘I must ask you one more question, mademoiselle,’ said Poirot. ‘It is a strange one, and I apologize if it causes you distress.’
‘Is it about tree trunks?’ Ivy said.
‘No. It concerns your late father.’
‘Poor Daddy.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think Mummy loved him very much. Oh, she played the role of a good wife to perfection, but her heart was not engaged. She might have been able to love him more if she had only been honest from the start. Instead, their relationship followed her usual pattern: she tried to do and say whatever she thought would keep him happy, and, as a result, neither of them was able to be happy.’
‘Did she deceive him about something in particular?’ Poirot asked.
‘No, it was worse than that,’ said Ivy. ‘She deceived him in their ordinary, everyday life. Mummy is terribly clever, you know. Well organized, astute, capable. She tends to assume that things will go her way. Having that attitude has often made the obstacles in her path disappear. Or rather, I should say, it has since Daddy died. Daddy would fret awfully about the tiniest things, and was forever saying they shouldn’t try to do this or that because they wouldn’t succeed—leaving Combingham Hall, for instance, and making a home of their own. Mummy wanted to, but Daddy didn’t, and so Mummy pretended to agree with him. Knowing that she could have made it work brilliantly if she’d only had the chance must have eaten away at her. She should have told him to stop being so silly instead of pandering to his timid approach to life. I imagine it must have been rather a relief to her when he died.’
The Mystery of Three Quarters Page 20
