‘Did she express relief?’
‘Goodness me, no. She’d have died too rather than admit it. She really is terribly clever. She has thoroughly enjoyed being in charge of herself and making all her own decisions since Daddy died—but without once saying, “What a relief to be free!” as many women in her position might have. To say anything like that would be too direct for Mummy.’
Ivy smiled. ‘Listen to me chattering away. What did you want to ask me about Daddy? I never gave you the chance.’
‘Since your father’s death, have you received any letters purporting to be from him?’
‘Letters from my dead father? No. Not a one. Why do you ask?’
Poirot shook his head. ‘It does not matter. Thank you for taking the time to talk to me, mademoiselle. Our conversation has been most illuminating.’
‘I should say it matters quite a lot,’ Ivy called after him as he set off for the dining hall, where his breakfast awaited him. ‘First letters from you that aren’t from you, and now letters from my dead father that can’t be from him … I hope you’re going to explain all of this, M. Poirot. I want to understand every single baffling aspect of this whole peculiar business.’
‘So do I,’ said Poirot to himself as he sat down to eat. ‘So, very much, do I.’
CHAPTER 28
An Unconvincing Confession
I was sitting in my office at Scotland Yard, grappling with a particularly difficult crossword clue, when the Super knocked on my door. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Catchpool,’ he said with a smile. ‘There’s a Miss Annabel Treadway here to see you.’
Since learning that Rowland Rope was finally convinced that neither Poirot nor Scotland Yard had accused his son of murder, the Super had been the soul of reasonable discourse and moderation.
‘I’ll see Miss Treadway immediately,’ I said.
The Super showed her into the small room, then made himself scarce. I took one look at the woman standing before me and wondered why she struck me so powerfully at that moment as being the embodiment of a tragic fate. It was as if the room had turned darker with her arrival. But why? She wasn’t crying; she wasn’t dressed in mourning garments. It was a puzzle.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Treadway.’
‘You’re Inspector Edward Catchpool?’
‘That’s right. I was expecting to see you tomorrow afternoon at Combingham Hall. I was not expecting you to come to me in London.’
‘I have a confession to make,’ she said.
‘I see.’ I sat down and invited her to do the same, but she remained standing.
‘I killed my grandfather. I acted alone.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes.’ She raised her chin and looked almost proud. ‘Three other people also received letters accusing them of his murder, but they are all innocent. I killed him.’
‘You murdered Barnabas Pandy—is that what you’re telling me?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
She frowned. ‘I’m not sure what you are asking.’
‘It’s quite simple. You say you killed Mr Pandy. I’m asking how.’
‘But I thought you knew. He drowned in the bathtub.’
‘Don’t you mean you drowned him?’
‘I … Yes. I drowned him.’
‘That’s a different story from the one you told Hercule Poirot,’ I said.
Annabel Treadway lowered her eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘For what? Killing your grandfather? Lying to Poirot? Lying to me? All three?’
‘Please don’t make this any harder for me than it needs to be, Inspector.’
‘You’ve just confessed to a murder, Miss Treadway. What were you hoping for: a mug of cocoa and a pat on the back? Your sister and niece have both told Poirot that you couldn’t possibly have killed Mr Pandy—that you were with them from when the three of you heard him complain about the noise you were making until Kingsbury found him dead around thirty minutes later.’
‘They must be mistaken. We were all together in Ivy’s bedroom, but I left the room for a few minutes. Lenore and Ivy must have forgotten. It’s hard to remember events clearly at a distance of many weeks.’
‘I see. Do you remember what you were wearing when you killed your grandfather?’
‘What I was wearing?’
‘Yes. Your sister Lenore described a particular dress.’
‘I … I was wearing my blue dress with the yellow and white flowers.’ That, at least, tallied with her sister’s account.
‘Tell me, where is that dress now?’ I asked.
‘At home. Why does everybody keep asking me about my dress? Why does it matter? I haven’t worn it since the day Grandy died.’
‘Did it get wet, when you forced your grandfather’s head under the bathwater?’ I asked her.
She looked as if she might faint. ‘Yes.’
‘Your sister Lenore told Poirot that your dress was completely dry.’
‘She … she must not have noticed.’
‘And what if I were to tell you that Jane Dockerill found this blue dress of yours—that it had been wrapped in cellophane while it was sopping wet, and taped to the underside of Timothy Lavington’s bed at school?’
There was no mistaking the shock on Annabel Treadway’s face.
‘You’re making this up, to confuse me,’ she said. ‘You’re doing it deliberately!’
‘Putting you off your well-rehearsed story, am I, with some inconvenient facts?’
‘You’re twisting my words! Won’t you please just accept my confession?’
‘Not yet. Are you sure you didn’t tape the dress to the frame of your nephew’s bed? You weren’t worried that someone would notice that it was wet and smelled of olive oil? You didn’t have the bright idea to hide it somewhere far from the house?’
She said shakily, ‘All right, then: yes, I did.’
‘Yet, when I asked to confirm that you’d hidden the dress under Timothy’s bed, you said it was at home. Why would you lie about that when you’ve already confessed to murder? I don’t think you would.’
‘There is only one thing that matters, Inspector: I killed my grandfather. I will swear to it in court. You may arrest me immediately, and do whatever you do with criminals—but would you promise me something, in exchange for my full confession? I don’t want Hoppy to be stuck at Combingham Hall once I’m gone. He wouldn’t be properly attended to. Promise me you’ll find someone who will love and care for him properly.’
‘You will continue to do both,’ I told her cheerfully. ‘It’s quite clear to me that you haven’t killed anybody.’
‘I did. Put a Bible in my hands and I will swear on it.’
‘A Bible, eh? Would you swear on the life of your dog, Hopscotch?’
Annabel Treadway’s mouth set in a hard line. Tears came to her eyes. She said nothing.
‘All right, Miss Treadway, tell me: why did you drown your grandfather?’
‘That I can answer easily.’ There was tangible relief, both in her voice and in her eyes. I sensed that she might be about to speak the truth, or at least some of it. ‘Grandy found out something about me. He was going to cut me out of his will because of it.’
‘What did he find out?’
‘I shall never tell you that,’ said Annabel Treadway. ‘And you cannot compel me to.’
‘You’re right. I can’t.’
‘Are you going to arrest me for murder?’
‘Me? No. I shall consult with M. Poirot, and perhaps contact the relevant police constabulary after doing so.’
‘But … what should I do now? I wasn’t expecting to have to go home again.’
‘Well, I’m afraid you will have to—unless you’ve got somewhere else to go. Go home, walk your dog, and wait and see if anyone turns up to arrest you for murder. I think it’s pretty unlikely that anyone will, but you never know. You might be lucky!’
CHAPTER 29
An Unexpected Eel
As I turned the
corner into my own street later that same evening, I saw that the door of the house where I lived was standing open and that my landlady, Mrs Blanche Unsworth, had planted herself in the doorway and looked ready to burst out of it at the first sight of me. ‘Oh, no,’ I muttered to myself.
She hopped from one foot to the other and waved her arms about as if someone had asked her to impersonate a tree being blown by a storm. Did she imagine that I might not yet have spotted her?
I produced my best smile, and called out, ‘Hello, Mrs Unsworth! A fine evening, isn’t it?’
‘Am I glad you’re back!’ she said. As soon as I was within her reach, she pulled me into the house. ‘A gentleman paid a call while you were out. I didn’t like the look of him. Strange piece of goods, he was. I’ve known all sorts, but he was like no one I’ve ever met.’
‘Ah,’ I said. The best thing about Mrs Unsworth is that you never need to ask her a question. Within minutes of encountering her, she will have provided you with a complete list of every thought in her head and every incident she has witnessed or been involved in since the last time you saw her.
‘Stood there like a china figurine, he did. As if someone had made him from pottery! His face barely moved as he spoke. He was ever so polite—almost too polite, as if he was putting it on.’
‘Ah,’ I said again.
‘I had a funny feeling from the moment I set eyes on him. “Don’t be silly, Blanche. What are you fretting about?” I said to myself. “Gentleman’s nicely turned out, nice and polite, a bit reserved, maybe, but that’s nothing to be concerned about. If only every gentleman caller should be so well mannered.” Then he gave me a parcel to give to you, and he said it was for Inspector Edward Catchpool, and it’s addressed to you, so I’ve left it well alone. It’s all wrapped up, and I’m sure it’s nothing too nasty, but you just never know, do you? It looks a bit lumpy to me.’
‘Where is the parcel?’ I asked.
‘I must say, I didn’t like the look of it any more than I liked the look of him,’ said Mrs Unsworth. ‘I’m not sure you should open it. I wouldn’t, if I were you.’
‘You don’t need to worry about me, Mrs Unsworth.’
‘Oh, but I do! I do worry.’
‘Where is the parcel?’
‘Well, it’s in the dining room, but … Wait!’ She stood in front of me to prevent me from proceeding along the hall. ‘I can’t let you open it without warning you. What happened next put the wind up me good and proper. You need to hear the whole story.’
Did I? I tried my best to look patient.
‘I asked the gentleman’s name and he ignored me. Acted as if I’d never asked! That’s what I mean: he tried to seem ever so polite, but would a true gentleman ignore a reasonable question like that from a lady? I’m telling you, he was a piece of goods. He had a cunning glint in his eye.’
‘I’m sure he did.’
‘A funny smile, too. Not the sort of smile you see every day. And then he opened his mouth and said—and I’ll never forget it, as long as I live! One of the most peculiar things as ever happened to me! He said, “Tell Inspector Catchpool that the eel feels down at heel.”’
‘What?’
Blanche Unsworth obediently repeated the words.
‘The eel feels down at heel?’ I said.
‘Those very words! Well, I thought to myself: no point being the gracious hostess if he’s going to toy with me in such an unpleasant manner. “Please tell me your name,” I said, and he’ll have known I hadn’t taken kindly to his nonsense, but he didn’t care. Just said it again, didn’t he? “The eel feels down at heel.”’
‘I must see the parcel,’ I said. This time, mercifully, my landlady stood aside and allowed me to pass.
I stopped abruptly when I saw the wrapped package on the dining room table. I knew straight away what it was.
‘The eel feels down at heel! Ha!’
‘Why are you laughing? Do you know what it means?’ Mrs Unsworth asked.
‘I think I do, yes.’
She stood back, covered her mouth with her hands and gasped as I pulled off the wrapping. Once the object was revealed she said with reverence, ‘It’s … it’s a type-writer.’
‘I need some paper,’ I told her. ‘I’ll explain in due course, once I’ve tested this thing to find out if I’m right.’
‘Paper? Well, I’m sure I … It’s no trouble, of course, but—’
‘Then please bring some, without delay.’
Soon afterwards, with Mrs Unsworth standing behind me, I inserted a sheet of writing paper into the machine. I typed, ‘The eel feels down at heel’. It sounded as if it might be the first line of a funny music hall song. The next line, I thought, might be, ‘He kneels beside a wheel’. I typed that too.
‘Who is this eel?’ asked Mrs Unsworth. ‘And why, I should like to know, is he kneeling beside a wheel?’
I pulled the paper out of the typewriter and surveyed the results of my creativity. ‘Yes!’ I said.
‘If you don’t tell me what this is all about, I shan’t get a wink of sleep tonight,’ Mrs Unsworth threatened.
‘For some time, Poirot and I have been looking for a particular typewriter. This, it turns out, is the one. It has a faulty letter “e”. Look closely.’ I passed her the piece of paper.
‘But … what does that have to do with an eel?’ she asked.
‘Whoever delivered the typewriter obviously wanted me to test it by typing a phrase that contains lots of “e”s. That’s all that matters—not the eel and not the wheel, either. They’re not real. What matters is: who was the strange man who came here, and whose is this machine?’
I had been imagining how pleased Poirot would be when I told him about this new development, but in fact—as I would have realized straight away if I weren’t such a cloth-headed fool—it moved us no further forward.
‘I expect the man you met was merely a messenger, not the true sender,’ I told Blanche Unsworth. ‘It’s not his name we need, it’s the name of whoever put him up to it.’
I excused myself, went up to my room and lay down on the bed, feeling as down at heel as our friend the eel. Somebody was taunting me—someone who had gone to great lengths to draw my attention to my own ignorance: ‘Here is the typewriter you’re after. Now all you have to do is work out where it came from—which you can’t, can you? And you never will, because I’m cleverer than you.’ I could almost hear the words being spoken in a sneering tone of voice.
‘You might be cleverer than I am,’ I said, though the person I was addressing had no chance of hearing me, ‘but I wouldn’t assume you’re cleverer than Hercule Poirot.’
CHAPTER 30
The Mystery of Three Quarters
The next day, battling against the foul weather, I travelled to Combingham Hall with Rowland McCrodden. It was not an enjoyable journey. I spent much of it pondering why it should be the case that conversations between Poirot, McCrodden and me flowed easily, while McCrodden and I, minus Poirot, couldn’t seem to talk in a way that was not stilted and—on his part, at least—ill-tempered.
Combingham Hall had a bland, institutional frontage. Though it was evidently an old building, it had an oddly temporary look about it, as if it had been positioned, rather than rooted, in its surrounding landscape. I found it strange to think that, the following day, everybody involved in the peculiar puzzle surrounding the death of Barnabas Pandy would congregate here, on Poirot’s orders.
Rowland McCrodden and I found the front door of the Hall ajar, in spite of the driving rain. Unsurprisingly, the front part of the tiled floor was wet, and there was some mud mixed in with the water. I immediately thought about Poirot’s poor shoes and the suffering they might already have endured. There were a few muddy paw prints dotted about—the handiwork of Hopscotch the dog, I assumed. (Or ‘paws-iwork’, I smiled to myself.)
There was no one to greet us. McCrodden turned to me with a dissatisfied expression and seemed about to make a complaint when we both
heard a shuffling sound. An elderly man had appeared from the vaulted corridor ahead and was making slow progress towards us.
‘I see you’ve found your way in, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘My name is Kingsbury. Let me take your hats and coats, and then I’ll show you to your rooms. Nice rooms, you’ve both got. Pleasing aspect. Oh—and then Mr Porrott has requested that you both join him in Mr Pandy’s study.’ As he shuffled closer, I noticed that he was shivering. Still, he made no move to close the front door before inviting us to follow him upstairs.
The bedroom assigned to me was enormous, austere, uncomfortable and cold. The bed had a lumpy mattress and a lumpy pillow: a disheartening combination. The view had the potential to be delightful as soon as the rain stopped lashing at the windows.
Kingsbury had told us how to find the room he still called ‘Mr Pandy’s study’, and once I was ready to go downstairs I knocked on McCrodden’s door, which was next to mine. When I asked him if his bedroom was to his liking, he replied coldly, ‘It contains a bed and a washbasin, which is all I require.’ The clear implication was that only a cosseted degenerate would hope for more.
We found Poirot installed in a high-backed leather armchair in the study, with a striped blanket in orange, brown and black draped around his shoulders. He was drinking a tisane. I smelled it as soon as we entered the room and could see the steam rising from it.
‘Catchpool!’ he said in a tone of anguish. ‘I do not understand what is the matter with you English. It is as cold in this room as it is outside!’
The Mystery of Three Quarters Page 21
