Taken at the Flood (17 page)

“Did any one see him catch the train?”

“No—but he telephoned from London to Miss Marchmont as soon as he got back—at 11:05.”

“That is checked?”

“Yes, we'd already put through an inquiry about calls from that number. There was a Toll call out at 11:04 to Warmsley Vale 34. That's the Marchmonts' number.”

“Very, very interesting,” murmured Poirot.

But Spence was going on painstakingly and methodically.

“Rowley Cloade left Arden at five minutes to nine. He's quite definite it wasn't earlier. About 9:10 Lynn Marchmont sees Hunter up at Mardon Wood. Granted he's run all the way from the Stag, would he have had time to meet Arden, quarrel with him, kill him and get to Mardon Wood? We're going into it and I don't think it can be done. However, now we're starting again. Far from Arden being killed at nine o'clock, he was alive at
ten minutes past ten
—that is unless your old lady is dreaming. He was either killed by the woman who dropped the lipstick, the woman in the orange scarf—or by somebody who came in
after
that woman left. And whoever did it, deliberately put the hands of the watch back to nine-ten.”

“Which if David Hunter had not happened to meet Lynn Marchmont in a very unlikely place would have been remarkably awkward for him?” said Poirot.

“Yes, it would. The 9:20 is the last train up from Warmsley Heath. It was growing dark. There are always golfers going back by it. Nobody would have noticed Hunter—indeed the station people don't know him by sight. And he didn't take a taxi at the other end. So we'd only have his sister's word for it that he arrived back at Shepherd's Court when he said he did.”

Poirot was silent and Spence asked:

“What are you thinking about, M. Poirot?”

Poirot said, “A long walk round the White House. A meeting in Mardon Woods. A telephone call later…And Lynn Marchmont is engaged to Rowley Cloade…I should like very much to know what was said over that telephone call.”

“It's the human interest that's getting you?”

“Yes,” said Poirot. “It is always the human interest.”

I
t was getting late, but there was still one more call that Poirot wanted to make. He went along to Jeremy Cloade's house.

There he was shown into Jeremy Cloade's study by a small, intelligent-looking maid.

Left alone, Poirot gazed interestedly round him. All very legal and dry as dust, he thought, even in his home. There was a large portrait of Gordon Cloade on the desk. Another faded one of Lord Edward Trenton on a horse, and Poirot was examining the latter when Jeremy Cloade came in.

“Ah, pardon.” Poirot put the photo frame down in some confusion.

“My wife's father,” said Jeremy, a faint self-congratulatory note in his voice. “And one of his best horses, Chestnut Trenton. Ran second in the Derby in 1924. Are you interested in racing?”

“Alas, no.”

“Runs away with a lot of money,” said Jeremy dryly. “Lord
Edward came a crash over it—had to go and live abroad. Yes, an expensive sport.”

But there was still the note of pride in his voice.

He himself, Poirot judged, would as soon throw his money in the street as invest it in horseflesh, but he had a secret admiration and respect for those who did.

Cloade went on:

“What can I do for you, M. Poirot? As a family, I feel we owe you a debt of gratitude—for finding Major Porter to give evidence of identification.”

“The family seems very jubilant about it,” said Poirot.

“Ah,” said Jeremy dryly. “Rather premature to rejoice. Lot of water's got to pass under the bridge yet. After all, Underhay's death was accepted in Africa. Takes years to upset a thing of this kind—and Rosaleen's evidence was very positive—very positive indeed. She made a good impression you know.”

It seemed almost as though Jeremy Cloade was unwilling to bank upon any improvement in his prospects.

“I wouldn't like to give a ruling one way or the other,” he said. “Couldn't say how a case would go.”

Then, pushing aside some papers with a fretful, almost weary gesture, he said:

“But you wanted to see me?”

“I was going to ask you, Mr. Cloade, if you are really quite certain your brother did not leave a will? A will made subsequent to his marriage, I mean?”

Jeremy looked surprised.

“I don't think there's ever been any idea of such a thing. He certainly didn't make one before leaving New York.”

“He might have made one during the two days he was in London.”

“Gone to a lawyer there?”

“Or written one out himself.”

“And got it witnessed? Witnessed by whom?”

“There were three servants in the house,” Poirot reminded him. “Three servants who died the same night he did.”

“H'm—yes—but if by any chance he
did
do what you suggest, well, the will was destroyed too.”

“That is just the point. Lately a great many documents believed to have perished completely have actually been deciphered by a new process. Incinerated inside home safes, for instance, but not so destroyed that they cannot be read.”

“Well, really, M. Poirot, that is a most remarkable idea of yours…Most remarkable. But I don't think—no, I really don't believe there is anything in it…So far as I know there was no safe in the house in Sheffield Terrace. Gordon kept all valuable papers, etc., at his office—and there was certainly no will there.”

“But one might make inquiries?” Poirot was persistent. “From the A.R.P. officials, for instance? You would authorize me to do that?”

“Oh, certainly—certainly. Very kind of you to offer to undertake such a thing. But I haven't any belief whatever, I'm afraid, in your success. Still—well, it is an offchance, I suppose. You—you'll be going back to London at once, then?”

Poirot's eyes narrowed. Jeremy's tone had been unmistakably eager. Going back to London…Did they
all
want him out of the way?

Before he could answer, the door opened and Frances Cloade came in.

Poirot was struck by two things. First, by the fact that she looked shockingly ill. Secondly, by her very strong resemblance to the photograph of her father.

“M. Hercule Poirot has come to see us, my dear,” said Jeremy rather unnecessarily.

She shook hands with him and Jeremy Cloade immediately outlined to her Poirot's suggestion about a will.

Frances looked doubtful.

“It seems a very outside chance.”

“M. Poirot is going up to London and will very kindly make inquiries.”

“Major Porter, I understand, was an Air Raid Warden in that district,” said Poirot.

A curious expression passed over Mrs. Cloade's face. She said:

“Who is Major Porter?”

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

“A retired Army officer, living on his pension.”

“He really
was
in Africa?”

Poirot looked at her curiously.

“Certainly, Madame. Why not?”

She said almost absently, “I don't know. He puzzled me.”

“Yes, Mrs. Cloade,” said Poirot. “I can understand that.”

She looked sharply at him. An expression almost of fear came into her eyes.

Turning to her husband she said:

“Jeremy, I feel very much distressed about Rosaleen. She is all alone at Furrowbank and she must be frightfully upset over
David's arrest. Would you object if I asked her to come here and stay?”

“Do you really think that is advisable, my dear?” Jeremy sounded doubtful.

“Oh—advisable? I don't know! But one is human. She is such a helpless creature.”

“I rather doubt if she will accept.”

“I can at any rate make the offer.”

The lawyer said quietly: “Do so if it will make you feel happier.”

“Happier!”

The word came out with a strange bitterness. Then she gave a quick doubtful glance at Poirot.

Poirot murmured formally:

“I will take my leave now.”

She followed him out into the hall.

“You are going up to London?”

“I shall go up tomorrow, but for twenty-four hours at most. And then I return to the Stag—where you will find me, Madame, if you want me.”

She demanded sharply:

“Why should I want you?”

Poirot did not reply to the question, merely said:

“I shall be at the Stag.”

Later that night out of the darkness Frances Cloade spoke to her husband.

“I don't believe that man is going to London for the reason he said. I don't believe all that about Gordon's having made a will. Do you believe it, Jeremy?”

A hopeless, rather tired voice answered her:

“No, Frances. No—he's going for some other reason.”

“What reason?”

“I've no idea.”

Frances said, “What are we going to do, Jeremy? What are we going to
do?
”

Presently he answered:

“I think, Frances, there's only one thing to be done—”

A
rmed with the necessary credentials from Jeremy Cloade, Poirot had got the answers to his questions. They were very definite. The house was a total wreck. The site had been cleared only quite recently in preparation for rebuilding. There had been no survivors except for David Hunter and Mrs. Cloade. There had been three servants in the house: Frederick Game, Elizabeth Game and Eileen Corrigan. All three had been killed instantly. Gordon Cloade had been brought out alive, but had died on the way to hospital without recovering consciousness. Poirot took the names and addresses of the three servants' next of kin. “It is possible,” he said, “that they may have spoken to their friends something in the way of gossip or comment that might give me a pointer to some information I badly need.”

The official to whom he was speaking looked sceptical. The Games had come from Dorset, Eileen Corrigan from County Cork.

Poirot next bent his steps towards Major Porter's rooms. He remembered Porter's statement that he himself was a Warden and he wondered whether he had happened to be on duty on that particular night and whether he had seen anything of the incident in Sheffield Terrace.

He had, besides, other reasons for wanting a word with Major Porter.

As he turned the corner of Edgeway Street he was startled to see a policeman in uniform standing outside the particular house for which he was making. There was a ring of small boys and other people standing staring at the house. Poirot's heart sank as he interpreted the signs.

The constable intercepted Poirot's advance.

“Can't go in here, sir,” he said.

“What has happened?”

“You don't live in the house, do you, sir?” Poirot shook his head. “Who was it you were wishing to see?”

“I wished to see a Major Porter.”

“You a friend of his, sir?”

“No, I should not describe myself as a friend. What has happened?”

“Gentleman has shot himself, I understand. Ah, here's the Inspector.”

The door had opened and two figures came out. One was the local Inspector, the other Poirot recognized as Sergeant Graves from Warmsley Vale. The latter recognized him and promptly made himself known to the Inspector.

“Better come inside,” said the latter.

The three men reentered the house.

“They telephoned through to Warmsley Vale,” Graves explained. “And Superintendent Spence sent me up.”

“Suicide?”

The Inspector answered:

“Yes. Seems a clear case. Don't know whether having to give evidence at the inquest preyed upon his mind. People are funny that way sometimes, but I gather he's been depressed lately. Financial difficulties and one thing and another. Shot himself with his own revolver.”

Poirot asked: “Is it permitted that I go up?”

“If you like, M. Poirot. Take M. Poirot up, Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir.”

Graves led the way up to the first-floor room. It was much as Poirot remembered it: the dim colours of the old rugs, the books. Major Porter was in the big armchair. His attitude was almost natural, just the head slumped forward. His right arm hung down at his side—below it, on the rug, lay the revolver. There was still a very faint smell of acrid gunpowder in the air.

“About a couple of hours ago, they think,” said Graves. “Nobody heard the shot. The woman of the house was out shopping.”

Poirot was frowning, looking down on the quiet figure with the small scorched wound in the right temple.

“Any idea why he should do it, M. Poirot?” asked Graves.

He was respectful to Poirot because he had seen the Superintendent being respectful—though his private opinion was that Poirot was one of these frightful old dugouts.

Poirot replied absently:

“Yes—yes, there was a very good reason. That is not the difficulty.”

His glance shifted to a small table at Major Porter's left hand. There was a big solid glass ashtray on it, with a pipe and a box of matches. Nothing there. His eye roamed round the room. Then he crossed to an open rolltop desk.

It was very tidy. Papers neatly pigeon-holed. A small leather blotter in the centre, a pen tray with a pen and two pencils, a box of paper clips and a book of stamps. All very neat and orderly. An ordinary life and an orderly death—of course—that was it—that was what was missing!

He said to Graves:

“Didn't he leave any note—any letter for the coroner?”

Graves shook his head.

“No, he didn't—sort of thing one would have expected an ex-Army man to do.”

“Yes, that is very curious.”

Punctilious in life, Major Porter had not been punctilious in death. It was all wrong, Poirot thought, that Porter had left no note.

“Bit of a blow for the Cloades this,” said Graves. “It will set them back. They'll have to hunt about for someone else who knew Underhay intimately.”

He fidgeted slightly. “Anything more you want to see, M. Poirot?”

Poirot shook his head and followed Graves from the room.

On the stairs they met the landlady. She was clearly enjoying her own state of agitation and started a voluble discourse at once. Graves adroitly detached himself and left Poirot to receive the full spate.

“Can't seem to catch my breath properly. 'Eart, that's what it is. Angina Pectoria, my mother died of—fell down dead as she
was crossing the Caledonian Market. Nearly dropped down myself when I found him—oh, it did give me a turn! Never suspected anything of the kind, though 'e 'ad been low in 'is spirits for a long time. Worried over money, I think, and didn't eat enough to keep himself alive. Not that he'd ever accept a bite from us. And then yesterday he 'ad to go down to a place in Oastshire—Warmsley Vale—to give evidence in an inquest. Preyed on his mind, that did. He come back looking
awful.
Tramped about all last night. Up and down—up and down. A murdered gentleman it was and a friend of his, by all accounts. Poor dear, it did upset him. Up and down—up and down. And when I was out doing my bit of shopping—and 'aving to queue ever so long for the fish, I went up to see if he'd like a nice cuppa tea—and there he was, poor gentleman, the revolver dropped out of his hand, leaning back in his chair. Gave me an awful turn it did. 'Ad to 'ave the police in and everything. What's the world coming to, that's what I say?”

Poirot said slowly:

“The world is becoming a difficult place to live in—except for the strong.”