Seven
THE CRETAN BULL
Hercule Poirot looked thoughtfully at his visitor.
He saw a pale face with a
determined1 looking chin, eyes that were more grey than blue, and
hair that was of that real blue-black shade so seldom seen—the hyacinthine locks of ancient
Greece.
He
noted2 the well-cut, but also well-worn, country tweeds, the shabby handbag, and the
unconscious
arrogance3 of manner that lay behind the girl’s obvious nervousness. He thought to
himself:
“Ah yes, she is ‘the County’—but no money! And it must be something quite out of the way
that would bring her to me.”
Diana Maberly said, and her voice shook a little:
“I—I don’t know whether you can help me or not, M. Poirot. It’s—it’s a very extraordinary
position.”
Poirot said:
“But yes? Tell me?”
Diana Maberly said:
“I’ve come to you because I don’t know what to do! I don’t even know if there is anything to
do!”
“Will you let me be the judge of that?”
The colour surged suddenly into the girl’s face. She said rapidly and breathlessly:
“I’ve come to you because the man I’ve been engaged to for over a year has broken off our
engagement.”
“You must think,” she said, “that I’m completely mental.”
Slowly, Hercule Poirot shook his head.
“On the contrary, Mademoiselle, I have no doubt whatever but that you are extremely
intelligent. It is certainly not my métier in life to patch up the lovers’ quarrels, and I know very
well that you are quite aware of that. It is, therefore, that there is something unusual about the
breaking of this engagement. That is so, is it not?”
The girl nodded. She said in a clear, precise voice:
“Hugh broke off our engagement because he thinks he is going mad. He thinks people who
are mad should not marry.”
“And do you not agree?”
“I don’t know . . . What is being mad, after all? Everyone is a little mad.”
“It has been said so,” Poirot agreed cautiously.
“It’s only when you begin thinking you’re a poached egg or something that they have to shut
you up.”
“And your fiancé has not reached that stage?”
Diana Maberly said:
“I can’t see that there’s anything wrong with Hugh at all. He’s, oh, he’s the
sanest7 person I
know. Sound—dependable—”
“Then why does he think he is going mad?”
Poirot paused a moment before going on.
“Is there, perhaps, madness in his family?”
Reluctantly Diana jerked her head in
assent8. She said:
“His grandfather was mental, I believe—and some great-aunt or other. But what I say is, that
every family has got someone queer in it. You know, a bit half-witted or extra clever or
something!”
Her eyes were appealing.
Hercule Poirot shook his head sadly. He said:
“I am very sorry for you, Mademoiselle.”
Her chin shot out. She cried:
“I don’t want you to be sorry for me! I want you to do something!”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know—but there’s something wrong.”
“Will you tell me, Mademoiselle, all about your fiancé?”
“His name is Hugh Chandler. He’s twenty-four. His father is Admiral Chandler. They live at
Lyde
Manor10. It’s been in the Chandler family since the time of Elizabeth. Hugh’s the only son. He
went into the Navy—all the Chandlers are sailors—it’s a sort of tradition—ever since Sir Gilbert
Chandler sailed with Sir Walter Raleigh in fifteen-something-or-other. Hugh went into the Navy as
a matter of course. His father wouldn’t have heard of anything else. And yet—and yet, it was his
father who insisted on getting him out of it!”
“When was that?”
“Nearly a year ago. Quite suddenly.”
“Was Hugh Chandler happy in his profession?”
“Absolutely.”
“There was no scandal of any kind?”
“About Hugh? Absolutely nothing. He was getting on splendidly. He—he couldn’t
understand his father.”
“What reason did Admiral Chandler himself give?”
Diana said slowly:
“He never really gave a reason. Oh! he said it was necessary Hugh should learn to manage
the estate—but—but that was only a
pretext11. Even George Frobisher realized that.”
“Who is George Frobisher?”
“Colonel Frobisher. He’s Admiral Chandler’s oldest friend and Hugh’s godfather. He spends
most of his time down at the Manor.”
“And what did Colonel Frobisher think of Admiral Chandler’s determination that his son
should leave the Navy?”
“He was dumbfounded. He couldn’t understand it at all. Nobody could.”
“Not even Hugh Chandler himself?”
Diana did not answer at once. Poirot waited a minute, then he went on:
“At the time, perhaps, he, too, was astonished. But now? Has he said nothing—nothing at
all?”
Diana murmured reluctantly:
“He said—about a week ago—that—that his father was right—that it was the only thing to be
done.”
“Did you ask him why?”
“Of course. But he wouldn’t tell me.”
Hercule Poirot reflected for a minute or two. Then he said:
“Have there been any unusual occurrences in your part of the world? Starting, perhaps, about
a year ago? Something that has given rise to a lot of local talk and
surmise12?”
She flashed out: “I don’t know what you mean!”
Poirot said quietly, but with authority in his voice:
“You had better tell me.”
“There wasn’t anything—nothing of the kind you mean.”
“Of what kind then?”
“I think you’re simply
odious13! Queer things often happen on farms. It’s revenge—or the
village idiot or somebody.”
“What happened?”
She said reluctantly:
“There was a fuss about some sheep . . . Their throats were cut. Oh! it was
horrid14! But they
all belonged to one farmer and he’s a very hard man. The police thought it was some kind of spite
against him.”
“But they didn’t catch the person who had done it?”
“No.”
She added fiercely. “But if you think—”
Poirot held up his hand. He said:
“You do not know in the least what I think. Tell me this, has your fiancé consulted a doctor?”
“No, I’m sure he hasn’t.”
“Wouldn’t that be the simplest thing for him to do?”
Diana said slowly:
“He won’t. He—he hates doctors.”
“And his father?”
“I don’t think the Admiral believes much in doctors either. Says they’re a lot of
humbug15
merchants.”
“How does the Admiral seem himself? Is he well? Happy?”
Diana said in a low voice:
“He’s
aged4 terribly in—in—”
“In the last year?”
“Yes. He’s a wreck—a sort of shadow of what he used to be.”
Poirot nodded thoughtfully. Then he said:
“Did he approve of his son’s engagement?”
“Oh yes. You see, my people’s land adjoins his. We’ve been there for generations. He was
frightfully pleased when Hugh and I
fixed16 it up.”
“And now? What does he say to your engagement being broken off?”
The girl’s voice shook a little. She said:
“I met him yesterday morning. He was looking ghastly. He took my hand in both of his. He
said: ‘It’s hard on you, my girl. But the boy’s doing the right thing—the only thing he can do.’ ”
“And so,” said Hercule Poirot, “you came to me?”
She nodded. She asked: “Can you do anything?”
Hercule Poirot replied:
“I do not know. But I can at least come down and see for myself.”
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