II
It was Hugh Chandler’s magnificent physique that impressed Hercule Poirot more than anything
else. Tall, magnificently proportioned, with a terrific chest and shoulders, and a
tawny1 head of
hair. There was a tremendous air of strength and
virility2 about him.
On their arrival at Diana’s house, she had at once rung up Admiral Chandler, and they had
forthwith gone over to Lyde
Manor3 where they had found tea waiting on the long terrace. And
with the tea, three men. There was Admiral Chandler, white haired, looking older than his years,
his shoulders bowed as though by an overheavy burden, and his eyes dark and brooding. A
contrast to him was his friend Colonel Frobisher, a dried-up, tough, little man with reddish hair
turning grey at the temples. A restless, irascible, snappy, little man, rather like a terrier—but the
possessor of a pair of extremely shrewd eyes. He had a habit of drawing down his brows over his
eyes and lowering his head, thrusting it forward, whilst those same shrewd little eyes studied you
piercingly. The third man was Hugh.
“Fine
specimen4, eh?” said Colonel Frobisher.
Hercule Poirot nodded his head. He and Frobisher were sitting close together. The other three
had their chairs on the far side of the tea table and were chatting together in an
animated8 but
slightly artificial manner.
Poirot murmured: “Yes, he is magnificent—magnificent. He is the young Bull—yes, one
might say the Bull
dedicated9 to Poseidon . . . A perfect specimen of healthy manhood.”
“Looks fit enough, doesn’t he?”
Frobisher sighed. His shrewd little eyes stole sideways, considering Hercule Poirot. Presently
he said:
“I know who you are, you know.”
“Ah that, it is no secret!”
Poirot waved a royal hand. He was not
incognito10, the gesture seemed to say. He was
travelling as Himself.
After a minute or two Frobisher asked: “Did the girl get you down—over this business?”
“The business—?”
“The business of young Hugh . . . Yes, I see you know all about it. But I can’t quite see why
she went to you . . . Shouldn’t have thought this sort of thing was in your line—meantersay it’s
more a medical show.”
“All kinds of things are in my line . . . You would be surprised.”
“I mean I can’t see quite what she expected you could do.”
“Miss Maberly,” said Poirot, “is a fighter.”
Colonel Frobisher nodded a warm
assent11.
“Yes, she’s a fighter all right. She’s a fine kid. She won’t give up. All the same, you know,
there are some things that you can’t fight. . . .”
His face looked suddenly old and tired.
Poirot dropped his voice still lower. He murmured
discreetly12:
“There is—insanity, I understand, in the family?”
Frobisher nodded.
“Only crops up now and again,” he murmured. “Skips a generation or two. Hugh’s
grandfather was the last.”
Poirot threw a quick glance in the direction of the other three. Diana was holding the
conversation well, laughing and
bantering13 Hugh. You would have said that the three of them had
not a care in the world.
“What form did the madness take?” Poirot asked softly.
“The old boy became pretty violent in the end. He was
perfectly14 all right up to thirty—normal
as could be. Then he began to go a bit queer. It was some time before people noticed it. Then a lot
of
rumours15 began going around. People started talking properly. Things happened that were
hushed up. But—well,” he raised his shoulders, “ended up as mad as a hatter, poor devil!
He paused for a moment and then added:
“He lived to be quite an old man, I believe . . . That’s what Hugh is afraid of, of course.
That’s why he doesn’t want to see a doctor. He’s afraid of being shut up and living shut up for
years. Can’t say I blame him. I’d feel the same.”
“And Admiral Chandler, how does he feel?”
“It’s broken him up completely,” Frobisher spoke shortly.
“He is very fond of his son?”
“Wrapped up in the boy. You see, his wife was drowned in a boating accident when the boy
was only ten years old. Since then he’s lived for nothing but the child.”
“Worshipped her. Everybody worshipped her. She was—she was one of the loveliest women
I’ve ever known.” He paused a moment and then said jerkily, “Care to see her portrait?”
“I should like to see it very much.”
Frobisher pushed back his chair and rose. Aloud he said:
“Going to show M. Poirot one or two things, Charles. He’s a bit of a
connoisseur18.”
The Admiral raised a vague hand. Frobisher tramped along the terrace and Poirot followed
him. For a moment Diana’s face dropped its mask of gaiety and looked an
agonized19 question.
Hugh, too, raised his head, and looked
steadily20 at the small man with the big black moustache.
Poirot followed Frobisher into the house. It was so dim at first coming in out of the sunlight
that he could hardly distinguish one article from another. But he realized that the house was full of
old and beautiful things.
Colonel Frobisher led the way to the Picture Gallery. On the panelled walls hung portraits of
dead and gone Chandlers. Faces stern and gay, men in court dress or in
Naval21 uniform. Women in
satin and pearls.
Finally Frobisher stopped under a portrait at the end of the gallery.
“Painted by Orpen,” he said gruffly.
They stood looking up at a tall woman, her hand on a greyhound’s collar. A woman with
auburn hair and an expression of radiant
vitality22.
“Boy’s the spitting image of her,” said Frobisher. “Don’t you think so?”
“In some things, yes.”
“He hasn’t got her delicacy—her femininity, of course. He’s a masculine edition—but in all
the essential things—” He broke off. “Pity he inherited from the Chandlers the one thing he could
well have done without. . . .”
They were silent. There was
melancholy23 in the air all around them—as though dead and gone
Chandlers sighed for the
taint24 that lay in their blood and which, remorselessly, from time to time,
they passed on. . . .
Hercule Poirot turned his head to look at his companion. George Frobisher was still gazing up
at the beautiful woman on the wall above him. And Poirot said softly:
“You knew her well. . . .”
Frobisher spoke jerkily.
“We were boy and girl together. I went off as a subaltern to India when she was sixteen . . .
When I got back—she was married to Charles Chandler.”
“You knew him well also?”
“Charles is one of my oldest friends. He’s my best friend—always has been.”
“Did you see much of them—after the marriage?”
“Used to spend most of my leaves here. Like a second home to me, this place. Charles and
Caroline always kept my room here—ready and waiting . . .” He squared his shoulders, suddenly
thrust his head forward
pugnaciously25. “That’s why I’m here now—to stand by in case I’m wanted.
If Charles needs me—I’m here.”
Again the shadow of tragedy crept over them.
“And what do you think—about all this?” Poirot asked.
Frobisher stood stiffly. His brows came down over his eyes.
“What I think is, the least said the better. And to be frank, I don’t see what you’re doing in
this business, M. Poirot. I don’t see why Diana roped you in and got you down here.”
“You are aware that Diana Maberly’s engagement to Hugh Chandler has been broken off?”
“Yes, I know that.”
“And you know the reason for it?”
Frobisher replied stiffly:
“I don’t know anything about that. Young people manage these things between them. Not my
Poirot said:
“Hugh Chandler told Diana that it was not right that they should marry, because he was going
out of his mind.”
“Have we got to talk about the damned thing? What do you think you can do? Hugh’s done
the right thing, poor devil. It’s not his fault, it’s heredity—germ plasm—brain cells . . . But once
he knew, well, what else could he do but break the engagement? It’s one of those things that just
has to be done.”
“If I could be convinced of that—”
“You can take it from me.”
“But you have told me nothing.”
“I tell you I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Why did Admiral Chandler force his son to leave the Navy?”
“Because it was the only thing to be done.”
“Why?”
Poirot murmured softly:
“Was it to do with some sheep being killed?”
The other man said angrily:
“So you’ve heard about that?”
“Diana told me.”
“That girl had far better keep her mouth shut.”
“She doesn’t know.”
“What doesn’t she know?”
“Oh well, if you must have it . . . Chandler heard a noise that night. Thought it might be
someone got in the house. Went out to investigate. Light in the boy’s room. Chandler went in.
Hugh asleep on bed—dead asleep—in his clothes. Blood on the clothes. Basin in the room full of
blood. His father couldn’t wake him. Next morning heard about sheep being found with their
throats cut. Questioned Hugh. Boy didn’t know anything about it. Didn’t remember going out—
and his shoes found by the side door caked in mud. Couldn’t explain the blood in the basin.
Couldn’t explain anything. Poor devil didn’t know, you understand.
“Charles came to me, talked it over. What was the best thing to be done? Then it happened
again—three nights later. After that—well, you can see for yourself. The boy had got to leave the
service. If he was here, under Charles’ eye, Charles could watch over him. Couldn’t afford to have
a scandal in the Navy. Yes, it was the only thing to be done.”
Poirot asked: “And since then?”
Frobisher said fiercely, “I’m not answering any more questions. Don’t you think Hugh knows
his own business best?”
Hercule Poirot did not answer. He was always
loath32 to admit that anyone could know better
than Hercule Poirot.
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