III
As they came into the hall, they met Admiral Chandler coming in. He stood for a moment, a dark
He said in a low, gruff voice:
“Oh there you both are. M. Poirot, I would like a word with you. Come into my study.”
Frobisher went out through the open door, and Poirot followed the Admiral. He had rather the
feeling of having been summoned to the quarterdeck to give an account of himself.
The Admiral motioned Poirot to take one of the big easy chairs and himself sat down in the
other. Poirot, whilst with Frobisher, had been impressed by the other’s restlessness, nervousness
and irritability—all the signs of intense mental strain. With Admiral Chandler he felt a sense of
hopelessness, of quiet, deep despair. . . .
With a deep sigh, Chandler said: “I can’t help being sorry Diana has brought you into this . . .
Poor child, I know how hard it is for her. But—well—it is our own private tragedy, and I think
you will understand, M. Poirot, that we don’t want outsiders.”
“I can understand your feeling, certainly.”
“Diana, poor child, can’t believe it . . . I couldn’t at first. Probably wouldn’t believe it now if
I didn’t know—”
He paused.
“Know what?”
“That it’s in the blood. The
taint2, I mean.”
“And yet you agreed to the engagement?”
Admiral Chandler flushed.
“You mean, I should have put my foot down then? But at the time I’d no idea. Hugh takes
after his mother—nothing about him to remind you of the Chandlers. I hoped he’d taken after her
in every way. From his childhood
upwards3, there’s never been a trace of abnormality about him
until now. I couldn’t know that—dash it all, there’s a trace of
insanity4 in nearly every old family!”
Poirot said softly: “You have not consulted a doctor?”
Chandler roared: “No, and I’m not going to! The boy’s safe enough here with me to look
after him. They shan’t shut him up between four walls like a wild beast. . . .”
“He is safe here, you say. But are others safe?”
“What do you mean by that?”
Poirot did not reply. He looked
steadily5 into Admiral Chandler’s sad, dark eyes.
The Admiral said bitterly:
“Each man to his trade. You’re looking for a criminal! My boy’s not a criminal, M. Poirot.”
“Not yet.”
“What do you mean by ‘not yet?’ ”
“These things increase . . . Those sheep—”
“Who told you about the sheep?”
“Diana Maberly. And also your friend Colonel Frobisher.”
“George would have done better to keep his mouth shut.”
“He is a very old friend of yours is he not?”
“My best friend,” the Admiral said gruffly.
“And he was a friend of—your wife’s too?”
Chandler smiled.
“Yes. George was in love with Caroline, I believe. When she was very young. He’s never
married. I believe that’s the reason. Ah well, I was the lucky one—or so I thought. I carried her off
—only to lose her.”
He sighed and his shoulders
sagged6.
Poirot said: “Colonel Frobisher was with you when your wife was—drowned?”
Chandler nodded.
“Yes, he was with us down in Cornwall when it happened. She and I were out in the boat
together—he happened to stay at home that day. I’ve never understood how that boat came to
capsize . . . Must have sprung a sudden leak. We were right out in the bay—strong tide running. I
held her up as long as I could . . .” His voice broke. “Her body was washed up two days later.
Thank the Lord we hadn’t taken little Hugh out with us! At least, that’s what I thought at the time.
Now—well—better for Hugh, poor devil, perhaps, if he had been with us. If it had all been
finished and done for then. . . .”
Again there came that deep, hopeless sigh.
“We’re the last of the Chandlers, M. Poirot. There will be no more Chandlers at Lyde after
we’re gone. When Hugh got engaged to Diana, I hoped—well, it’s no good talking of that. Thank
God, they didn’t marry. That’s all I can say!”
IV
Hercule Poirot sat on a seat in the rose garden. Beside him sat Hugh Chandler. Diana Maberly had
just left them.
The young man turned a handsome, tortured face towards his companion.
He said:
“You’ve got to make her understand, M. Poirot.”
He paused for a minute and then went on:
“You see, Di’s a fighter. She won’t give in. She won’t accept what she’s darned well got to
accept. She—she will go on believing that I’m—sane.”
“While you yourself are quite certain that you are—pardon me—insane?”
“I’m not actually hopelessly off my head yet—but it’s getting worse. Diana doesn’t know,
bless her. She’s only seen me when I am—all right.”
“And when you are—all wrong, what happens?”
Hugh Chandler took a long breath. Then he said:
“For one thing—I dream. And when I dream, I am mad. Last night, for instance—I wasn’t a
man any longer. I was first of all a bull—a mad bull—racing about in blazing sunlight—tasting
dust and blood in my mouth—dust and blood . . . And then I was a dog—a great slavering dog. I
had hydrophobia—children
scattered8 and fled as I came—men tried to shoot me—someone set
down a great bowl of water for me and I couldn’t drink. I couldn’t drink. . . .”
He paused. “I woke up. And I knew it was true. I went over to the washstand. My mouth was
parched—horribly parched—and dry. I was thirsty. But I couldn’t drink, M. Poirot . . . I couldn’t
swallow . . . Oh, my God, I wasn’t able to drink. . . .”
Hercule Poirot made a gentle
murmur9. Hugh Chandler went on. His hands were
clenched10 on
his knees. His face was thrust forward, his eyes were half closed as though he saw something
coming towards him.
“And there are things that aren’t dreams. Things that I see when I’m wide awake. Spectres,
frightful11 shapes. They leer at me. And sometimes I’m able to fly, to leave my bed, and fly through
the air, to ride the winds—and fiends bear me company!”
“Tcha, tcha,” said Hercule Poirot.
It was a gentle, deprecating little noise.
Hugh Chandler turned to him.
“Oh, there isn’t any doubt. It’s in my blood. It’s my family heritage. I can’t escape. Thank
God I found it out in time! Before I’d married Diana. Suppose we’d had a child and handed on this
frightful thing to him!”
He laid a hand on Poirot’s arm.
“You must make her understand. You must tell her. She’s got to forget. She’s got to. There
will be someone else someday. There’s young Steve Graham—he’s crazy about her and he’s an
awfully12 good chap. She’d be happy with him—and safe. I want her—to be happy. Graham’s hard
up, of course, and so are her people, but when I’m gone they’ll be all right.”
Hercule’s voice interrupted him.
“Why will they be ‘all right’ when you are gone?”
Hugh Chandler smiled. It was a gentle, lovable smile. He said:
“There’s my mother’s money. She was an heiress, you know. It came to me. I’ve left it all to
Diana.”
Hercule Poirot sat back in his chair. He said: “Ah!”
Then he said:
“But you may live to be quite an old man, Mr. Chandler.”
Hugh Chandler shook his head. He said sharply:
“No, M. Poirot. I am not going to live to be an old man.”
“My God! Look!” He stared over Poirot’s shoulder. “There—standing by you . . . it’s a
skeleton—its bones are shaking. It’s calling to me—beckoning—”
His eyes, the pupils widely
dilated14, stared into the sunshine. He leaned suddenly sideways as
Then, turning to Poirot, he said in an almost childlike voice:
“You didn’t see—anything?”
Slowly, Hercule Poirot shook his head.
“I don’t mind this so much—seeing things. It’s the blood I’m frightened of. The blood in my
room—on my clothes . . . We had a parrot. One morning it was there in my room with its throat
cut—and I was lying on the bed with the razor in my hand wet with its blood!”
He leant closer to Poirot.
“Even just lately things have been killed,” he whispered. “All around—in the village—out on
the downs. Sheep, young lambs—a collie dog. Father locks me in at night, but sometimes—
sometimes—the door’s open in the morning. I must have a key hidden somewhere but I don’t
know where I’ve hidden it. I don’t know. It isn’t I who do these things—it’s someone else who
comes into me—who takes possession of me—who turns me from a man into a
raving17 monster
who wants blood and who can’t drink water. . . .”
Suddenly he buried his face in his hands.
After a minute or two, Poirot asked:
“I still do not understand why you have not seen a doctor?”
Hugh Chandler shook his head. He said:
“Don’t you really understand?
Physically18 I’m strong. I’m as strong as a bull. I might live for
years—years—shut up between four walls! That I can’t face! It would be better to go out
altogether . . . There are ways, you know. An accident, cleaning a gun . . . that sort of thing. Diana
will understand . . . I’d rather take my own way out!”
He looked
defiantly19 at Poirot, but Poirot did not respond to the challenge. Instead he asked
mildly:
“What do you eat and drink?”
Hugh Chandler flung his head back. He roared with laughter.
“Nightmares after indigestion? Is that your idea?”
Poirot merely repeated gently:
“What do you eat and drink?”
“Just what everybody else eats and drinks.”
“No special medicine? Cachets? Pills?”
“Good Lord, no. Do you really think patent pills would cure my trouble?” He quoted
derisively20: “ ‘Canst thou then minister to a mind diseased?’ ”
Hercule Poirot said drily:
“I am trying to. Does anyone in this house suffer with eye trouble?”
Hugh Chandler stared at him. He said:
“Father’s eyes give him a good deal of trouble. He has to go to an
oculist21 fairly often.”
“Ah!” Poirot
meditated22 for a moment or two. Then he said:
“Colonel Frobisher, I suppose, has spent much of his life in India?”
“Yes, he was in the Indian Army. He’s very keen on India—talks about it a lot—native
traditions—and all that.”
Poirot murmured “Ah!” again.
Then he remarked:
“I see that you have cut your chin.”
Hugh put his hand up.
“Yes, quite a nasty
gash23. Father startled me one day when I was shaving. I’m a bit nervy
these days, you know. And I’ve had a bit of a rash over my chin and neck. Makes shaving
difficult.”
Poirot said:
“Oh, I do. Uncle George gave me one.”
He gave a sudden laugh.
“We’re talking like a woman’s beauty parlour.
Lotions25, soothing creams, patent pills, eye
trouble. What does it all amount to? What are you getting at, M. Poirot?”
Poirot said quietly:
“I am trying to do the best I can for Diana Maberly.”
Hugh’s mood changed. His face sobered. He laid a hand on Poirot’s arm.
“Yes, do what you can for her. Tell her she’s got to forget. Tell her that it’s no good hoping
. . . Tell her some of the things I’ve told you . . . Tell her—oh, tell her for God’s sake to keep away
from me! That’s the only thing she can do for me now. Keep away—and try to forget!”
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