万圣节前夜的谋杀15

II

When Poirot had left the house, he went for a short walk along a turningoff the main road which was labelled “Helpsly Cemetery Road.” Thecemetery in question did not take him long to reach. It was at most tenminutes’ walk. It was obviously a cemetery that had been made in the lastten years, presumably to cope with the rising importance of Woodleigh asa residential entity. The church, a church of reasonable size dating fromsome two or three centuries back, had had a very small enclosure round italready well filled. So the new cemetery had come into being with a foot-path connecting it across two fields. It was, Poirot thought, a businesslike,modern cemetery with appropriate sentiments on marble or granite slabs;it had urns, chippings, small plantations of bushes or flowers. No interest-ing old epitaphs or inscriptions. Nothing much for an antiquarian.

Cleaned, neat, tidy and with suitable sentiments expressed.

He came to a halt to read a tablet erected on a grave contemporary withseveral others near it, all dating within two or three years back. It bore asimple inscription, “Sacred to the Memory of Hugo Edmund Drake, be-loved husband of Rowena Arabella Drake, who departed this life Marchthe 20th 19—”

He giveth his beloved sleep

It occurred to Poirot, fresh from the impact of the dynamic RowenaDrake, that perhaps sleep might have come in welcome guise to the lateMr. Drake.

An alabaster urn had been fixed in position there and contained the re-mains of flowers. An elderly gardener, obviously employed to tend thegraves of good citizens departed this life, approached Poirot in the pleas-urable hopes of a few minutes’ conversation while he laid his hoe and hisbroom aside.

“Stranger in these parts, I think,” he said, “aren’t you, sir?”

“It is very true,” said Poirot. “I am a stranger with you as were my fath-ers before me.”

“Ah, aye. We’ve got that text somewhere or summat very like it. Overdown the other corner, it is.” He went on, “He was a nice gentleman, hewere, Mr. Drake. A cripple, you know. He had that infant paralysis, as theycall it, though as often as not it isn’t infants as suffer from it. It’s grown-ups. Men and women too. My wife, she had an aunt, who caught it inSpain, she did. Went there with a tour, she did, and bathed somewhere insome river. And they said afterwards as it was the water infection, but Idon’t think they know much. Doctors don’t, if you ask me. Still, it’s made alot of difference nowadays. All this inoculation they give the children, andthat. Not nearly as many cases as there were. Yes, he were a nice gentle-man and didn’t complain, though he took it hard, being a cripple, I mean.

He’d been a good sportsman, he had, in his time. Used to bat for us here inthe village team. Many a six he’s hit to the boundary. Yes, he were a nicegentleman.”

“He died of an accident, did he not?”

“That’s right. Crossing the road, towards twilight this was. One of thesecars come along, a couple of these young thugs in it with beards growingup to their ears. That’s what they say. Didn’t stop either. Went on. Neverlooked to see. Abandoned the car somewhere in a car park twenty milesaway. Wasn’t their own car either. Pinched from a car park somewhere.

Ah, it’s terrible, a lot of those accidents nowadays. And the police oftencan’t do anything about them. Very devoted to him, his wife was. Took itvery hard, she did. She comes here, nearly every week, brings flowers andputs them here. Yes, they were a very devoted couple. If you ask me, shewon’t stay here much longer.”

“Really? But she has a very nice house here.”

“Yes, oh yes. And she does a lot in the village, you know. All these things—women’s institutes and teas and various societies and all the rest of it.

Runs a lot of things, she does. Runs a bit too many for some people. Bossy,you know. Bossy and interfering, some people say. But the vicar relies onher. She starts things. Women’s activities and all the rest of it. Gets uptours and outings. Ah yes. Often thought myself, though I wouldn’t like tosay it to my wife, that all these good works as ladies does, doesn’t makeyou any fonder of the ladies themselves. Always know best, they do. Al-ways telling you what you should do and what you shouldn’t do. No free-dom. Not much freedom anywhere nowadays.”

“Yet you think Mrs. Drake may leave here?”

“I shouldn’t wonder if she didn’t go away and live somewhere abroad.

They liked being abroad, used to go there for holidays.”

“Why do you think she wants to leave here?”

A sudden rather roguish smile appeared on the old man’s face.

“Well, I’d say, you know, that she’s done all she can do here. To put itscriptural, she needs another vineyard to work in. She needs more goodworks. Aren’t no more good works to be done round here. She’s done allthere is, and even more than there need be, so some think. Yes.”

“She needs a new field in which to labour?” suggested Poirot.

“You’ve hit it. Better settle somewhere else where she can put a lot ofthings right and bully a lot of other people. She’d got us where she wantsus here and there’s not much more for her to do.”

“It may be,” said Poirot.

“Hasn’t even got her husband to look after. She looked after him a goodfew years. That gave her a kind of object in life, as you might say. Whatwith that and a lot of outside activities, she could be busy all the time.

She’s the type likes being busy all the time. And she’s no children, more’sthe pity. So it’s my view as she’ll start all over again somewhere else.”

“You may have something there. Where would she go?”

“I couldn’t say as to that. One of these Riviery places, maybe—or there’sthem as goes to Spain or Portugal. Or Greece—I’ve heard her speak ofGreece—Islands. Mrs. Butler, she’s been to Greece on one of them tours.

Hellenic, they call them, which sounds more like fire and brimstone tome.”

Poirot smiled.

“The isles of Greece,” he murmured. Then he asked: “Do you like her?”

“Mrs. Drake? I wouldn’t say I exactly like her. She’s a good woman. Doesher duty to her neighbour and all that—but she’ll always need a power ofneighbours to do her duty to — and if you ask me, nobody really likespeople who are always doing their duty. Tells me how to prune my roseswhich I know well enough myself. Always at me to grow some newfangledkind of vegetable. Cabbage is good enough for me, and I’m sticking to cab-bage.”

Poirot smiled. He said, “I must be on my way. Can you tell me whereNicholas Ransom and Desmond Holland live?”

“Past the church, third house on the left. They board with Mrs. Brand, gointo Medchester Technical every day to study. They’ll be home by now.”

He gave Poirot an interested glance.

“So that’s the way your mind is working, is it? There’s some already asthinks the same.”

“No, I think nothing as yet. But they were among those present—that isall.”

As he took leave and walked away, he mused, “Among those present—Ihave come nearly to the end of my list.”

 

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