万圣节前夜的谋杀33

Twenty-seven

“Now I’ve got you here at last,” said Mrs. Oliver, “I want to know all abouteverything.”

She looked at Poirot with determination and asked severely:

“Why haven’t you come sooner?”

“My excuses, Madame, I have been much occupied assisting the policewith their inquiries.”

“It’s criminals who do that. What on earth made you think of RowenaDrake being mixed up in a murder? Nobody else would have dreamed ofit?”

“It was simple as soon as I got the vital clue.”

“What do you call the vital clue?”

“Water. I wanted someone who was at the party and who was wet, andwho shouldn’t have been wet. Whoever killed Joyce Reynolds would ne-cessarily have got wet. You hold down a vigorous child with its head in afull bucket of water, and there will be struggling and splashing and youare bound to be wet. So something has got to happen to provide an inno-cent explanation of how you got wet. When everyone crowded into thedining room for the Snapdragon, Mrs. Drake took Joyce with her to the lib-rary. If your hostess asks you to come with her, naturally you go. And cer-tainly Joyce had no suspicion of Mrs. Drake. All Miranda had told her wasthat she had once seen a murder committed. And so Joyce was killed andher murderer was fairly well soaked with water. There must be a reasonfor that and she set about creating a reason. She had to get a witness as tohow she got wet. She waited on the landing with an enormous vase offlowers filled with water. In due course Miss Whittaker came out from theSnapdragon room — it was hot in there. Mrs. Drake pretended to startnervously, and let the vase go, taking care that it flooded her person as itcrashed down to the hall below. She ran down the stairs and she and MissWhittaker picked up the pieces and the flowers while Mrs. Drake com-plained at the loss of her beautiful vase. She managed to give Miss Whit-taker the impression that she had seen something or someone coming outof the room where a murder had been committed. Miss Whittaker tookthe statement at its face value, but when she mentioned it to Miss Emlyn,Miss Emlyn realized the really interesting thing about it. And so she urgedMiss Whittaker to tell me the story.

“And so,” said Poirot, twirling his moustaches, “I, too, knew who themurderer of Joyce was.”

“And all the time Joyce had never seen any murder committed at all!”

“Mrs. Drake did not know that. But she had always suspected thatsomeone had been there in the Quarry Wood when she and Michael Gar-field had killed Olga Seminoff, and might have seen it happen.”

“When did you know it had been Miranda and not Joyce?”

“As soon as common sense forced me to accept the universal verdictthat Joyce was a liar. Then Miranda was clearly indicated. She was fre-quently in the Quarry Wood, observing birds and squirrels. Joyce was, asMiranda told me, her best friend. She said: ‘We tell each other everything.’

Miranda was not at the party, so the compulsive liar Joyce could use thestory her friend had told her of having once seen a murder committed—probably in order to impress you, Madame, the well-known crime writer.”

“That’s right, blame it all on me.”

“No, no.”

“Rowena Drake,” mused Mrs. Oliver. “I still can’t believe it of her.”

“She had all the qualities necessary. I have always wondered,” he added,“exactly what sort of woman Lady Macbeth was. What would she be like ifyou met her in real life? Well, I think I have met her.”

“And Michael Garfield? They seem such an unlikely pair.”

“Interesting—Lady Macbeth and Narcissus, an unusual combination.”

“Lady Macbeth,” Mrs. Oliver murmured thoughtfully.

“She was a handsome woman—efficient and competent—a born admin-istrator — an unexpectedly good actress. You should have heard herlamenting over the death of the little boy Leopold and weeping large sobsinto a dry handkerchief.”

“Disgusting.”

“You remember I asked you who, in your opinion, were or were not nicepeople.”

“Was Michael Garfield in love with her?”

“I doubt if Michael Garfield has ever loved anyone but himself. Hewanted money—a lot of money. Perhaps he believed at first he could influ-ence Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe to dote upon him to the extent of making aWill in his favour—but Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe was not that kind of wo-man.”

“What about the forgery? I still don’t understand that. What was thepoint of it all?”

“It was confusing at first. Too much forgery, one might say. But if oneconsidered it, the purpose of it was clear. You had only to consider whatactually happened.

“Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe’s fortune all went to Rowena Drake. The codicilproduced was so obviously forged that any lawyer would spot it. It wouldbe contested, and the evidence of experts would result in its being upset,and the original Will would stand. As Rowena Drake’s husband had re-cently died she would inherit everything.”

“But what about the codicil that the cleaning woman witnessed?”

“My surmise is that Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe discovered that Michael Gar-field and Rowena Drake were having an affair—probably before her hus-band died. In her anger Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe made a codicil to her Willleaving everything to her au pair girl. Probably the girl told Michael aboutthis—she was hoping to marry him.”

“I thought it was young Ferrier?”

“That was a plausible tale told me by Michael. There was no confirma-tion of it.”

“Then if he knew there was a real codicil why didn’t he marry Olga andget hold of the money that way?”

“Because he doubted whether she really would get the money. There issuch a thing as undue influence. Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe was an elderlywoman and a sick woman also. All her preceding Wills had been in favourof her own kith and kin—good sensible Wills such as law courts approveof. This girl from foreign parts had been known to her only a year—andhad no kind of claim upon her. That codicil even though genuine couldhave been upset. Besides, I doubt if Olga could have put through the pur-chase of a Greek island—or would even have been willing to do so. Shehad no influential friends, or contacts in business circles. She was attrac-ted to Michael, but she looked upon him as a good prospect matrimonially,who would enable her to live in England—which is what she wanted todo.”

“And Rowena Drake?”

“She was infatuated. Her husband had been for many years a crippledinvalid. She was middle-aged but she was a passionate woman, and intoher orbit came a young man of unusual beauty. Women fell for him easily—but he wanted—not the beauty of women—but the exercise of his owncreative urge to make beauty. For that he wanted money—a lot of money.

As for love — he only loved himself. He was Narcissus. There is an oldFrench song I heard many years ago—”

He hummed softly.

“Regarde, Narcisse

Regarde dans l’eau

Regarde, Narcisse, que tu es beau

Il n’y a au monde

Que la Beauté

Et la Jeunesse,

Hélas! Et la Jeunesse…

Regarde, Narcisse…

Regarde dans l’eau….”

“I can’t believe—I simply can’t believe that anyone would do murderjust to make a garden on a Greek island,” said Mrs. Oliver unbelievingly.

“Can’t you? Can’t you visualize how he held it in his mind? Bare rock,perhaps, but so shaped as to hold possibilities. Earth, cargoes of fertileearth to clothe the bare bones of the rocks — and then plants, seeds,shrubs, trees. Perhaps he read in the paper of a shipping millionaire whohad created an island garden for the woman he loved. And so it came tohim—he would make a garden, not for a woman, but—for himself.”

“It still seems to me quite mad.”

“Yes. That happens. I doubt if he even thought of his motive as sordid.

He thought of it only as necessary for the creation of more beauty. He’dgone mad on creation. The beauty of the Quarry Wood, the beauty ofother gardens he’d laid out and made—and now he envisaged even more—a whole island of beauty. And there was Rowena Drake, infatuated withhim. What did she mean to him but the source of money with which hecould create beauty. Yes—he had become mad, perhaps. Whom the godsdestroy, they first drive mad.”

“He really wanted his island so much? Even with Rowena Drake tiedround his neck as well? Bossing him the whole time?”

“Accidents can happen. I think one might possibly have happened toMrs. Drake in due course.”

“One more murder?”

“Yes. It started simply. Olga had to be removed because she knew aboutthe codicil—and she was also to be the scapegoat, branded as a forger.

Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe had hidden the original document, so I think thatyoung Ferrier was given money to produce a similar forged document. Soobviously forged that it would arouse suspicion at once. That sealed hisdeath warrant. Lesley Ferrier, I soon decided, had had no arrangement orlove affair with Olga. That was a suggestion made to me by Michael Gar-field, but I think it was Michael who paid money to Lesley. It was MichaelGarfield who was laying siege to the au pair girl’s affections, warning herto keep quiet about this and not tell her employer, speaking of possiblemarriage in the future but at the same time marking her down cold-bloodedly as the victim whom he and Rowena Drake would need if themoney was to come to them. It was not necessary for Olga Seminoff to beaccused of forgery, or prosecuted. She needed only to be suspected of it.

The forgery appeared to benefit her. It could have been done by her veryeasily, there was evidence to the effect that she did copy her employer’shandwriting and if she was suddenly to disappear, it would be assumedthat she had been not only a forger, but quite possibly might have assistedher employer to die suddenly. So on a suitable occasion Olga Seminoffdied. Lesley Ferrier was killed in what is purported to have been a gangknifing or a knifing by a jealous woman. But the knife that was found inthe well corresponds very closely with the knife wounds that he suffered. Iknew that Olga’s body must be hidden somewhere in this neighbourhood,but I had no idea where until I heard Miranda one day inquiring about awishing well, urging Michael Garfield to take her there. And he was refus-ing. Shortly afterwards when I was talking to Mrs. Goodbody, I said Iwondered where that girl had disappeared to, and she said ‘Ding dongdell, pussy’s in the well’ and then I was quite sure the girl’s body was inthe wishing well. I discovered it was in the wood, in the Quarry Wood, onan incline not far from Michael Garfield’s cottage and I thought that Mir-anda could have seen either the actual murder or the disposal of the bodylater. Mrs. Drake and Michael feared that someone had been a witness—but they had no idea who it was—and as nothing happened they werelulled into security. They made their plans—they were in no hurry, butthey set things in motion. She talked about buying land abroad — gavepeople the idea she wanted to get away from Woodleigh Common. Toomany sad associations, referring always to her grief over her husband’sdeath. Everything was nicely in train and then came the shock of Hal-lowe’en and Joyce’s sudden assertion of having witnessed a murder. Sonow Rowena knew, or thought she knew, who it had been in the woodthat day. So she acted quickly. But there was more to come. Young Leo-pold asked for money—there were things he wanted to buy, he said. Whathe guessed or knew is uncertain, but he was Joyce’s brother, and so theyprobably thought he knew far more than he really did. And so—he, too,died.”

“You suspected her because of the water clue,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Howdid you come to suspect Michael Garfield?”

“He fitted,” said Poirot simply. “And then—the last time I spoke to Mi-chael Garfield, I was sure. He said to me, laughing—‘Get thee beyond me,Satan. Go and join your police friends.’ And I knew then, quite certainly. Itwas the other way round. I said to myself: ‘I am leaving you behind me,Satan.’ A Satan so young and beautiful as Lucifer can appear to mortals….”

There was another woman in the room—until now she had not spoken,but now she stirred in her chair.

“Lucifer,” she said. “Yes, I see now. He was always that.”

“He was very beautiful,” said Poirot, “and he loved beauty. The beautythat he made with his brain and his imagination and his hands. To it hewould sacrifice everything. In his own way, I think, he loved the child Mir-anda—but he was ready to sacrifice her—to save himself. He planned herdeath very carefully—he made of it a ritual and, as one might put it, indoc-trinated her with the idea. She was to let him know if she were leavingWoodleigh Common—he instructed her to meet him at the Inn where youand Mrs. Oliver lunched. She was to have been found on Kilterbury Ring—there by the sign of the double axe, with a golden goblet by her side—aritual sacrifice.”

“Mad,” said Judith Butler. “He must have been mad.”

“Madame, your daughter is safe—but there is something I would like toknow very much.”

“I think you deserve to know anything I can tell you, Monsieur Poirot.”

“She is your daughter—was she also Michael Garfield’s daughter?”

Judith was silent for a moment, and then she said, “Yes.”

“But she doesn’t know that?”

“No. She has no idea. Meeting him here was a pure coincidence. I knewhim when I was a young girl. I fell wildly in love with him and then—andthen I got afraid.”

“Afraid?”

“Yes. I don’t know why. Not of anything he would do or that sort ofthing, just afraid of his nature. His gentleness, but behind it, a coldnessand a ruthlessness. I was even afraid of his passion for beauty and for cre-ation in his work. I didn’t tell him I was going to have a child. I left him—Iwent away and the baby was born. I invented the story of a pilot husbandwho had had a crash. I moved about rather restlessly. I came toWoodleigh Common more or less by chance. I had got contacts inMedchester where I could find secretarial work.

“And then one day Michael Garfield came here to work in the QuarryWood. I don’t think I minded. Nor did he. All that was over long ago, butlater, although I didn’t realize how often Miranda went there to the Wood,I did worry—”

“Yes,” said Poirot, “there was a bond between them. A natural affinity. Isaw the likeness between them—only Michael Garfield, the follower of Lu-cifer the beautiful, was evil, and your daughter has innocence and wis-dom, and there is no evil in her.”

He went over to his desk and brought back an envelope. Out of it hedrew a delicate pencil drawing.

“Your daughter,” he said.

Judith looked at it. It was signed “Michael Garfield.”

“He was drawing her by the stream,” said Poirot, “in the Quarry Wood.

He drew it, he said, so that he should not forget. He was afraid of forget-ting. It wouldn’t have stopped him killing her, though.”

Then he pointed to a pencilled word across the top left hand corner.

“Can you read that?”

She spelt it out slowly.

“Iphigenia.”

“Yes,” said Poirot, “Iphigenia. Agamemnon sacrificed his daughter, sothat he should get a wind to take his ships to Troy. Michael would havesacrificed his daughter so that he should have a new Garden of Eden.”

“He knew what he was doing,” said Judith. “I wonder—if he would everhave had regrets?”

Poirot did not answer. A picture was forming in his mind of a youngman of singular beauty lying by the megalithic stone marked with adouble axe, and still clasping in his dead fingers the golden goblet he hadseized and drained when retribution had come suddenly to save his victimand to deliver him to justice.

It was so that Michael Garfield had died—a fitting death, Poirot thought—but, alas, there would be no garden blossoming on an island in the Gre-cian Seas….

Instead there would be Miranda—alive and young and beautiful.

He raised Judith’s hand and kissed it.

“Goodbye, Madame, and remember me to your daughter.”

“She ought always to remember you and what she owes you.”

“Better not—some memories are better buried.”

He went on to Mrs. Oliver.

“Good night, chère Madame. Lady Macbeth and Narcissus. It has beenremarkably interesting. I have to thank you for bringing it to my notice—”

“That’s right,” said Mrs. Oliver in an exasperated voice, “blame it all onme as usual!”

 

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