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Two
The telephone rang and Lynn went to answer it.
Rowley’s voice spoke.
“Lynn?”
“Rowley?”
Her voice sounded depressed. He said:
“What are you up to? I never see you these days.”
“Oh, well—it’s all chores—you know. Running round with a basket, waiting for fish and
queueing up for a bit of quite disgusting cake. All that sort of thing. Home life.”
“I want to see you. I’ve got something to tell you.”
“What sort of thing?”
He gave a chuckle.
“Good news. Meet me by Rolland Copse. We’re ploughing up there.”
Good news? Lynn put the receiver down. What to Rowley Cloade would be good news?
Finance? Had he sold that young bull at a better price than he had hoped to get?
No, she thought, it must be more than that. As she walked up the field to Rolland Copse,
Rowley left the tractor and came to meet her.
“Hallo, Lynn.”
“Why, Rowley—you look—different, somehow?”
He laughed.
“I should think I do. Our luck’s turned, Lynn!”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you remember old Jeremy mentioning a chap called Hercule Poirot?”
“Hercule Poirot?” Lynn frowned. “Yes, I do remember something—”
“Quite a long time ago. When the war was on. They were in that mausoleum of a club of his
and there was an air raid.”
“Well?” Lynn demanded impatiently.
“Fellow has the wrong clothes and all that. French chap—or Belgian. Queer fellow but he’s
the goods all right.”
Lynn knit her brows.
“Wasn’t he—a detective?”
“That’s right. Well, you know, this fellow who was done in at the Stag. I didn’t tell you but
an idea was getting around that he might just possibly be Rosaleen Cloade’s first husband.”
Lynn laughed.
“Simply because he called himself Enoch Arden? What an absurd idea!”
“Not so absurd, my girl. Old Spence got Rosaleen down to have a look at him. And she swore
quite firmly that he wasn’t her husband.”
“So that finished it?”
“It might have,” said Rowley. “But for me!”
“For you? What did you do?”
“I went to this fellow Hercule Poirot. I told him we wanted another opinion. Could he rustle up
someone who had actually known Robert Underhay? My word, but he’s absolutely wizard that
chap! Just like rabbits out of a hat. He produced a fellow who was Underhay’s best friend in a
few hours. Old boy called Porter.” Rowley stopped. Then he chuckled again with that note of
excitement that had surprised and startled Lynn. “Now keep this under your hat, Lynn. The
Super swore me to secrecy—but I’d like you to know. The dead man is Robert Underhay.”
“What?” Lynn took a step back. She stared at Rowley blankly.
“Robert Underhay himself. Porter hadn’t the least doubt. So you see, Lynn”—Rowley’s
voice rose excitedly —“we’ve won! After all, we’ve won! We’ve beaten those damned
crooks!”
“What damned crooks?”
“Hunter and his sister. They’re licked—out of it. Rosaleen doesn’t get Gordon’s money.
We get it. It’s ours! Gordon’s will that he made before he married Rosaleen holds good and
that divides it amongst us. I get a fourth share. See? If her first husband was alive when she
married Gordon, she was never married to Gordon at all!”
“Are you—are you sure of what you’re saying?”
He stared at her, for the first time he looked faintly puzzled.
“Of course I’m sure! It’s elementary. Everything’s all right now. It’s the same as
Gordon meant it to be. Everything’s the same as if that precious pair had never butted in.”
Everything’s the same…But you couldn’t, Lynn thought, wash out like that something that
had happened. You couldn’t pretend that it had never been. She said slowly:
“What will they do?”
“Eh?” She saw that until that moment Rowley had hardly considered that question. “I
don’t know. Go back where they came from, I suppose. I think, you know—” She could see
him slowly following it out. “Yes, I think we ought to do something for her. I mean, she married
Gordon in all good faith. I gather she really believed her first husband was dead. It’s not her
fault. Yes, we must do something about her—give her a decent allowance. Make it up between us
all.”
“You like her, don’t you?” said Lynn.
“Well, yes.” He considered. “I do in a way. She’s a nice kid. She knows a cow when she
sees it.”
“I don’t,” said Lynn.
“Oh, you’ll learn,” said Rowley kindly.
“And what about—David?” asked Lynn.
Rowley scowled.
“To hell with David! It was never his money anyway. He just came along and sponged on his
sister.”
“No, Rowley, it wasn’t like that—it wasn’t. He’s not a sponger. He’s—an adventurer,
perhaps—”
“And a ruddy murderer!”
She said breathlessly:
“What do you mean?”
“Well, who do you think killed Underhay?”
She cried:
“I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it!”
“Of course he killed Underhay! Who else could have done it? He was down here that day.
Came down by the five thirty. I was meeting some stuff at the station and caught sight of him in
the distance.”
Lynn said sharply:
“He went back to London that evening.”
“After having killed Underhay,” said Rowley triumphantly.
“You oughtn’t to say things like that, Rowley. What time was Underhay killed?”
“Well—I don’t know exactly.” Rowley slowed up—considered. “Don’t suppose we
shall know until the inquest tomorrow. Some time between nine and ten, I imagine.”
“David caught the nine-twenty train back to London.”
“Look here, Lynn, how do you know?”
“I—I met him—he was running for it.”
“How do you know he ever caught it?”
“Because he telephoned me from London later.”
Rowley scowled angrily.
“What the hell should he telephone you for? Look here, Lynn, I’m damned if I—”
“Oh, what does it matter, Rowley? Anyway, it shows he caught that train.”
“Plenty of time to have killed Underhay and then run for the train.”
“Not if he was killed after nine o’clock.”
“Well, he may have been killed just before nine.”
But his voice was a little doubtful.
Lynn half-closed her eyes. Was that the truth of it? When, breathless, swearing, David had
emerged from the copse, had it been a murderer fresh from his crime who had taken her in his
arms? She remembered his curious excitement—the recklessness of his mood. Was that the way
that murder would affect him? It might. She had to admit it. Were David and murder so far
removed from each other? Would he kill a man who had never done him any harm—a ghost from
the past? A man whose only crime was to stand between Rosaleen and a big inheritance—between
David and the enjoyment of Rosaleen’s money.
She murmured:
“Why should he kill Underhay?”
“My God, Lynn, can you ask? I’ve just told you! Underhay’s being alive means that we get
Gordon’s money! Anyway, Underhay was blackmailing him.”
Ah, that fell more into the pattern. David might kill a blackmailer—in fact, wasn’t it just the
way he would deal with a blackmailer? Yes, it all fell into pattern. David’s haste, his excitement
—his fierce, almost angry, lovemaking. And, later, his renouncement of her. “I’d better clear
out…” Yes, it fitted.
From a long way away, she heard Rowley’s voice asking:
“What’s the matter, Lynn? Are you feeling all right?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Well, for heaven’s sake, don’t look so glum.” He turned, looking down the hillside to
Long Willows. “Thank goodness, we can have the place smartened up a bit now—get some
labour-saving gadgets put in—make it right for you. I don’t want you to pig it, Lynn.”
That was to be her home—that house. Her home with Rowley….
And one morning at eight o’clock, David would swing by the neck until he was dead….
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