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Eight
It was getting late, but there was still one more call that Poirot wanted to make. He went along to
Jeremy Cloade’s house.
There he was shown into Jeremy Cloade’s study by a small, intelligent-looking maid.
Left alone, Poirot gazed interestedly round him. All very legal and dry as dust, he thought, even
in his home. There was a large portrait of Gordon Cloade on the desk. Another faded one of Lord
Edward Trenton on a horse, and Poirot was examining the latter when Jeremy Cloade came in.
“Ah, pardon.” Poirot put the photo frame down in some confusion.
“My wife’s father,” said Jeremy, a faint self-congratulatory note in his voice. “And one of
his best horses, Chestnut Trenton. Ran second in the Derby in 1924. Are you interested in
racing?”
“Alas, no.”
“Runs away with a lot of money,” said Jeremy dryly. “Lord Edward came a crash over it—
had to go and live abroad. Yes, an expensive sport.”
But there was still the note of pride in his voice.
He himself, Poirot judged, would as soon throw his money in the street as invest it in horseflesh,
but he had a secret admiration and respect for those who did.
Cloade went on:
“What can I do for you, M. Poirot? As a family, I feel we owe you a debt of gratitude—for
finding Major Porter to give evidence of identification.”
“The family seems very jubilant about it,” said Poirot.
“Ah,” said Jeremy dryly. “Rather premature to rejoice. Lot of water’s got to pass under
the bridge yet. After all, Underhay’s death was accepted in Africa. Takes years to upset a thing
of this kind—and Rosaleen’s evidence was very positive—very positive indeed. She made a
good impression you know.”
It seemed almost as though Jeremy Cloade was unwilling to bank upon any improvement in his
prospects.
“I wouldn’t like to give a ruling one way or the other,” he said. “Couldn’t say how a
case would go.”
Then, pushing aside some papers with a fretful, almost weary gesture, he said:
“But you wanted to see me?”
“I was going to ask you, Mr. Cloade, if you are really quite certain your brother did not leave a
will? A will made subsequent to his marriage, I mean?”
Jeremy looked surprised.
“I don’t think there’s ever been any idea of such a thing. He certainly didn’t make one
before leaving New York.”
“He might have made one during the two days he was in London.”
“Gone to a lawyer there?”
“Or written one out himself.”
“And got it witnessed? Witnessed by whom?”
“There were three servants in the house,” Poirot reminded him. “Three servants who died
the same night he did.”
“H’m—yes—but if by any chance he did do what you suggest, well, the will was destroyed
too.”
“That is just the point. Lately a great many documents believed to have perished completely
have actually been deciphered by a new process. Incinerated inside home safes, for instance, but
not so destroyed that they cannot be read.”
“Well, really, M. Poirot, that is a most remarkable idea of yours…Most remarkable. But I
don’t think—no, I really don’t believe there is anything in it…So far as I know there was no
safe in the house in Sheffield Terrace. Gordon kept all valuable papers, etc., at his office—and
there was certainly no will there.”
“But one might make inquiries?” Poirot was persistent. “From the A.R.P. officials, for
instance? You would authorize me to do that?”
“Oh, certainly—certainly. Very kind of you to offer to undertake such a thing. But I haven’t
any belief whatever, I’m afraid, in your success. Still—well, it is an offchance, I suppose. You—
you’ll be going back to London at once, then?”
Poirot’s eyes narrowed. Jeremy’s tone had been unmistakably eager. Going back to
London…Did they all want him out of the way?
Before he could answer, the door opened and Frances Cloade came in.
Poirot was struck by two things. First, by the fact that she looked shockingly ill. Secondly, by
her very strong resemblance to the photograph of her father.
“M. Hercule Poirot has come to see us, my dear,” said Jeremy rather unnecessarily.
She shook hands with him and Jeremy Cloade immediately outlined to her Poirot’s suggestion
about a will.
Frances looked doubtful.
“It seems a very outside chance.”
“M. Poirot is going up to London and will very kindly make inquiries.”
“Major Porter, I understand, was an Air Raid Warden in that district,” said Poirot.
A curious expression passed over Mrs. Cloade’s face. She said:
“Who is Major Porter?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“A retired Army officer, living on his pension.”
“He really was in Africa?”
Poirot looked at her curiously.
“Certainly, Madame. Why not?”
She said almost absently, “I don’t know. He puzzled me.”
“Yes, Mrs. Cloade,” said Poirot. “I can understand that.”
She looked sharply at him. An expression almost of fear came into her eyes.
Turning to her husband she said:
“Jeremy, I feel very much distressed about Rosaleen. She is all alone at Furrowbank and she
must be frightfully upset over David’s arrest. Would you object if I asked her to come here and
stay?”
“Do you really think that is advisable, my dear?” Jeremy sounded doubtful.
“Oh—advisable? I don’t know! But one is human. She is such a helpless creature.”
“I rather doubt if she will accept.”
“I can at any rate make the offer.”
The lawyer said quietly: “Do so if it will make you feel happier.”
“Happier!”
The word came out with a strange bitterness. Then she gave a quick doubtful glance at Poirot.
Poirot murmured formally:
“I will take my leave now.”
She followed him out into the hall.
“You are going up to London?”
“I shall go up tomorrow, but for twenty-four hours at most. And then I return to the Stag—
where you will find me, Madame, if you want me.”
She demanded sharply:
“Why should I want you?”
Poirot did not reply to the question, merely said:
“I shall be at the Stag.”
Later that night out of the darkness Frances Cloade spoke to her husband.
“I don’t believe that man is going to London for the reason he said. I don’t believe all that
about Gordon’s having made a will. Do you believe it, Jeremy?”
A hopeless, rather tired voice answered her:
“No, Frances. No—he’s going for some other reason.”
“What reason?”
“I’ve no idea.”
Frances said, “What are we going to do, Jeremy? What are we going to do?”
Presently he answered:
“I think, Frances, there’s only one thing to be done—”
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