Epilogue

Hercule Poirot and Superintendent Spence were celebrating at the La Vieille Grand’mère.

As coffee was served Spence leaned back in his chair and gave a deep sigh of repletion.

“Not at all bad grub here,” he said approvingly. “A bit Frenchified, perhaps, but after allwhere can you get a decent steak and chips nowadays?”

“I had been dining here on the evening you first came to me,” said Poirot reminiscently.

“Ah, a lot of water under the bridge since then. I’ve got to hand it to you, M. Poirot. You didthe trick all right.” A slight smile creased his wooden countenance. “Lucky that young man didn’trealize how very little evidence we’d really got. Why, a clever counsel would have mademincemeat of it! But he lost his head completely, and gave the show away. Spilt the beans andincriminated himself up to the hilt. Lucky for us!”

“It was not entirely luck,” said Poirot reprovingly. “I played him, as you play the big fish! Hethinks I take the evidence against Mrs. Summerhayes seriously—when it is not so, he suffers thereaction and goes to pieces. And besides, he is a coward. I whirl the sugar hammer and he thinks Imean to hit him. Acute fear always produces the truth.”

“Lucky you didn’t suffer from Major Summerhayes’ reaction,” said Spence with a grin. “Gota temper, he has, and quick on his feet. I only got between you just in time. Has he forgiven youyet?”

“Oh yes, we are the firmest friends. And I have given Mrs. Summerhayes a cookery book andI have also taught her personally how to make an omelette. Bon Dieu, what I suffered in thathouse!”

He closed his eyes.

“Complicated business, the whole thing,” ruminated Spence, uninterested in Poirot’sagonized memories. “Just shows how true the old saying is that everyone’s got something to hide.

Mrs. Carpenter, now, had a narrow squeak of being arrested for murder. If ever a woman actedguilty, she did, and all for what?”

“Eh bien, what?” asked Poirot curiously.

“Just the usual business of a rather unsavoury past. She had been a taxi dancer—and a brightgirl with plenty of men friends! She wasn’t a war widow when she came and settled down inBroadhinny. Only what they call nowadays an ‘unofficial wife.’ Well, of course all that wouldn’tdo for a stuffed shirt like Guy Carpenter, so she’d spun him a very different sort of tale. And shewas frantic lest the whole thing would come out once we started poking round into people’sorigins.”

He sipped his coffee, and then gave a low chuckle.

“Then take the Wetherbys. Sinister sort of house. Hate and malice. Awkward frustrated sortof girl. And what’s behind that? Nothing sinister. Just money! Plain ?.s.d.”

“As simple as that!”

“The girl has the money—quite a lot of it. Left her by an aunt. So mother keeps tight hold ofher in case she should want to marry. And stepfather loathes her because she has the dibs and paysthe bills. I gather he himself has been a failure at anything he’s tried. A mean cuss—and as forMrs. W., she’s pure poison dissolved in sugar.”

“I agree with you.” Poirot nodded his head in a satisfied fashion. “It is fortunate that the girlhas money. It makes her marriage to James Bentley much more easy to arrange.”

Superintendent Spence looked surprised.

“Going to marry James Bentley? Deirdre Henderson? Who says so?”

“I say so,” said Poirot. “I occupy myself with the affair. I have, now that our little problem isover, too much time on my hands. I shall employ myself in forwarding this marriage. As yet, thetwo concerned have no idea of such a thing. But they are attracted. Left to themselves, nothingwould happen—but they have to reckon with Hercule Poirot. You will see! The affair will march.”

Spence grinned.

“Don’t mind sticking your fingers in other people’s pies, do you?”

“Mon cher, that does not come well from you,” said Poirot reproachfully.

“Well, you’ve got me there. All the same, James Bentley is a poor stick.”

“Certainly he is a poor stick! At the moment he is positively aggrieved because he is notgoing to be hanged.”

“He ought to be down on his knees with gratitude to you,” said Spence.

“Say, rather, to you. But apparently he does not think so.”

“Queer cuss.”

“As you say, and yet at least two women have been prepared to take an interest in him.

Nature is very unexpected.”

“I thought it was Maude Williams you were going to pair off with him.”

“He shall make his choice,” said Poirot. “He shall—how do you say it?—award the apple.

But I think that it is Deirdre Henderson that he will choose. Maude Williams has too much energyand vitality. With her he would retire even farther into his shell.”

“Can’t think why either of them should want him!”

“The ways of nature are indeed inscrutable.”

“All the same, you’ll have your work cut out. First bringing him up to the scratch—and thenprising the girl loose from poison puss mother—she’ll fight you tooth and claw!”

“Success is on the side of the big battalions.”

“On the side of the big moustaches, I suppose you mean.”

Spence roared. Poirot stroked his moustache complacently and suggested a brandy.

“I don’t mind if I do, M. Poirot.”

Poirot gave the order.

“Ah,” said Spence, “I knew there was something else I had to tell you. You remember theRendells?”

“Naturally.”

“Well, when we were checking up on him, something rather odd came to light. It seems thatwhen his first wife died in Leeds where his practice was at that time, the police there got somerather nasty anonymous letters about him. Saying, in effect, that he’d poisoned her. Of coursepeople do say that sort of thing. She’d been attended by an outside doctor, reputable man, and heseemed to think her death was quite aboveboard. There was nothing to go upon except the fact thatthey’d mutually insured their lives in each other’s favour, and people do do that .?.?. Nothing for usto go upon, as I say, and yet—I wonder? What do you think?”

Poirot remembered Mrs. Rendell’s frightened air. Her mention of anonymous letters, and herinsistence that she did not believe anything they said. He remembered, too, her certainty that hisinquiry about Mrs. McGinty was only a pretext.

He said, “I should imagine that it was not only the police who got anonymous letters.”

“Sent them to her, too?”

“I think so. When I appeared in Broadhinny, she thought I was on her husband’s track, andthat the McGinty business was a pretext. Yes—and he thought so, too .?.?. That explains it! It wasDr. Rendell who tried to push me under the train that night!”

“Think he’ll have a shot at doing this wife in, too?”

“I think she would be wise not to insure her life in his favour,” said Poirot drily. “But if hebelieves we have an eye on him he will probably be prudent.”

“We’ll do what we can. We’ll keep an eye on our genial doctor, and make it clear we’redoing so.”

Poirot raised his brandy glass.

“To Mrs. Oliver,” he said.

“What put her into your head suddenly?”

“Woman’s intuition,” said Poirot.

There was silence for a moment, then Spence said slowly: “Robin Upward is coming up fortrial next week. You know, Poirot, I can’t help feeling doubtful—”

Poirot interrupted him with horror.

“Mon Dieu! You are not now doubtful about Robin Upward’s guilt, are you? Do not say youwant to start over again.”

Superintendent Spence grinned reassuringly.

“Good Lord, no. He’s a murderer all right!” He added: “Cocky enough for anything!”