Twenty-four

POIROT EXPLAINS

IMrs. Upjohn, wandering through the corridors of Meadowbank School, forgot the exciting sceneshe had just been through. She was for the moment merely a mother seeking her young. She foundher in a deserted classroom. Julia was bending over a desk, her tongue protruding slightly,absorbed in the agonies of composition.

She looked up and stared. Then flung herself across the room and hugged her mother.

“Mummy!”

Then, with the self- consciousness of her age, ashamed of her unrestrained emotion, shedetached herself and spoke in a carefully casual tone—indeed almost accusingly.

“Aren’t you back rather soon, Mummy?”

“I flew back,” said Mrs. Upjohn, almost apologetically, “from Ankara.”

“Oh,” said Julia. “Well—I’m glad you’re back.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Upjohn, “I am very glad too.”

They looked at each other, embarrassed. “What are you doing?” said Mrs. Upjohn, advancing alittle closer.

“I’m writing a composition for Miss Rich,” said Julia. “She really does set the most excitingsubjects.”

“What’s this one?” said Mrs. Upjohn. She bent over.

The subject was written at the top of the page. Some nine or ten lines of writing in Julia’suneven and sprawling handwriting came below. “Contrast the Attitudes of Macbeth and LadyMacbeth to Murder” read Mrs. Upjohn.

“Well,” she said doubtfully, “you can’t say that the subject isn’t topical!”

She read the start of her daughter’s essay. “Macbeth,” Julia had written, “liked the idea ofmurder and had been thinking of it a lot, but he needed a push to get him started. Once he’d gotstarted he enjoyed murdering people and had no more qualms or fears. Lady Macbeth was justgreedy and ambitious. She thought she didn’t mind what she did to get what she wanted. But onceshe’d done it she found she didn’t like it after all.”

“Your language isn’t very elegant,” said Mrs. Upjohn. “I think you’ll have to polish it up a bit,but you’ve certainly got something there.”

II

Inspector Kelsey was speaking in a slightly complaining tone.

“It’s all very well for you, Poirot,” he said. “You can say and do a lot of things we can’t: and I’lladmit the whole thing was well stage-managed. Got her off her guard, made her think we wereafter Rich, and then, Mrs. Upjohn’s sudden appearance made her lose her head. Thank the lord shekept that automatic after shooting Springer. If the bullet corresponds—”

“It will, mon ami, it will,” said Poirot.

“Then we’ve got her cold for the murder of Springer. And I gather Miss Chadwick’s in a badway. But look here, Poirot, I still can’t see how she can possibly have killed Miss Vansittart. It’sphysically impossible. She’s got a cast-iron alibi—unless young Rathbone and the whole staff ofthe Nid Sauvage are in it with her.”

Poirot shook his head. “Oh, no,” he said. “Her alibi is perfectly good. She killed Miss Springerand Mademoiselle Blanche. But Miss Vansittart—” he hesitated for a moment, his eyes going towhere Miss Bulstrode sat listening to them. “Miss Vansittart was killed by Miss Chadwick.”

“Miss Chadwick?” exclaimed Miss Bulstrode and Kelsey together.

Poirot nodded. “I am sure of it.”

“But—why?”

“I think,” said Poirot, “Miss Chadwick loved Meadowbank too much … ” His eyes went acrossto Miss Bulstrode.

“I see … ” said Miss Bulstrode. “Yes, yes, I see … I ought to have known.” She paused. “Youmean that she—?”

“I mean,” said Poirot, “that she started here with you, that all along she has regardedMeadowbank as a joint venture between you both.”

“Which in one sense it was,” said Miss Bulstrode.

“Quite so,” said Poirot. “But that was merely the financial aspect. When you began to talk ofretiring she regarded herself as the person who would take over.”

“But she’s far too old,” objected Miss Bulstrode.

“Yes,” said Poirot, “she is too old and she is not suited to be a headmistress. But she herself didnot think so. She thought that when you went she would be headmistress of Meadowbank as amatter of course. And then she found that was not so. That you were considering someone else,that you had fastened upon Eleanor Vansittart. And she loved Meadowbank. She loved the schooland she did not like Eleanor Vansittart. I think in the end she hated her.”

“She might have done,” said Miss Bulstrode. “Yes, Eleanor Vansittart was—how shall I put it?

—she was always very complacent, very superior about everything. That would be hard to bear ifyou were jealous. That’s what you mean, isn’t it? Chaddy was jealous.”

“Yes,” said Poirot. “She was jealous of Meadowbank and jealous of Eleanor Vansittart. Shecouldn’t bear the thought of the school and Miss Vansittart together. And then perhaps somethingin your manner led her to think that you were weakening?”

“I did weaken,” said Miss Bulstrode. “But I didn’t weaken in the way that perhaps Chaddythought I would weaken. Actually I thought of someone younger still than Miss Vansittart—Ithought it over and then I said No, she’s too young … Chaddy was with me then, I remember.”

“And she thought,” said Poirot, “that you were referring to Miss Vansittart. That you weresaying Miss Vansittart was too young. She thoroughly agreed. She thought that experience andwisdom such as she had got were far more important things. But then, after all, you returned toyour original decision. You chose Eleanor Vansittart as the right person and left her in charge ofthe school that weekend. This is what I think happened. On that Sunday night Miss Chadwick wasrestless, she got up and she saw the light in the squash court. She went out there exactly as shesays she went. There is only one thing different in her story from what she said. It wasn’t a golfclub she took with her. She picked up one of the sandbags from the pile in the hall. She went outthere all ready to deal with a burglar, with someone who for a second time had broken into theSports Pavilion. She had the sandbag ready in her hand to defend herself if attacked. And what didshe find? She found Eleanor Vansittart kneeling down looking in a locker, and she thought, it maybe—(for I am good,” said Hercule Poirot in a parenthesis, “—at putting myself into other people’sminds—) she thought if I were a marauder, a burglar, I would come up behind her and strike herdown. And as the thought came into her mind, only half conscious of what she was doing, sheraised the sandbag and struck. And there was Eleanor Vansittart dead, out of her way. She wasappalled then, I think, at what she had done. It has preyed on her ever since—for she is not anatural killer, Miss Chadwick. She was driven, as some are driven, by jealousy and by obsession.

The obsession of love for Meadowbank. Now that Eleanor Vansittart was dead she was quite surethat she would succeed you at Meadowbank. So she didn’t confess. She told her story to the policeexactly as it had occurred but for the one vital fact, that it was she who had struck the blow. Butwhen she was asked about the golf club which presumably Miss Vansittart took with her beingnervous after all that had occurred, Miss Chadwick said quickly that she had taken it out there. Shedidn’t want you to think even for a moment that she had handled the sandbag.”

“Why did Ann Shapland also choose a sandbag to kill Mademoiselle Blanche?” asked MissBulstrode.

“For one thing, she could not risk a pistol shot in the school building, and for another she is avery clever young woman. She wanted to tie up this third murder with the second one, for whichshe had an alibi.”

“I don’t really understand what Eleanor Vansittart was doing herself in the Sports Pavilion,”

said Miss Bulstrode.

“I think one could make a guess. She was probably far more concerned over the disappearanceof Shaista than she allowed to appear on the surface. She was as upset as Miss Chadwick was. In away it was worse for her, because she had been left by you in charge—and the kidnapping hadhappened whilst she was responsible. Moreover she had pooh- poohed it as long as possiblethrough an unwillingness to face unpleasant facts squarely.”

“So there was weakness behind the fa?ade,” mused Miss Bulstrode. “I sometimes suspected it.”

“She, too, I think, was unable to sleep. And I think she went out quietly to the Sports Pavilion tomake an examination of Shaista’s locker in case there might be some clue there to the girl’sdisappearance.”

“You seem to have explanations for everything, Mr. Poirot.”

“That’s his speciality,” said Inspector Kelsey with slight malice.

“And what was the point of getting Eileen Rich to sketch various members of my staff?”

“I wanted to test the child Jennifer’s ability to recognize a face. I soon satisfied myself thatJennifer was so entirely preoccupied by her own affairs, that she gave outsiders at most a cursoryglance, taking in only the external details of their appearance. She did not recognize a sketch ofMademoiselle Blanche with a different hairdo. Still less, then, would she have recognized AnnShapland who, as your secretary, she seldom saw at close quarters.”

“You think that the woman with the racquet was Ann Shapland herself.”

“Yes. It has been a one woman job all through. You remember that day, you rang for her to takea message to Julia but in the end, as the buzzer went unanswered, sent a girl to find Julia. Ann wasaccustomed to quick disguise. A fair wig, differently pencilled eyebrows, a ‘fussy’ dress and hat.

She need only be absent from her typewriter for about twenty minutes. I saw from Miss Rich’sclever sketches how easy it is for a woman to alter her appearance by purely external matters.”

“Miss Rich—I wonder—” Miss Bulstrode looked thoughtful.

Poirot gave Inspector Kelsey a look and the Inspector said he must be getting along.

“Miss Rich?” said Miss Bulstrode again.

“Send for her,” said Poirot. “It is the best way.”

Eileen Rich appeared. She was white-faced and slightly defiant.

“You want to know,” she said to Miss Bulstrode, “what I was doing in Ramat?”

“I think I have an idea,” said Miss Bulstrode.

“Just so,” said Poirot. “Children nowadays know all the facts of life—but their eyes often retaininnocence.”

He added that he, too, must be getting along, and slipped out.

“That was it, wasn’t it?” said Miss Bulstrode. Her voice was brisk and businesslike. “Jennifermerely described it as fat. She didn’t realize it was a pregnant woman she had seen.”

“Yes,” said Eileen Rich. “That was it. I was going to have a child. I didn’t want to give up myjob here. I carried on all right through the autumn, but after that, it was beginning to show. I got adoctor’s certificate that I wasn’t fit to carry on, and I pleaded illness. I went abroad to a remotespot where I thought I wasn’t likely to meet anyone who knew me. I came back to this country andthe child was born—dead. I came back this term and I hoped that no one would ever know … Butyou understand now, don’t you, why I said I should have had to refuse your offer of a partnershipif you’d made it? Only now, with the school in such a disaster, I thought that, after all, I might beable to accept.”

She paused and said in a matter-of-fact voice,“Would you like me to leave now? Or wait until the end of term?”

“You’ll stay till the end of the term,” said Miss Bulstrode, “and if there is a new term here,which I still hope, you’ll come back.”

“Come back?” said Eileen Rich. “Do you mean you still want me?”

“Of course I want you,” said Miss Bulstrode. “You haven’t murdered anyone, have you?—notgone mad over jewels and planned to kill to get them? I’ll tell you what you’ve done. You’veprobably denied your instincts too long. There was a man, you fell in love with him, you had achild. I suppose you couldn’t marry.”

“There was never any question of marriage,” said Eileen Rich. “I knew that. He isn’t to blame.”

“Very well, then,” said Miss Bulstrode. “You had a love affair and a child. You wanted to havethat child?”

“Yes,” said Eileen Rich. “Yes, I wanted to have it.”

“So that’s that,” said Miss Bulstrode. “Now I’m going to tell you something. I believe that inspite of this love affair, your real vocation in life is teaching. I think your profession means moreto you than any normal woman’s life with a husband and children would mean.”

“Oh yes,” said Eileen Rich. “I’m sure of that. I’ve known that all along. That’s what I reallywant to do—that’s the real passion of my life.”

“Then don’t be a fool,” said Miss Bulstrode. “I’m making you a very good offer. If, that is,things come right. We’ll spend two or three years together putting Meadowbank back on the map.

You’ll have different ideas as to how that should be done from the ideas that I have. I’ll listen toyour ideas. Maybe I’ll even give in to some of them. You want things to be different, I suppose, atMeadowbank?”

“I do in some ways, yes,” said Eileen Rich. “I won’t pretend. I want more emphasis on gettinggirls that really matter.”

“Ah,” said Miss Bulstrode, “I see. It’s the snob element that you don’t like, is that it?”

“Yes,” said Eileen, “it seems to me to spoil things.”

“What you don’t realize,” said Miss Bulstrode, “is that to get the kind of girl you want you’vegot to have that snob element. It’s quite a small element really, you know. A few foreign royalties,a few great names and everybody, all the silly parents all over this country and other countrieswant their girls to come to Meadowbank. Fall over themselves to get their girl admitted toMeadowbank. What’s the result? An enormous waiting list, and I look at the girls and I see thegirls and I choose! You get your pick, do you see? I choose my girls. I choose them very carefully,some for character, some for brains, some for pure academic intellect. Some because I think theyhaven’t had a chance but are capable of being made something of that’s worthwhile. You’reyoung, Eileen. You’re full of ideals—it’s the teaching that matters to you and the ethical side of it.

Your vision’s quite right. It’s the girls that matter, but if you want to make a success of anything,you know, you’ve got to be a good tradesman as well. Ideas are like everything else. They’ve gotto be marketed. We’ll have to do some pretty slick work in future to get Meadowbank going again.

I’ll have to get my hooks into a few people, former pupils, bully them, plead with them, get themto send their daughters here. And then the others will come. You let me be up to my tricks, andthen you shall have your way. Meadowbank will go on and it’ll be a fine school.”

“It’ll be the finest school in England,” said Eileen Rich enthusiastically.

“Good,” said Miss Bulstrode, “—and Eileen, I should go and get your hair properly cut andshaped. You don’t seem able to manage that bun. And now,” she said, her voice changing, “I mustgo to Chaddy.”

She went in and came up to the bed. Miss Chadwick was lying very still and white. The bloodhad all gone from her face and she looked drained of life. A policeman with a notebook sat nearbyand Miss Johnson sat on the other side of the bed. She looked at Miss Bulstrode and shook herhead gently.

“Hallo, Chaddy,” said Miss Bulstrode. She took up the limp hand in hers. Miss Chadwick’seyes opened.

“I want to tell you,” she said, “Eleanor—it was—it was me.”

“Yes, dear, I know,” said Miss Bulstrode.

“Jealous,” said Chaddy. “I wanted—”

“I know,” said Miss Bulstrode.

Tears rolled very slowly down Miss Chadwick’s cheeks. “It’s so awful … I didn’t mean—Idon’t know how I came to do such a thing!”

“Don’t think about it anymore,” said Miss Bulstrode.

“But I can’t—you’ll never—I’ll never forgive myself—”

“Listen, dear,” she said. “You saved my life, you know. My life and the life of that nice woman,Mrs. Upjohn. That counts for something, doesn’t it?”

“I only wish,” said Miss Chadwick, “I could have given my life for you both. That would havemade it all right….”

Miss Bulstrode looked at her with great pity. Miss Chadwick took a great breath, smiled, then,moving her head very slightly to one side, she died….

“You did give your life, my dear,” said Miss Bulstrode softly. “I hope you realize that—now.”