II

A duchess greeted M. Hercule Poirot in fulsome¹ tones.

“So you could manage to come after all, M. Poirot! Why, that’s splendid.”

“The pleasure is mine, madame,” murmured Poirot, bowing.

He escaped from several important and splendid beings—a famous diplomat², an equallyfamous actress and a well-known sporting peer—and found at last the person he had come to seek,that invariably “also present” guest, Mr.?Satterthwaite.

Mr.?Satterthwaite twittered amiably³.

“The dear duchess—I always enjoy her parties . . . Such a personality, if you know what Imean. I saw a lot of her in Corsica some years ago. . . .”

Mr.?Satterthwaite’s conversation was apt to be unduly⁴ burdened by mentions of his titledacquaintances. It is possible that he may sometimes have found pleasure in the company ofMessrs. Jones, Brown or Robinson, but, if so, he did not mention the fact. And yet, to describeMr.?Satterthwaite as a mere⁵ snob⁶ and leave it at that would have been to do him an injustice⁷. Hewas a keen observer of human nature, and if it is true that the looker-on knows most of the game,Mr.?Satterthwaite knew a

good deal.

“You know, my dear fellow, it is really ages since I saw you. I always feel myself privilegedto have seen you work at close quarters in the Crow’s Nest business. I feel since then that I am inthe know, so to speak. I saw Lady Mary only last week, by the way. A charming creature—potpourri and lavender!”

After passing lightly on one or two scandals of the moment—the indiscretions of an earl’sdaughter, and the lamentable⁸ conduct of a viscount—Poirot succeeded in introducing the name ofGervase Chevenix-Gore.

Mr.?Satterthwaite responded immediately.

“Ah, now, there is a character, if you like! The Last of the Baronets—that’s his nickname.”

“Pardon, I do not quite comprehend.”

Mr.?Satterthwaite unbent indulgently to the lower comprehension of a foreigner.

“It’s a joke, you know—a joke. Naturally, he’s not really the last baronet in England—but hedoes represent the end of an era. The Bold Bad Baronet—the mad harum-scarum baronet sopopular in the novels of the last century—the kind of fellow who laid impossible wagers⁹ and won’em.”

He went on to expound¹¹ what he meant in more detail. In younger years, Gervase Chevenix-Gore had sailed round the world in a windjammer. He had been on an expedition to the Pole. Hehad challenged a racing¹² peer to a duel¹³. For a wager¹⁰ he had ridden his favourite mare¹⁴ up thestaircase of a ducal house. He had once leapt from a box to the stage and carried off a well-knownactress in the middle of her r?le.

The anecdotes¹⁵ of him were innumerable.

“It’s an old family,” went on Mr.?Satterthwaite. “Sir Guy de Chevenix went on the firstcrusade. Now, alas¹⁶, the line looks like it’s coming to an end. Old Gervase is the last Chevenix-Gore.”

“The estate, it is impoverished¹⁷?”

“Not a bit of it. Gervase is fabulously¹⁸ wealthy. Owns valuable house property—coalfields—and in addition he staked out a claim to some mine in Peru or somewhere in South America, whenhe was a young man, which has yielded him a fortune. An amazing man. Always lucky ineverything he’s undertaken.”

“He is now an elderly man, of course?”

“Yes, poor old Gervase.” Mr.?Satterthwaite sighed, shook his head. “Most people woulddescribe him to you as mad as a hatter. It’s true, in a way. He is mad—not in the sense of beingcertifiable or having delusions—but mad in the sense of being abnormal. He’s always been a manof great originality¹⁹ of character.”

“And originality becomes eccentricity²⁰ as the years go by?” suggested Poirot.

“Very true. That’s exactly what’s happened to poor old Gervase.”

“He has perhaps, a swollen²¹ idea of his own importance?”

“Absolutely. I should imagine that, in Gervase’s mind, the world has always been dividedinto two parts—there are the Chevenix-Gores, and the other people!”

“An exaggerated sense of family!”

“Yes. The Chevenix-Gores are all arrogant²² as the devil—a law unto themselves. Gervase,being the last of them, has got it badly. He is—well, really, you know, to hear him talk, you mightimagine him to be—er, the Almighty²³!”

Poirot nodded his head slowly and thoughtfully.

“Yes, I imagined that. I have had, you see, a letter from him. It was an unusual letter. It didnot demand. It summoned!”

“A royal command,” said Mr.?Satterthwaite, tittering a little.

“Precisely. It did not seem to occur to this Sir Gervase that I, Hercule Poirot, am a man ofimportance, a man of infinite affairs! That it was extremely unlikely that I should be able to flingeverything aside and come hastening like an obedient dog—like a mere nobody, gratified toreceive a commission!”

Mr.?Satterthwaite bit his lip in an effort to suppress a smile. It may have occurred to him thatwhere egoism was concerned, there was not much to choose between Hercule Poirot and GervaseChevenix-Gore.

He murmured:

“Of course, if the cause of the summons was urgent—?”

“It was not!” Poirot’s hands rose in the air in an emphatic²⁴ gesture. “I was to hold myself athis disposition²⁵, that was all, in case he should require me! Enfin, je vous demande!”

Again the hands rose eloquently²⁶, expressing better than words could do M. Hercule Poirot’ssense of utter outrage²⁷.

“I take it,” said Mr.?Satterthwaite, “that you refused?”

“I have not yet had the opportunity,” said Poirot slowly.

“But you will refuse?”

A new expression passed over the little man’s face. His brow furrowed²⁸ itself perplexedly.

He said:

“How can I express myself? To refuse—yes, that was my first instinct. But I do not know . . .

One has, sometimes, a feeling. Faintly, I seem to smell the fish. . . .”

Mr.?Satterthwaite received this last statement without any sign of amusement.

“Oh?” he said. “That is interesting. . . .”

“It seems to me,” went on Hercule Poirot, “that a man such as you have described might bevery vulnerable—”

“Vulnerable?” queried²⁹ Mr.?Satterthwaite. For the moment he was surprised. The word wasnot one that he would naturally have associated with Gervase Chevenix-Gore. But he was a manof perception, quick in observation. He said slowly:

“I think I see what you mean.”

“Such a one is encased, is he not, in an armour³⁰—such an armour! The armour of thecrusaders was nothing to it—an armour of arrogance³¹, of pride, of complete self-esteem. Thisarmour, it is in some ways a protection, the arrows, the everyday arrows of life glance off it. Butthere is this danger; Sometimes a man in armour might not even know he was being attacked. Hewill be slow to see, slow to hear—slower still to feel.”

He paused, then asked with a change of manner:

“Of what does the family of this Sir Gervase consist?”

“There’s Vanda—his wife. She was an Arbuthnot—very handsome girl. She’s still quite ahandsome woman. Frightfully vague, though. Devoted³² to Gervase. She’s got a leaning towards theoccult, I believe. Wears amulets³³ and scarabs and gives out that she’s the reincarnation of anEgyptian Queen . . . Then there’s Ruth—she’s their adopted daughter. They’ve no children of theirown. Very attractive girl in the modern style. That’s all the family. Except, of course, for HugoTrent. He’s Gervase’s nephew. Pamela Chevenix-Gore married Reggie Trent and Hugo was theironly child. He’s an orphan³⁴. He can’t inherit the title, of course, but I imagine he’ll come in formost of Gervase’s money in the end. Good-looking lad, he’s in the Blues³⁵.”

Poirot nodded his head thoughtfully. Then he asked:

“It is a grief to Sir Gervase, yes, that he has no son to inherit his name?”

“I should imagine that it cuts pretty deep.”

“The family name, it is a passion with him?”

“Yes.”

Mr.?Satterthwaite was silent a moment or two. He was very intrigued³⁶. Finally he ventured:

“You see a definite reason for going down to Hamborough Close?”

Slowly, Poirot shook his head.

“No,” he said. “As far as I can see, there is no reason at all. But, all the same, I fancy I shallgo.”

 

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