Three

For a moment or two the group in the doorway¹ stood motionless, staring at the scene. Then Poirotstrode forward.

At the same moment Hugo Trent said crisply:

“My God, the Old Man’s shot himself!”

And there was a long, shuddering² moan from Lady Chevenix-Gore.

“Oh, Gervase—Gervase!”

Over his shoulder Poirot said sharply:

“Take Lady Chevenix-Gore away. She can do nothing here.”

The elderly soldierly man obeyed. He said:

“Come, Vanda. Come, my dear. You can do nothing. It’s all over. Ruth, come and look afteryour mother.”

But Ruth Chevenix-Gore had pressed into the room and stood close by Poirot’s side as hebent over the dreadful sprawled³ figure in the chair—the figure of a man of Herculean build with aViking beard.

She said in a low, tense voice, curiously⁴ restrained and muffled⁵:

“You’re quite sure he’s—dead?”

Poirot looked up.

The girl’s face was alive with some emotion—an emotion sternly checked and repressed—that he did not quite understand. It was not grief—it seemed more like a kind of half-fearfulexcitement.

The little woman in the pince-nez murmured:

“Your mother, my dear—don’t you think—?”

In a high, hysterical⁶ voice the girl with the red hair cried out:

“Then it wasn’t a car or a champagne⁷ cork⁸! It was a shot we heard. . . .”

Poirot turned and faced them all.

“Somebody must communicate with the police—”

Ruth Chevenix-Gore cried out violently:

“No!”

The elderly man with the legal face said:

“Unavoidable, I am afraid. Will you see to that, Burrows⁹? Hugo—”

Poirot said:

“You are Mr.?Hugo Trent?” to the tall young man with the moustache. “It would be well, Ithink, if everyone except you and I were to leave this room.”

Again his authority was not questioned. The lawyer shepherded the others away. Poirot andHugo Trent were left alone.

The latter said, staring:

“Look here—who are you? I mean, I haven’t the foggiest idea. What are you doing here?”

Poirot took a card case from his pocket and selected a card.

Hugo Trent said, staring at it:

“Private detective—eh? Of course, I’ve heard of you . . . But I still don’t see what you aredoing here.”

“You did not know that your uncle—he was your uncle, was he not—?”

Hugo’s eyes dropped for a fleeting¹⁰ moment to the dead man.

“The Old Man? Yes, he was my uncle all right.”

“You did not know that he had sent for me?”

Hugo shook his head. He said slowly:

“I’d no idea of it.”

There was an emotion in his voice that was rather hard to classify. His face looked woodenand stupid—the kind of expression, Poirot thought, that made a useful mask in times of stress.

Poirot said quietly:

“We are in Westshire, are we not? I know your Chief Constable¹¹, Major Riddle¹², very well.”

Hugo said:

“Riddle lives about half a mile away. He’ll probably come over himself.”

“That,” said Poirot, “will be very convenient.”

He began prowling gently round the room. He twitched¹³ aside the window curtain andexamined the french windows, trying them gently. They were closed.

On the wall behind the desk there hung a round mirror. The mirror was shivered. Poirot bentdown and picked up a small object.

“What’s that?” asked Hugo Trent.

“The bullet.”

“It passed straight through his head and struck the mirror?”

“It seems so.”

Poirot replaced the bullet meticulously¹⁴ where he had found it. He came up to the desk. Somepapers were arranged neatly¹⁵ stacked in heaps. On the blotting¹⁶ pad itself there was a loose sheet ofpaper with the word SORRY printed across it in large, shaky handwriting.

Hugo said: “He must have written that just before he—did it.”

Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

He looked again at the smashed mirror, then at the dead man. His brow creased¹⁷ itself a littleas though in perplexity. He went over to the door, where it hung crookedly¹⁸ with its splintered lock.

There was no key in the door, as he knew—otherwise he would not have been able to see throughthe keyhole. There was no sign of it on the floor. Poirot leaned over the dead man and ran hisfingers over him.

“Yes,” he said. “The key is in his pocket.”

Hugo drew out a cigarette case and lighted a cigarette. He spoke¹⁹ rather hoarsely²⁰.

“It seems all quite clear,” he said. “My uncle shut himself up in here, scrawled²¹ that messageon a piece of paper, and then shot himself.”

Poirot nodded meditatively²³. Hugo went on:

“But I don’t understand why he sent for you. What was it all about?”

“That is rather more difficult to explain. While we are waiting, Mr.?Trent, for the authoritiesto take charge, perhaps you will tell me exactly who all the people are whom I saw tonight when Iarrived?”

“Who they are?” Hugo spoke almost absently. “Oh, yes, of course. Sorry. Shall we sitdown?” He indicated a settee in the farthest corner of the room from the body. He went on,speaking jerkily: “Well, there’s Vanda—my aunt, you know. And Ruth, my cousin. But you knowthem. Then the other girl is Susan Cardwell. She’s just staying here. And there’s Colonel Bury.

He’s an old friend of the family. And Mr.?Forbes. He’s an old friend, too, beside being the familylawyer and all that. Both the old boys had a passion for Vanda when she was young, and they stillhang round in a faithful, devoted²⁴ sort of way. Ridiculous, but rather touching²⁵. Then there’sGodfrey Burrows, the Old Man’s—I mean my uncle’s—secretary, and Miss?Lingard, who’s hereto help him write a history of the Chevenix-Gores. She mugs up historical stuff for writers. That’sthe lot, I think.”

Poirot nodded. Then he said:

“And I understand you actually heard the shot that killed your uncle?”

“Yes, we did. Thought it was a champagne cork—at least, I did. Susan and Miss?Lingardthought it was a car backfiring outside—the road runs quite near, you know.”

“When was this?”

“Oh, about ten past eight. Snell had just sounded the first gong.”

“And where were you when you heard it?”

“In the hall. We—we were laughing about it—arguing, you know, as to where the soundcame from. I said it came from the dining room, and Susan said it came from the direction of thedrawing room, and Miss?Lingard said it sounded like upstairs, and Snell said it came from the roadoutside, only it came through the upstairs windows. And Susan said, “Any more theories?” And Ilaughed and said there was always murder! Seems pretty rotten to think of it now.”

His face twitched nervously²⁶.

“It did not occur to anyone that Sir Gervase might have shot himself?”

“No, of course not.”

“You have, in fact, no idea why he should have shot himself?”

Hugo said slowly:

“Oh, well, I shouldn’t say that—”

“You have an idea?”

“Yes—well—it’s difficult to explain. Naturally I didn’t expect him to commit suicide, but allthe same I’m not frightfully surprised. The truth of it is that my uncle was as mad as a hatter,M.?Poirot. Everyone knew that.”

“That strikes you as a sufficient explanation?”

“Well, people do shoot themselves when they’re a bit barmy.”

“An explanation of an admirable simplicity²⁸.”

Hugo stared.

Poirot got up again and wandered aimlessly round the room. It was comfortably furnished,mainly in a rather heavy Victorian style. There were massive bookcases, huge armchairs, andsome upright chairs of genuine Chippendale. There were not many ornaments²⁹, but some bronzeson the mantelpiece attracted Poirot’s attention and apparently³⁰ stirred his admiration³¹. He pickedthem up one by one, carefully examining them before replacing them with care. From the one onthe extreme left he detached something with a fingernail.

“What’s that?” asked Hugo without much interest.

“Nothing very much. A tiny sliver³² of looking glass.”

Hugo said:

“Funny the way that mirror was smashed by the shot. A broken mirror means bad luck. Poorold Gervase . . . I suppose his luck had held a bit too long.”

“Your uncle was a lucky man?”

Hugo gave a short laugh.

“Why, his luck was proverbial! Everything he touched turned to gold! If he backed anoutsider, it romped³³ home! If he invested in a doubtful mine, they struck a vein³⁴ of ore at once! He’shad the most amazing escapes from the tightest of tight places. His life’s been saved by a kind ofmiracle more than once. He was rather a fine old boy, in his way, you know. He’d certainly ‘beenplaces and seen things’—more than most of his generation.”

Poirot murmured in a conversational³⁵ tone:

“You were attached to your uncle, Mr.?Trent?”

Hugo Trent seemed a little startled by the question.

“Oh—er—yes, of course,” he said rather vaguely³⁶. “You know, he was a bit difficult at times.

Frightful²⁷ strain to live with, and all that. Fortunately I didn’t have to see much of him.”

“He was fond of you?”

“Not so that you’d notice it! As a matter of fact, he rather resented my existence, so tospeak.”

“How was that, Mr.?Trent?”

“Well, you see, he had no son of his own—and he was pretty sore about it. He was mad aboutfamily and all that sort of thing. I believe it cut him to the quick to know that when he died theChevenix-Gores would cease to exist. They’ve been going ever since the Norman Conquest, youknow. The Old Man was the last of them. I suppose it was rather rotten from his point of view.”

“You yourself do not share that sentiment?”

Hugo shrugged³⁷ his shoulders.

“All that sort of thing seems to me rather out of date.”

“What will happen to the estate?”

“Don’t really know. I might get it. Or he may have left it to Ruth. Probably Vanda has it forher lifetime.”

“Your uncle did not definitely declare his intentions?”

“Well, he had his pet idea.”

“And what was that?”

“His idea was that Ruth and I should make a match of it.”

“That would doubtless have been very suitable.”

“Eminently suitable. But Ruth—well, Ruth has very decided³⁸ views of her own about life.

Mind you, she’s an extremely attractive young woman, and she knows it. She’s in no hurry tomarry and settle down.”

Poirot leaned forward.

“But you yourself would have been willing, M. Trent?”

Hugo said in a bored tone of voice:

“I really can’t see it makes a ha’p’orth of difference who you marry nowadays. Divorce is soeasy. If you’re not hitting it off, nothing is easier than to cut the tangle³⁹ and start again.”

The door opened and Forbes entered with a tall, spruce-looking man.

The latter nodded to Trent.

“Hallo, Hugo. I’m extremely sorry about this. Very rough on all of you.”

Hercule Poirot came forward.

“How do you do, Major Riddle? You remember me?”

“Yes, indeed.” The chief constable shook hands. “So you’re down here?”

There was a meditative²² note in his voice. He glanced curiously at Hercule Poirot.

 

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