Four

“Well?” said Major Riddle¹.

It was twenty minutes later. The chief constable²’s interrogative “Well?” was addressed to thepolice surgeon, a lank³ elderly man with grizzled hair.

The latter shrugged⁴ his shoulders.

“He’s been dead over half an hour—but not more than an hour. You don’t wanttechnicalities, I know, so I’ll spare you them. The man was shot through the head, the pistol beingheld a few inches from the right temple. Bullet passed right through the brain and out again.”

“Perfectly⁵ compatible with suicide?”

“Oh, perfectly. The body then slumped⁶ down in the chair, and the pistol dropped from hishand.”

“You’ve got the bullet?”

“Yes.” The doctor held it up.

“Good,” said Major Riddle. “We’ll keep it for comparison with the pistol. Glad it’s a clearcase and no difficulties.”

Hercule Poirot asked gently:

“You are sure there are no difficulties, Doctor?”

The doctor replied slowly:

“Well, I suppose you might call one thing a little odd. When he shot himself he must havebeen leaning slightly over to the right. Otherwise the bullet would have hit the wall below themirror, instead of plumb⁷ in the middle.”

“An uncomfortable position in which to commit suicide,” said Poirot.

The doctor shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh, well—comfort—if you’re going to end it all—” He left the sentence unfinished.

Major Riddle said:

“The body can be moved now?”

“Oh, yes. I’ve done with it until the P.-M.”

“What about you, Inspector⁸?” Major Riddle spoke⁹ to a tall impassive-faced man in plainclothes.

“O.K., sir. We’ve got all we want. Only the deceased’s fingerprints¹⁰ on the pistol.”

“Then you can get on with it.”

The mortal remains¹¹ of Gervase Chevenix-Gore were removed. The chief constable and Poirotwere left together.

“Well,” said Riddle, “everything seems quite clear and aboveboard. Door locked, windowfastened, key of door in dead man’s pocket. Everything according to Cocker—but for onecircumstance.”

“And what is that, my friend?” inquired Poirot.

“You!” said Riddle bluntly. “What are you doing down here?”

By way of reply, Poirot handed to him the letter he had received from the dead man a weekago, and the telegram which had finally brought him there.

“Humph,” said the chief constable. “Interesting. We’ll have to get to the bottom of this. Ishould say it had a direct bearing upon his suicide.”

“I agree.”

“We must check up on who is in the house.”

“I can tell you their names. I have just been making inquiries¹² of Mr.?Trent.”

He repeated the list of names.

“Perhaps you, Major Riddle, know something about these people?”

“I know something of them, naturally. Lady Chevenix-Gore is quite as mad in her own wayas old Sir Gervase. They were devoted¹³ to each other—and both quite mad. She’s the vaguestcreature that ever lived, with an occasional uncanny shrewdness that strikes the nail on the head inthe most surprising fashion. People laugh at her a good deal. I think she knows it, but she doesn’tcare. She’s absolutely no sense of humour.”

“Miss?Chevenix-Gore is only their adopted daughter, I understand?”

“Yes.”

“A very handsome young lady.”

“She’s a devilishly attractive girl. Has played havoc¹⁴ with most of the young fellows roundhere. Leads them all on and then turns round and laughs at them. Good seat on a horse, andwonderful hands.”

“That, for the moment, does not concern us.”

“Er—no, perhaps not . . . Well, about the other people. I know old Bury, of course. He’s heremost of the time. Almost a tame cat about the house. Kind of A.D.C. to Lady Chevenix-Gore.

He’s a very old friend. They’ve known him all their lives. I think he and Sir Gervase were bothinterested in some company of which Bury was a director.”

“Oswald Forbes, do you know anything of him?”

“I rather believe I’ve met him once.”

“Miss?Lingard?”

“Never heard of her.”

“Miss?Susan Cardwell?”

“Rather a good-looking girl with red hair? I’ve seen her about with Ruth Chevenix-Gore thelast few days.”

“Mr.?Burrows¹⁵?”

“Yes, I know him. Chevenix-Gore’s secretary. Between you and me, I don’t take to himmuch. He’s good-looking, and knows it. Not quite out of the top drawer.”

“Had he been with Sir Gervase long?”

“About two years, I fancy.”

“And there is no one else—?”

Poirot broke off.

A tall, fair-haired man in a lounge suit came hurrying in. He was out of breath and lookeddisturbed.

“Good evening, Major Riddle. I heard a rumour¹⁶ that Sir Gervase had shot himself, and Ihurried up here. Snell tells me it’s true. It’s incredible! I can’t believe it!”

“It’s true enough, Lake. Let me introduce you. This is Captain Lake, Sir Gervase’s agent forthe estate. M. Hercule Poirot, of whom you may have heard.”

Lake’s face lit up with what seemed a kind of delighted incredulity.

“M. Hercule Poirot? I’m most awfully¹⁷ pleased to meet you. At least—” He broke off, thequick charming smile vanished—he looked disturbed and upset. “There isn’t anything—fishy—about this suicide, is there, sir?”

“Why should there be anything ‘fishy,’ as you call it?” asked the chief constable sharply.

“I mean, because M. Poirot is here. Oh, and because the whole business seems so incredible!”

“No, no,” said Poirot quickly. “I am not here on account of the death of Sir Gervase. I wasalready in the house—as a guest.”

“Oh, I see. Funny, he never told me you were coming when I was going over accounts withhim this afternoon.”

Poirot said quietly:

“You have twice used the word ‘incredible,’ Captain Lake. Are you, then, so surprised tohear of Sir Gervase commiting suicide?”

“Indeed I am. Of course, he was mad as a hatter; everyone would agree about that. But all thesame, I simply can’t imagine his thinking the world would be able to get on without him.”

“Yes,” said Poirot. “It is a point, that.” And he looked with appreciation¹⁸ at the frank,intelligent countenance¹⁹ of the young man.

Major Riddle cleared his throat.

“Since you are here, Captain Lake, perhaps you will sit down and answer a few questions.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Lake took a chair opposite the other two.

“When did you last see Sir Gervase?”

“This afternoon, just before three o’clock. There were some accounts to be checked, and thequestion of a new tenant²⁰ for one of the farms.”

“How long were you with him?”

“Perhaps half an hour.”

“Think carefully, and tell me whether you noticed anything unusual in his manner.”

The young man considered.

“No, I hardly think so. He was, perhaps, a trifle excited—but that wasn’t unusual with him.”

“He was not depressed²¹ in any way?”

“Oh, no, he seemed in good spirits. He was enjoying himself very much just now, writing upa history of the family.”

“How long had he been doing this?”

“He began it about six months ago.”

“Is that when Miss?Lingard came here?”

“No. She arrived about two months ago when he had discovered that he could not manage thenecessary research work by himself.”

“And you consider he was enjoying himself?”

“Oh, simply enormously! He really didn’t think that anything else mattered in the worldexcept his family.”

There was a momentary²² bitterness in the young man’s tone.

“Then, as far as you know, Sir Gervase had no worries of any kind?”

There was a slight—a very slight—pause before Captain Lake answered.

“No.”

Poirot suddenly interposed a question:

“Sir Gervase was not, you think, worried about his daughter in any way?”

“His daughter?”

“That is what I said.”

“Not as far as I know,” said the young man stiffly.

Poirot said nothing further. Major Riddle said:

“Well, thank you, Lake. Perhaps you’d stay around in case I might want to ask youanything.”

“Certainly, sir.” He rose. “Anything I can do?”

“Yes, you might send the butler here. And perhaps you’d find out for me how LadyChevenix-Gore is, and if I could have a few words with her presently, or if she’s too upset.”

The young man nodded and left the room with a quick, decisive step.

“An attractive personality,” said Hercule Poirot.

“Yes, nice fellow, and good at his job. Everyone likes him.”

 

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