II

Poirot looked round him. A circle of interested faces stared back at him. Everyone was there, henoted, with one exception, and at that very moment the exception swept into the room. LadyChevenix-Gore came in with a soft, gliding¹ step. She looked haggard and ill.

Poirot drew forward a big chair for her, and she sat down.

She looked up at the broken mirror, shivered, and pulled her chair a little way round.

“Gervase is still here,” she remarked in a matter-of-fact tone. “Poor Gervase . . . He will soonbe free now.”

Poirot cleared his throat and announced:

“I have asked you all to come here so that you may hear the true facts of Sir Gervase’ssuicide.”

“It was Fate,” said Lady Chevenix-Gore. “Gervase was strong, but his Fate was stronger.”

Colonel Bury moved forward a little.

“Vanda—my dear.”

She smiled up at him, then put up her hand. He took it in his. She said softly: “You are such acomfort, Ned.”

Ruth said sharply:

“Are we to understand, M. Poirot, that you have definitely ascertained² the cause of myfather’s suicide?”

Poirot shook his head.

“No, madame.”

“Then what is all this rigmarole about?”

Poirot said quietly:

“I do not know the cause of Sir Gervase Chevenix-Gore’s suicide, because Sir GervaseChevenix-Gore did not commit suicide. He did not kill himself. He was killed. . . .”

“Killed?” Several voices echoed the word. Startled faces were turned in Poirot’s direction.

Lady Chevenix-Gore looked up, said, “Killed? Oh, no!” and gently shook her head.

“Killed, did you say?” It was Hugo who spoke³ now. “Impossible. There was no one in theroom when we broke in. The window was fastened. The door was locked on the inside, and thekey was in my uncle’s pocket. How could he have been killed?”

“Nevertheless, he was killed.”

“And the murderer escaped through the keyhole, I suppose?” said Colonel Bury sceptically.

“Or flew up the chimney?”

“The murderer,” said Poirot, “went out through the window. I will show you how.”

He repeated his manoeuvres with the window.

“You see?” he said. “That was how it was done! From the first I could not consider it likelythat Sir Gervase had committed suicide. He had pronounced egomania, and such a man does notkill himself.

“And there were other things! Apparently⁴, just before his death, Sir Gervase had sat down athis desk, scrawled⁵ the word SORRY on a sheet of notepaper and had then shot himself. But beforethis last action he had, for some reason or other altered the position of his chair, turning it so that itwas sideways to the desk. Why? There must be some reason. I began to see light when I found,sticking to the base of a heavy bronze statuette, a tiny sliver⁶ of looking glass. . . .

“I asked myself, how does a sliver of broken looking glass come to be there?—and an answersuggested itself to me. The mirror had been broken, not by a bullet, but by being struck with theheavy bronze figure. That mirror had been broken deliberately⁷.

“But why? I returned to the desk and looked down at the chair. Yes, I saw now. It was allwrong. No suicide would turn his chair round, lean over the edge of it, and then shoot himself. Thewhole thing was arranged. The suicide was a fake!

“And now I come to something very important. The evidence of Miss?Cardwell.

Miss?Cardwell said that she hurried downstairs last night because she thought that the second gonghad sounded. That is to say, she thought that she had already heard the first gong.

“Now observe, if Sir Gervase was sitting at his desk in the normal fashion when he was shot,where would the bullet go? Travelling in a straight line, it would pass through the door, if the doorwere open, and finally hit the gong!

“You see now the importance of Miss?Cardwell’s statement? No one else heard the first gong,but, then, her room is situated⁸ immediately above this one, and she was in the best position forhearing it. It would consist of only one single note, remember.

“There could be no question of Sir Gervase’s shooting himself. A dead man cannot get up,shut the door, lock it and arrange himself in a convenient position! Somebody else was concerned,and therefore it was not suicide, but murder. Someone whose presence was easily accepted by SirGervase, stood by his side talking to him. Sir Gervase was busy writing, perhaps. The murdererbrings the pistol up to the right side of his head and fires. The deed is done! Then quick, to work!

The murderer slips on gloves. The door is locked, the key put in Sir Gervase’s pocket. Butsupposing that one loud note of the gong has been heard? Then it will be realized that the door wasopen, not shut, when the shot was fired. So the chair is turned, the body rearranged, the deadman’s fingers pressed on the pistol, the mirror deliberately smashed. Then the murderer goes outthrough the window, jars it shut, steps, not on the grass, but in the flower bed where footprints canbe smoothed out afterwards; then round the side of the house and into the drawing room.”

He paused and said:

“There was only one person who was out in the garden when the shot was fired. That sameperson left her footprints in the flower bed and her fingerprints⁹ on the outside of the window.”

He came towards Ruth.

“And there was a motive¹⁰, wasn’t there? Your father had learnt of your secret marriage. Hewas preparing to disinherit you.”

“It’s a lie!” Ruth’s voice came scornful and clear. “There’s not a word of truth in your story.

It’s a lie from start to finish!”

“The proofs against you are very strong, madame. A jury may believe you. It may not!”

“She won’t have to face a jury.”

The others turned—startled. Miss?Lingard was on her feet. Her face altered. She wastrembling all over.

“I shot him. I admit it! I had my reason. I—I’ve been waiting for some time. M. Poirot isquite right. I followed him in here. I had taken the pistol out of the drawer earlier. I stood besidehim talking about the book—and I shot him. That was just after eight. The bullet struck the gong. Inever dreamt it would pass right through his head like that. There wasn’t time to go out and lookfor it. I locked the door and put the key in his pocket. Then I swung the chair round, smashed themirror, and, after scrawling¹¹ “Sorry” on a piece of paper, I went out through the window and shut itthe way M. Poirot showed you. I stepped in the flower bed, but I smoothed out the footprints witha little rake I had put there ready. Then I went round to the drawing room. I had left the windowopen. I didn’t know Ruth had gone out through it. She must have come round the front of thehouse while I went round the back. I had to put the rake away, you see, in a shed. I waited in thedrawing room till I heard someone coming downstairs and Snell going to the gong, and then—”

She looked at Poirot.

“You don’t know what I did then?”

“Oh yes, I do. I found the bag in the wastepaper basket. It was very clever, that idea of yours.

You did what children love to do. You blew up the bag and then hit it. It made a satisfactory bigbang. You threw the bag into the wastepaper basket and rushed out into the hall. You hadestablished the time of the suicide—and an alibi¹² for yourself. But there was still one thing thatworried you. You had not had time to pick up the bullet. It must be somewhere near the gong. Itwas essential that the bullet should be found in the study somewhere near the mirror. I didn’t knowwhen you had the idea of taking Colonel Bury’s pencil—”

“It was just then,” said Miss?Lingard. “When we all came in from the hall. I was surprised tosee Ruth in the room. I realized she must have come from the garden through the window. Then Inoticed Colonel Bury’s pencil lying on the bridge table. I slipped it into my bag. If, later, anyonesaw me pick up the bullet, I could pretend it was the pencil. As a matter of fact, I didn’t thinkanyone saw me pick up the bullet. I dropped it by the mirror while you were looking at the body.

When you tackled me on the subject, I was very glad I had thought of the pencil.”

“Yes, that was clever. It confused me completely.”

“I was afraid someone must hear the real shot, but I knew everyone was dressing¹³ for dinner,and would be shut away in their rooms. The servants were in their quarters. Miss?Cardwell was theonly one at all likely to hear it, and she would probably think it was a backfire. What she did hearwas the gong. I thought—I thought everything had gone without a hitch¹⁴. . . .”

Mr.?Forbes said slowly in his precise tones:

“This is a most extraordinary story. There seems no motive—”

Miss?Lingard said clearly: “There was a motive. . . .”

She added fiercely:

“Go on, ring up the police! What are you waiting for?”

Poirot said gently:

“Will you all please leave the room? Mr.?Forbes, ring up Major Riddle¹⁵. I will stay here till hecomes.”

Slowly, one by one, the family filed out of the room. Puzzled, uncomprehending, shocked,they cast abashed¹⁶ glances at the trim, upright figure with its neatly-parted grey hair.

Ruth was the last to go. She stood, hesitating in the doorway¹⁷.

“I don’t understand.” She spoke angrily, defiantly¹⁸, accusing Poirot. “Just now, you thought Ihad done it.”

“No, no,” Poirot shook his head. “No, I never thought that.”

Ruth went out slowly.

Poirot was left with the little middle-aged¹⁹ prim²⁰ woman who had just confessed to a cleverly-planned and cold-blooded murder.

“No,” said Miss?Lingard. “You didn’t think she had done it. You accused her to make mespeak. That’s right, isn’t it?”

Poirot bowed his head.

“While we’re waiting,” said Miss?Lingard in a conversational²¹ tone, “you might tell me whatmade you suspect me.”

“Several things. To begin with, your account of Sir Gervase. A proud man like Sir Gervasewould never speak disparagingly²² of his nephew to an outsider, especially someone in yourposition. You wanted to strengthen the theory of suicide. You also went out of your way tosuggest that the cause of the suicide was some dishonourable trouble connected with Hugo Trent.

That, again, was a thing Sir Gervase would never have admitted to a stranger. Then there was theobject you picked up in the hall, and the very significant fact that you did not mention that Ruth,when she entered the drawing room, did so from the garden. And then I found the paper bag—amost unlikely object to find in the wastepaper basket in the drawing room of a house likeHamborough Close! You were the only person who had been in the drawing room when the ‘shot’

was heard. The paper bag trick was one that would suggest itself to a woman—an ingenioushomemade device. So everything fitted in. The endeavour to throw suspicion on Hugo, and tokeep it away from Ruth. The mechanism²³ of crime—and its motive.”

The little grey-haired woman stirred.

“You know the motive?”

“I think so. Ruth’s happiness—that was the motive! I fancy that you had seen her with JohnLake—you knew how it was with them. And then with your easy access to Sir Gervase’s papers,you came across the draft of his new will—Ruth disinherited unless she married Hugo Trent. Thatdecided you to take the law into your own hands, using the fact that Sir Gervase had previouslywritten to me. You probably saw a copy of that letter. What muddled²⁴ feeling of suspicion and fearhad caused him to write originally, I do not know. He must have suspected either Burrows²⁵ or Lakeof systematically²⁶ robbing him. His uncertainty²⁷ regarding Ruth’s feelings made him seek a privateinvestigation. You used that fact and deliberately set the stage for suicide, backing it up by youraccount of his being very distressed²⁸ over something connected with Hugo Trent. You sent atelegram to me and reported Sir Gervase as having said I should arrive ‘too late.’ ”

Miss?Lingard said fiercely:

“Gervase Chevenix-Gore was a bully²⁹, a snob³⁰ and a windbag³¹! I wasn’t going to have him ruinRuth’s happiness.”

Poirot said gently:

“Ruth is your daughter?”

“Yes—she is my daughter—I’ve often—thought about her. When I heard Sir GervaseChevenix-Gore wanted someone to help him with a family history, I jumped at the chance. I wascurious to see my—my girl. I knew Lady Chevenix-Gore wouldn’t recognize me. It was years ago—I was young and pretty then, and I changed my name after that time. Besides Lady Chevenix-Gore is too vague to know anything definitely. I liked her, but I hated the Chevenix-Gore family.

They treated me like dirt. And here was Gervase going to ruin Ruth’s life with pride and snobbery³².

But I determined³³ that she should be happy. And she will be happy—if she never knows about me!”

It was a plea—not a question.

Poirot bent³⁴ his head gently.

“No one shall know from me.”

Miss?Lingard said quietly:

“Thank you.”

 

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