She went over once more to the window and stood looking out. Poirot signed to me not to speak. I think he was hoping for some further revelation, now that the girl’s self-control had broken down.
When she spoke, it was in a different tone of voice, a dreamy far-away voice.
‘Do you know a queer wish I’ve always had? I love End House. I’ve always wanted to produce a play there. It’s got an—an atmosphere of drama about it. I’ve seen all sorts of plays staged there in my mind. And now it’s as though a drama were being acted there. Only I’m not producing it…I’m in it! I’m right in it! I am, perhaps, the person who—dies in the first act.’
Her voice broke.
‘Now, now, Mademoiselle.’ Poirot’s voice was resolutely brisk and cheerful. ‘This will not do. This is hysteria.’
She turned and looked at him sharply.
‘Did Freddie tell you I was hysterical?’ she asked. ‘She says I am, sometimes. But you mustn’t always believe what Freddie says. There are times, you know when—when she isn’t quite herself.’
There was a pause, then Poirot asked a totally irrelevant question:
‘Tell me, Mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘Have you ever received an offer for End House?’
‘To sell it, do you mean?’
‘That is what I meant.’
‘No.’
‘Would you consider selling it if you got a good offer?’
Nick considered for a moment.
‘No, I don’t think so. Not, I mean, unless it was such a ridiculously good offer that it would be perfectly foolish not to.’
‘Précisément.’
‘I don’t want to sell it, you know, because I’m fond of it.’
‘Quite so. I understand.’
Nick moved slowly towards the door.
‘By the way, there are fireworks tonight. Will you come? Dinner at eight o’clock. The fireworks begin at nine-thirty. You can see them splendidly from the garden where it overlooks the harbour.’
‘I shall be enchanted.’
‘Both of you, of course,’ said Nick.
‘Many thanks,’ I said.
‘Nothing like a party for reviving the drooping spirits,’ remarked Nick. And with a little laugh she went out.
‘Pauvre enfant,’ said Poirot.
He reached for his hat and carefully flicked an infinitesimal speck of dust from its surface.
‘We are going out?’ I asked.
‘Mais oui, we have legal business to transact, mon ami.’
‘Of course. I understand.’
‘One of your brilliant mentality could not fail to do so, Hastings.’
The offices of Messrs Vyse, Trevannion & Wynnard were situated in the main street of the town. We mounted the stairs to the first floor and entered a room where three clerks were busily writing. Poirot asked to see Mr Charles Vyse.
A clerk murmured a few words down a telephone, received, apparently, an affirmative reply, and remarking that Mr Vyse would see us now, he led us across the passage, tapped on a door and stood aside for us to pass in.
From behind a large desk covered with legal papers, Mr Vyse rose up to greet us.
He was a tall young man, rather pale, with impassive features. He was going a little bald on either temple and wore glasses. His colouring was fair and indeterminate.
Poirot had come prepared for the encounter. Fortunately he had with him an agreement, as yet unsigned, and so on some technical points in connection with this, he wanted Mr Vyse’s advice.
Mr Vyse, speaking carefully and correctly, was soon able to allay Poirot’s alleged doubts, and to clear up some obscure points of the wording.
‘I am very much obliged to you,’ murmured Poirot. ‘As a foreigner, you comprehend, these legal matters and phrasing are most difficult.’
It was then that Mr Vyse asked who had sent Poirot to him.
‘Miss Buckley,’ said Poirot, promptly. ‘Your cousin, is she not? A most charming young lady. I happened to mention that I was in perplexity and she told me to come to you. I tried to see you on Saturday morning—about half-past twelve—but you were out.’
‘Yes, I remember. I left early on Saturday.’
‘Mademoiselle your cousin must find that large house very lonely? She lives there alone, I understand.’
‘Quite so.’
‘Tell me, Mr Vyse, if I may ask, is there any chance of that property being in the market?’
‘Not the least, I should say.’
‘You understand, I do not ask idly. I have a reason! I am in search, myself, of just such a property. The climate of St Loo enchants me. It is true that the house appears to be in bad repair, there has not been, I gather, much money to spend upon it. Under those circumstances, is it not possible that Mademoiselle would consider an offer?’
‘Not the least likelihood of it.’ Charles Vyse shook his head with the utmost decision. ‘My cousin is absolutely devoted to the place. Nothing would induce her to sell, I know. It is, you understand, a family place.’
‘I comprehend that, but—’
‘It is absolutely out of the question. I know my cousin. She has a fanatical devotion to the house.’
A few minutes later we were out in the street again.
‘Well, my friend,’ said Poirot. ‘And what impression did this M. Charles Vyse make upon you?’
I considered.
‘A very negative one,’ I said at last. ‘He is a curiously negative person.’
‘Not a strong personality, you would say?’
‘No, indeed. The kind of man you would never remember on meeting him again. A mediocre person.’
‘His appearance is certainly not striking. Did you notice any discrepancy in the course of our conversation with him?’
‘Yes,’ I said slowly, ‘I did. With regard to the selling of End House.’
‘Exactly. Would you have described Mademoiselle Buckley’s attitude towards End House as one of “fanatical devotion”?’
‘It is a very strong term.’
‘Yes—and Mr Vyse is not given to using strong terms. His normal attitude—a legal attitude—is to under, rather than over, state. Yet he says that Mademoiselle has a fanatical devotion to the home of her ancestors.’
‘She did not convey that impression this morning,’ I said. ‘She spoke about it very sensibly, I thought. She’s obviously fond of the place—just as anyone in her position would be—but certainly nothing more.’
‘So, in fact, one of the two is lying,’ said Poirot, thoughtfully.
‘One would not suspect Vyse of lying.’
‘Clearly a great asset if one has any lying to do,’ remarked Poirot. ‘Yes, he has quite the air of a George Washington, that one. Did you notice another thing, Hastings?’
‘What was that?’
‘He was not in his office at half-past twelve on Saturday.’
Chapter 7
Tragedy
The first person we saw when we arrived at End House that evening was Nick. She was dancing about the hall wrapped in a marvellous kimono covered with dragons.
‘Oh! it’s only you!’
‘Mademoiselle—I am desolated!’
‘I know. It did sound rude. But you see, I’m waiting for my dress to arrive. They promised—the brutes—promised faithfully!’
‘Ah! if it is a matter of la toilette! There is a dance tonight, is there not?’
‘Yes. We are all going on to it after the fireworks. That is, I suppose we are.’
There was a sudden drop in her voice. But the next minute she was laughing.
‘Never give in! That’s my motto. Don’t think of trouble and trouble won’t come! I’ve got my nerve back tonight. I’m going to be gay and enjoy myself.’
There was a footfall on the stairs. Nick turned.
‘Oh! here’s Maggie. Maggie, here are the sleuths that are protecting me from the secret assassin. Take them into the drawing-room and let them tell you about it.’
In turn we shook
hands with Maggie Buckley, and, as requested, she took us into the drawing-room. I formed an immediate favourable opinion of her.
It was, I think, her appearance of calm good sense that so attracted me. A quiet girl, pretty in the old-fashioned sense—certainly not smart. Her face was innocent of make-up and she wore a simple, rather shabby, black evening dress. She had frank blue eyes, and a pleasant slow voice.
‘Nick has been telling me the most amazing things,’ she said. ‘Surely she must be exaggerating? Who ever would want to harm Nick? She can’t have an enemy in the world.’
Incredulity showed strongly in her voice. She was looking at Poirot in a somewhat unflattering fashion. I realized that to a girl like Maggie Buckley, foreigners were always suspicious.
‘Nevertheless, Miss Buckley, I assure you that it is the truth,’ said Poirot quietly.
She made no reply, but her face remained unbelieving.
‘Nick seems quite fey tonight,’ she remarked. ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with her. She seems in the wildest spirits.’
That word—fey! It sent a shiver through me. Also, something in the intonation of her voice had set me wondering.
‘Are you Scotch, Miss Buckley?’ I asked, abruptly.
‘My mother was Scottish,’ she explained.
She viewed me, I noticed, with more approval than she viewed Poirot. I felt that my statement of the case would carry more weight with her than Poirot’s would.
‘Your cousin is behaving with great bravery,’ I said. ‘She’s determined to carry on as usual.’
‘It’s the only way, isn’t it?’ said Maggie. ‘I mean—whatever one’s inward feelings are—it is no good making a fuss about them. That’s only uncomfortable for everyone else.’ She paused and then added in a soft voice: ‘I’m very fond of Nick. She’s been good to me always.’
We could say nothing more for at that moment Frederica Rice drifted into the room. She was wearing a gown of Madonna blue and looked very fragile and ethereal. Lazarus soon followed her and then Nick danced in. She was wearing a black frock, and round her was wrapped a marvellous old Chinese shawl of vivid lacquer red.
‘Hello, people,’ she said. ‘Cocktails?’
We all drank, and Lazarus raised his glass to her.
‘That’s a marvellous shawl, Nick,’ he said. ‘It’s an old one, isn’t it?’
‘Yes—brought back by Great-Great-Great-Uncle Timothy from his travels.’
‘It’s a beauty—a real beauty. You wouldn’t find another to match it if you tried.’
‘It’s warm,’ said Nick. ‘It’ll be nice when we’re watching the fireworks. And it’s gay. I—I hate black.’
‘Yes,’ said Frederica. ‘I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you in a black dress before, Nick. Why did you get it?’
‘Oh! I don’t know.’ The girl flung aside with a petulant gesture, but I had caught a curious curl of her lips as though of pain. ‘Why does one do anything?’
We went in to dinner. A mysterious manservant had appeared—hired, I presume, for the occasion. The food was indifferent. The champagne, on the other hand, was good.
‘George hasn’t turned up,’ said Nick. ‘A nuisance his having to go back to Plymouth last night. He’ll get over this evening sometime or other, I expect. In time for the dance anyway. I’ve got a man for Maggie. Presentable, if not passionately interesting.’
A faint roaring sound drifted in through the window.
‘Oh! curse that speedboat,’ said Lazarus. ‘I get so tired of it.’
‘That’s not the speedboat,’ said Nick. ‘That’s a sea-plane.’
‘I believe you’re right.’
‘Of course I’m right. The sound’s quite different.’
‘When are you going to get your Moth, Nick?’
‘When I can raise the money,’ laughed Nick.
‘And then, I suppose you’ll be off to Australia like that girl—what’s her name?’
‘I’d love to—’
‘I admire her enormously,’ said Mrs Rice, in her tired voice. ‘What marvellous nerve! All by herself too.’
‘I admire all these flying people,’ said Lazarus. ‘If Michael Seton had succeeded in his flight round the world he’d have been the hero of the day—and rightly so. A thousand pities he’s come to grief. He’s the kind of man England can’t afford to lose.’
‘He may still be all right,’ said Nick.
‘Hardly. It’s a thousand to one against by now. Poor Mad Seton.’
‘They always called him Mad Seton, didn’t they?’ asked Frederica.
Lazarus nodded.
‘He comes of rather a mad family,’ he said. ‘His uncle, Sir Matthew Seton, who died about a week ago—he was as mad as a hatter.’
‘He was the mad millionaire who ran bird sanctuaries, wasn’t he?’ asked Frederica.
‘Yes. Used to buy up islands. He was a great woman-hater. Some girl chucked him once, I believe, and he took to Natural History by way of consoling himself.’
‘Why do you say Michael Seton is dead?’ persisted Nick. ‘I don’t see any reason for giving up hope—yet.’
‘Of course, you knew him, didn’t you?’ said Lazarus. ‘I forgot.’
‘Freddie and I met him at Le Touquet last year,’ said Nick. ‘He was too marvellous, wasn’t he, Freddie?’
‘Don’t ask me, darling. He was your conquest, not mine. He took you up once, didn’t he?’
‘Yes—at Scarborough. It was simply too wonderful.’
‘Have you done any flying, Captain Hastings?’ Maggie asked of me in polite conversational tones.
I had to confess that a trip to Paris and back was the extent of my acquaintance with air travel.
Suddenly, with an exclamation, Nick sprang up.
‘There’s the telephone. Don’t wait for me. It’s getting late. And I’ve asked lots of people.’
She left the room. I glanced at my watch. It was just nine o’clock. Dessert was brought, and port. Poirot and Lazarus were talking Art. Pictures, Lazarus was saying, were a great drug in the market just now. They went on to discuss new ideas in furniture and decoration.
I endeavoured to do my duty by talking to Maggie Buckley, but I had to admit that the girl was heavy in hand. She answered pleasantly, but without throwing the ball back. It was uphill work.
Frederica Rice sat dreamily silent, her elbows on the table and the smoke from her cigarette curling round her fair head. She looked like a meditative angel.
It was just twenty past nine when Nick put her head round the door.
‘Come out of it, all of you! The animals are coming in two by two.’
We rose obediently. Nick was busy greeting arrivals. About a dozen people had been asked. Most of them were rather uninteresting. Nick, I noticed, made a good hostess. She sank her modernisms and made everyone welcome in an old-fashioned way. Among the guests I noticed Charles Vyse.
Presently we all moved out into the garden to a place overlooking the sea and the harbour. A few chairs had been placed there for the elderly people, but most of us stood. The first rocket flamed to Heaven.
At that moment I heard a loud familiar voice, and turned my head to see Nick greeting Mr Croft.
‘It’s too bad,’ she was saying, ‘that Mrs Croft can’t be here too. We ought to have carried her on a stretcher or something.’
‘It’s bad luck on poor mother altogether. But she never complains—that woman’s got the sweetest nature—Ha! that’s a good one.’ This as a shower of golden rain showed up in the sky.
The night was a dark one—there was no moon—the new moon being due in three day’s time. It was also, like most summer evenings, cold. Maggie Buckley, who was next to me, shivered.
‘I’ll just run in and get a coat,’ she murmured.
‘Let me.’
‘No, you wouldn’t know where to find it.’
She turned towards the house. At that moment Frederica Rice’s voice called:
‘Oh, Maggie, g
et mine too. It’s in my room.’
‘She didn’t hear,’ said Nick. ‘I’ll get it, Freddie. I want my fur one—this shawl isn’t nearly hot enough. It’s this wind.’
There was, indeed, a sharp breeze blowing off the sea.
Some set pieces started down on the quay. I fell into conversation with an elderly lady standing next to me who put me through a rigorous catechism as to life, career, tastes and probable length of stay.
Bang! A shower of green stars filled the sky. They changed to blue, then red, then silver.
Another and yet another.
‘“Oh!” and then “Ah!” that is what one says,’ observed Poirot suddenly close to my ear. ‘At the end it becomes monotonous, do you not find? Brrr! The grass, it is damp to the feet! I shall suffer for this—a chill. And no possibility of obtaining a proper tisane!’
‘A chill? On a lovely night like this?’
‘A lovely night! A lovely night! You say that, because the rain it does not pour down in sheets! Always when the rain does not fall, it is a lovely night. But I tell you, my friend, if there were a little thermometer to consult you would see.’
‘Well,’ I admitted, ‘I wouldn’t mind putting on a coat myself.’
‘You are very sensible. You have come from a hot climate.’
‘I’ll bring yours.’
Poirot lifted first one, then the other foot from the ground with a cat-like motion.
‘It is the dampness of the feet I fear. Would it, think you, be possible to lay hands on a pair of goloshes?’
I repressed a smile.
‘Not a hope,’ I said. ‘You understand, Poirot, that it is no longer done.’
‘Then I shall sit in the house,’ he declared. ‘Just for the Guy Fawkes show, shall I want only enrhumer myself? And catch, perhaps, a fluxion de poitrine?’
Poirot still murmuring indignantly, we bent our footsteps towards the house. Loud clapping drifted up to us from the quay below where another set piece was being shown—a ship, I believe, with Welcome to Our Visitors displayed across it.
‘We are all children at heart,’ said Poirot, thoughtfully. ‘Les Feux D’Artifices, the party, the games with balls—yes, and even the conjurer, the man who deceives the eye, however carefully it watches—mais qu’est-ce que vous avez?’