When the card of Inspector Morton of the Berkshire County Police was brought to Hercule Poirot, his eyebrows went up.
“Show him in, Georges, show him in. And bring—what is it that the police prefer?”
“I would suggest beer, sir.”
“How horrible! But how British. Bring beer, then.”
Inspector Morton came straight to the point.
“I had to come to London,” he said. “And I got hold of your address, M. Poirot. I was interested to see you at the inquest on Thursday.”
“So you saw me there?”
“Yes. I was surprised—and, as I say, interested. You won’t remember me but I remember you very well. In that Pangbourne Case.”
“Ah, you were connected with that?”
“Only in a very junior capacity. It’s a long time ago but I’ve never forgotten you.”
“And you recognized me at once the other day?”
“That wasn’t difficult, sir.” Inspector Morton repressed a slight smile. “Your appearance is—rather unusual.”
His gaze took in Poirot’s sartorial perfection and rested finally on the curving moustaches.
“You stick out in a country place,” he said.
“It is possible, it is possible,” said Poirot with complacency.
“It interested me why you should be there. That sort of crime—robbery—assault—doesn’t usually interest you.”
“Was it the usual ordinary brutal type of crime?”
“That’s what I’ve been wondering.”
“You have wondered from the beginning, have you not?”
“Yes, M. Poirot. There were some unusual features. Since then we’ve worked along the routine lines. Pulled in one or two people for questioning, but everyone has been able to account quite satisfactorily for his time that afternoon. It wasn’t what you’d call an ‘ordinary’ crime, M. Poirot—we’re quite sure of that. The Chief Constable agrees. It was done by someone who wished to make it appear that way. It could have been the Gilchrist woman, but there doesn’t seem to be any motive—and there wasn’t any emotional background, Mrs. Lansquenet was perhaps a bit mental—or ‘simple,’ if you like to put it that way, but it was a household of mistress and dogsbody with no feverish feminine friendship about it. There are dozens of Miss Gilchrists about, and they’re not usually the murdering type.”
He paused.
“So it looks as though we’d have to look farther afield. I came to ask if you could help us at all. Something must have brought you down there, M. Poirot.”
“Yes, yes, something did. An excellent Daimler car. But not only that.”
“You had—information?”
“Hardly in your sense of the word. Nothing that could be used as evidence.”
“But something that could be—a pointer?”
“Yes.”
“You see, M. Poirot, there have been developments.”
Meticulously, in detail, he told of the poisoned wedge of wedding cake.
Poirot took a deep, hissing breath.
“Ingenious—yes, ingenious… I warned Mr. Entwhistle to look after Miss Gilchrist. An attack on her was always a possibility. But I must confess that I did not expect poison. I anticipated a repetition of the hatchet motif. I merely thought that it would be inadvisable for her to walk alone in unfrequented lanes after dark.”
“But why did you anticipate an attack on her? I think, M. Poirot, you ought to tell me that.”
Poirot nodded his head slowly.
“Yes, I will tell you. Mr. Entwhistle will not tell you, because he is a lawyer and lawyers do not like to speak of suppositions, or inferences made from the character of a dead woman, or from a few irresponsible words. But he will not be averse to my telling you—no, he will be relieved. He does not wish to appear foolish or fanciful, but he wants you to know what may—only may—be the facts.”
Poirot paused as Georges entered with a tall glass of beer.
“Some refreshment, Inspector. No, no, I insist.”
“Won’t you join me?”
“I do not drink the beer. But I will myself have a glass of sirop de cassis—the English they do not care for it, I have noticed.”
Inspector Morton looked gratefully at his beer.
Poirot, sipping delicately from his glass of dark purple fluid, said:
“It begins, all this, at a funeral. Or rather, to be exact, after the funeral.”
Graphically, with many gestures, he set forth the story as Mr. Entwhistle had told it to him, but with such embellishments as his exuberant nature suggested. One almost felt that Hercule Poirot himself had been an eyewitness of the scene.
Inspector Morton had an excellent clear-cut brain. He seized at once on what were, for his purposes, the salient points.
“This Mr. Abernethie may have been poisoned?”
“It is a possibility.”
“And the body has been cremated and there is no evidence?”
“Exactly.”
Inspector Morton ruminated.
“Interesting. There’s nothing in it for us. Nothing, that is, to make Richard Abernethie’s death worth investigating. It would be a waste of time.”
“Yes.”
“But there are the people—the people who were there—the people who heard Cora Lansquenet say what she did, and one of whom may have thought that she might say it again and with more detail.”
“As she undoubtedly would have. There are, Inspector, as you say, the people. And now you see why I was at the inquest, why I interested myself in the case—because it is, always, people in whom I interest myself.”
“Then the attack on Miss Gilchrist—”
“Was always indicated. Richard Abernethie had been down to the cottage. He had talked to Cora. He had, perhaps, actually mentioned a name. The only person who might possibly have known or overheard something was Miss Gilchrist. After Cora is silenced, the murderer might continue to be anxious. Does the other woman know something—anything? Of course, if the murderer is wise he will let well alone, but murderers, Inspector, are seldom wise. Fortunately for us. They brood, they feel uncertain, they desire to make sure—quite sure. They are pleased with their own cleverness. And so, in the end, they protrude their necks, as you say.”
Inspector Morton smiled faintly.
Poirot went on:
“This attempt to silence Miss Gilchrist, already it is a mistake. For now there are two occasions about which you make inquiry. There is the handwriting on the wedding label also. It is a pity the wrapping paper was burnt.”
“Yes, I could have been certain, then, whether it came by post or whether it didn’t.”
“You have reason for thinking the latter, you say?”
“It’s only what the postman thinks—he’s not sure. If the parcel had gone through a village post office, it’s ten to one the postmistress would have noticed it, but nowadays the mail is delivered by van from Market Keynes and of course the young chap does quite a round and delivers a lot of things. He thinks it was letters only and no parcel at the cottage—but he isn’t sure. As a matter of fact he’s having a bit of girl trouble and he can’t think about anything else. I’ve tested his memory and he isn’t reliable in any way. If he did deliver it, it seems to me odd that the parcel shouldn’t have been noticed until after this Mr.—whatshisname—Guthrie—”
“Ah, Mr. Guthrie.”
Inspector Morton smiled.
“Yes, M. Poirot. We’re checking up on him. After all, it would be easy, wouldn’t it, to come along with a plausible tale of having been a friend of Mrs. Lansquenet’s. Mrs. Banks wasn’t to know if he was or he wasn’t. He could have dropped that little parcel, you know. It’s easy to make a thing look as though it’s been through the post. Lamp black a little smudged, makes quite a good postmark cancellation mark over a stamp.”
He paused and then added:
“And there are other possibilities.”
Poirot nodded.
“You think—?”
“Mr. George Crossfield was down in that part of the world—but not until the next day. Meant to attend the funeral, but had a little engine trouble on the way. Know anything about him, M. Poirot?”
“A little. But not as much as I would like to know.”
“Like that, is it? Quite a little bunch interested in the late Mr. Abernethie’s will, I understand. I hope it doesn’t mean going after all of them.”
“I have accumulated a little information. It is at your disposal. Naturally I have no authority to ask these people questions. In fact, it would not be wise for me to do so.”
“I shall go slowly myself. You don’t want to fluster your bird too soon. But when you do fluster it, you want to fluster it well.”
“A very sound technique. For you then, my friend, the routine—with all the machinery you have at your disposal. It is slow—but sure. For myself—”
“Yes, M. Poirot?”
“For myself, I go North. As I have told you, it is people in whom I interest myself. Yes—a little preparatory camouflage—and I go North.
“I intend,” added Hercule Poirot, “to purchase a country mansion for foreign refugees. I represent U.N.A.R.C.O.”
“And what’s U.N.A.R.C.O.?”
“United Nations Aid for Refugee Centre Organization. It sounds well, do you not think?”
Inspector Morton grinned.
Chapter Thirteen