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She was looked after by her niece, Freda Clay. Miss Sharples died as a result of an overdose of morphia. Freda Clay admitted an error, saying that her aunt’s sufferings were so bad that she could not stand it and gave her more morphia to ease the pain. Opinion of police that act was deliberate, not a mistake, but they considered evidence insufficient on which to prosecute.
CASE C. EDWARD RIGGS
Agricultural labourer. Suspected his wife of infidelity with their lodger, Ben Craig. Craig and Mrs Riggs found shot. Shots proved to be from Riggs’s gun. Riggs gave himself up to the police, said he supposed he must have done it, but couldn’t remember. His mind went blank, he said. Riggs sentenced to death, sentence afterwards commuted to penal servitude for life.
CASE D. DEREK BRADLEY
Was carrying on an intrigue with a girl. His wife discovered this, she threatened to kill him. Bradley died of potassium cyanide administered in his beer. Mrs Bradley arrested and tried for murder. Broke down under cross examination. Convicted and hanged.
CASE E. MATTHEW LITCHFIELD
Elderly tyrant. Four daughters at home, not allowed any pleasures or money to spend. One evening on returning home, he was attacked outside his side door and killed by a blow on the head. Later, after police investigation, his eldest daughter, Margaret, walked into the police station and gave herself up for her father’s murder. She did it, she said, in order that her younger sisters might be able to have a life of their own before it was too late. Litchfield left a large fortune. Margaret Litchfield was adjudged insane and committed to Broadmoor, but died shortly afterwards.
I read carefully, but with a growing bewilderment. Finally I put the paper down and looked enquiringly at Poirot.
‘Well, mon ami?’
‘I remember the Bradley case,’ I said slowly, ‘I read about it at the time. She was a very good-looking woman.’
Poirot nodded.
‘But you must enlighten me. What is all this about?’
‘Tell me first what it amounts to in your eyes.’
I was rather puzzled.
‘What you gave me was an account of five different murders. They all occurred in different places and amongst different classes of people. Moreover there seems no superficial resemblance between them. That is to say, one was a case of jealousy, one was an unhappy wife seeking to get rid of her husband, another had money for a motive, another was, you might say, unselfish in aim since the murderer did not try to escape punishment, and the fifth was frankly brutal, probably committed under the influence of drink.’ I paused and said doubtfully: ‘Is there something in common between them all that I have missed?’
‘No, no, you have been very accurate in your summing up. The only point that you might have mentioned, but did not, was the fact that in none of those cases did any real doubt exist.’
‘I don’t think I understand.’
‘Mrs Etherington, for instance, was acquitted. But everybody, nevertheless, was quite certain that she did it. Freda Clay was not openly accused, but no one thought of any alternative solution to the crime. Riggs stated that he did not remember killing his wife and her lover, but there was never any question of anybody else having done so. Margaret Litchfield confessed. In each case, you see, Hastings, there was one clear suspect and no other.’
I wrinkled my brow. ‘Yes, that is true – but I don’t see what particular inferences you draw from that.’
‘Ah, but you see, I am coming to a fact that you do not know as yet. Supposing, Hastings, that in each of these cases that I have outlined, there was one alien note common to them all?’
‘What do you mean?’
Poirot said slowly: ‘I intend, Hastings, to be very careful in what I say. Let me put it this way. There is a certain person – X. In none of these cases did X (apparently) have any motive in doing away with the victim. In one case, as far as I have been able to find out, X was actually two hundred miles away when the crime was committed. Nevertheless I will tell you this. X was on intimate terms with Etherington, X lived for a time in the same village as Riggs, X was acquainted with Mrs Bradley. I have a snap of X and Freda Clay walking together in the street, and X was near the house when old Matthew Litchfield died. What do you say to that?’
I stared at him. I said slowly: ‘Yes, it’s a bit too much. Coincidence might account for two cases, or even three, but five is a bit too thick. There must, unlikely as it seems, be some connection between these different murders.’
‘You assume, then, what I have assumed?’
‘That X is the murderer? Yes.’
‘In that case, Hastings, you will be willing to go with me one step farther. Let me tell you this. X is in this house.’
‘Here? At Styles?’
‘At Styles. What is the logical inference to be drawn from that?’
I knew what was coming as I said: ‘Go on – say it.’
Hercule Poirot said gravely: ‘A murder will shortly be committed here – here.’
Chapter 3
For a moment or two I stared at Poirot in dismay, then I reacted.
‘No, it won’t,’ I said. ‘You’ll prevent that.’
Poirot threw me an affectionate glance.
‘My loyal friend. How much I appreciate your faith in me. Tout de même, I am not sure if it is justified in this case.’
‘Nonsense. Of course you can stop it.’
Poirot’s voice was grave as he said: ‘Reflect a minute, Hastings. One can catch a murderer, yes. But how does one proceed to stop a murder?’
‘Well, you – you – well, I mean – if you know beforehand –’
I paused rather feebly – for suddenly I saw the difficulties.
Poirot said: ‘You see? It is not so simple. There are, in fact, only three methods. The first is to warn the victim. To put the victim on his or her guard. That does not always succeed, for it is unbelievably difficult to convince some people that they are in grave danger – possibly from someone near and dear to them. They are indignant and refuse to believe. The second course is to warn the murderer. To say, in language that is only slightly veiled, “I know your intentions. If so-and-so dies, my friend, you will most surely hang.” That succeeds more often than the first method, but even there it is likely to fail. For a murderer, my friend, is more conceited than any creature on this earth. A murderer is always more clever than anyone else – no one will ever suspect him or her – the police will be utterly baffled, etc. Therefore he (or she) goes ahead just the same, and all you can have is the satisfaction of hanging them afterwards.’ He paused and said thoughtfully: ‘Twice in my life I have warned a murderer – once in Egypt, once elsewhere. In each case, the criminal was determined to kill . . . It may be so here.’
‘You said there was a third method,’ I reminded him.
‘Ah yes. For that one needs the utmost ingenuity. You have to guess exactly how and when the blow is timed to fall and you have to be ready to step in at the exact psychological moment. You have to catch the murderer, if not quite red-handed, then guilty of the intention beyond any possible doubt.
‘And that, my friend,’ went on Poirot, ‘is, I can assure you, a matter of great difficulty and delicacy, and I would not for a moment guarantee its success! I may be conceited, but I am not so conceited as that.’
‘Which method do you propose to try here?’
‘Possibly all three. The first is the most difficult.’
‘Why? I should have thought it the easiest.’
‘Yes, if you know the intended victim. But do you not realize, Hastings, that here I do not know the victim?’
‘What?’
I gave vent to the exclamation without reflecting. Then the difficulties of the position began to draw on me. There was, there must be, some link connecting this series of crimes, but we did not know what that link was. The motive, the vitally important motive, was missing. And without knowing that, we could not tell who was threatened.
Poirot nodded as he saw by my face that I was realizing the difficulties of the situation.
‘You see, my friend, it is not so easy.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I see that. You have so far been able to find no connection between these varying cases?’
Poirot shook his head. ‘Nothing.’
I reflected again. In the ABC crimes, we had to deal with what purported to be an alphabetical series, though in actuality it had turned out to be something very different.
I asked: ‘There is, you are quite sure, no far-fetched financial motive – nothing, for instance, like you found in the case of Evelyn Carlisle?’
‘No. You may be quite sure, my dear Hastings, that financial gain is the first thing for which I look.’
That was true enough. Poirot had always been completely cynical about money.
I thought again. A vendetta of some kind? That was more in accordance with the facts. But even there, there seemed a lack of any connecting link. I recalled a story I had read of a series of purposeless murders – the clue being that the victims had happened to serve as members of a jury, and the crimes had been committed by a man whom they had condemned. It struck me that something of that kind would meet this case. I am ashamed to say that I kept the idea to myself. It would have been such a feather in my cap if I could go to Poirot with the solution.
Instead I asked: ‘And now tell me, who is X?’
To my intense annoyance Poirot shook his head very decidedly. ‘That, my friend, I do not tell.’
‘Nonsense. Why not?’
Poirot’s eyes twinkled. ‘Because, mon cher, you are still the same old Hastings. You have still the speaking countenance. I do not wish, you see, that you should sit staring at X with your mouth hanging open, your face saying plainly: “This – this that I am looking at – is a murderer.”’
‘You might give me credit for a little dissimulation at need.’
‘When you try to dissimulate, it is worse. No, no, mon ami, we must be very incognito, you and I. Then, when we pounce, we pounce.’
‘You obstinate old devil,’ I said. ‘I’ve a good mind to –’
I broke off as there was a tap on the door. Poirot called, ‘Come in,’ and my daughter Judith entered.
I should like to describe Judith, but I’ve always been a poor hand at descriptions.
Judith is tall, she holds her head high, she has level dark brows, and a very lovely line of cheek and jaw, severe in its austerity. She is grave and slightly scornful, and to my mind there has always hung about her a suggestion of tragedy.
Judith didn’t come and kiss me – she is not that kind. She just smiled at me and said, ‘Hullo, Father.’
Her smile was shy and a little embarrassed, but it made me feel that in spite of her undemonstrativeness she was pleased to see me.
‘Well,’ I said, feeling foolish as I so often do with the younger generation, ‘I’ve got here.’
‘Very clever of you, darling,’ said Judith.
‘I describe to him,’ said Poirot, ‘the cooking.’
‘Is it very bad?’ asked Judith.
‘You should not have to ask that, my child. Is it that you think of nothing but the test tubes and the microscopes? Your middle finger it is stained with methylene blue. It is not a good thing for your husband if you take no interest in his stomach.’
‘I dare say I shan’t have a husband.’
‘Certainly you will have a husband. What did the bon Dieu create you for?’
‘Many things, I hope,’ said Judith.
‘Le mariage first of all.’
‘Very well,’ said Judith. ‘You will find me a nice husband and I will look after his stomach very carefully.’
‘She laughs at me,’ said Poirot. ‘Some day she will know how wise old men are.’
There was another tap on the door and Dr Franklin entered. He was a tall, angular young man of thirty-five, with a decided jaw, reddish hair, and bright blue eyes. He was the most ungainly man I had ever known, and was always knocking into things in an absentminded way.
He cannoned into the screen round Poirot’s chair, and half turning his head murmured ‘I beg your pardon’ to it automatically.
I wanted to laugh, but Judith, I noted, remained quite grave. I suppose she was quite used to that sort of thing.
‘You remember my father,’ said Judith.
Dr Franklin started, shied nervously, screwed up his eyes and peered at me, then stuck out a hand, saying awkwardly: ‘Of course, of course, how are you? I heard you were coming down.’ He turned to Judith. ‘I say, do you think we need change? If not we might go on a bit after dinner. If we got a few more of those slides prepared –’
‘No,’ said Judith. ‘I want to talk to my father.’
‘Oh, yes. Oh, of course.’ Suddenly he smiled, an apologetic, boyish smile. ‘I am sorry – I get so awfully wrapped up in a thing. It’s quite unpardonable – makes me so selfish. Do forgive me.’
The clock struck and Franklin glanced at it hurriedly.
‘Good Lord, is it as late as that? I shall get into trouble. Promised Barbara I’d read to her before dinner.’
He grinned at us both and hurried out, colliding with the door post as he went.
‘How is Mrs Franklin?’ I asked.
‘The same and rather more so,’ said Judith.
‘It’s very sad her being such an invalid,’ I said.
‘It’s maddening for a doctor,’ said Judith. ‘Doctors like healthy people.’
‘How hard you young people are!’ I exclaimed.
Judith said coldly: ‘I was just stating a fact.’
‘Nevertheless,’ said Poirot, ‘the good doctor hurries to read to her.’
‘Very stupid,’ said Judith. ‘That nurse of hers can read to her perfectly well if she wants to be read to. Personally I should loathe anyone reading aloud to me.’
‘Well, well, tastes differ,’ I said.
