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‘Mrs Lytcham Roche and Mr Barling came down later, sir.’
‘And Miss Cleves?’
‘I think Miss Cleves was in the drawing room, sir.’
Poirot asked a few more questions, then dismissed the butler with the command to request Miss Cleves to come to him.
She came immediately, and he studied her attentively in view of Barling’s revelations. She was certainly beautiful in her white satin frock with the rosebud on the shoulder.
He explained the circumstances which had brought him to Lytcham Close, eyeing her very closely, but she showed only what seemed to be genuine astonishment, with no signs of uneasiness. She spoke of Marshall indifferently with tepid approval. Only at mention of Barling did she approach animation.
‘That man’s a crook,’ she said sharply. ‘I told the Old Man so, but he wouldn’t listen—went on putting money into his rotten concerns.’
‘Are you sorry, mademoiselle, that your—father is dead?’
She stared at him.
‘Of course. I’m modern, you know, M. Poirot. I don’t indulge in sob stuff. But I was fond of the Old Man. Though, of course, it’s best for him.’
‘Best for him?’
‘Yes. One of these days he would have had to be locked up. It was growing on him—this belief that the last Lytcham Roche of Lytcham Close was omnipotent.’
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
‘I see, I see—yes, decided signs of mental trouble. By the way, you permit that I examine your little bag? It is charming—all these silk rosebuds. What was I saying? Oh, yes, did you hear the shot?’
‘Oh, yes! But I thought it was a car or a poacher, or something.’
‘You were in the drawing room?’
‘No. I was out in the garden.’
‘I see. Thank you, mademoiselle. Next I would like to see M. Keene, is it not?’
‘Geoffrey? I’ll send him along.’
Keene came in, alert and interested.
‘Mr Barling has been telling me of the reason for your being down here. I don’t know that there’s anything I can tell you, but if I can—’
Poirot interrupted him. ‘I only want to know one thing, Monsieur Keene. What was it that you stooped and picked up just before we got to the study door this evening?’
‘I—’ Keene half sprang up from his chair, then subsided again. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said lightly.
‘Oh, I think you do, monsieur. You were behind me, I know, but a friend of mine he says I have eyes in the back of my head. You picked up something and you put it in the right hand pocket of your dinner jacket.’
There was a pause. Indecision was written plainly on Keene’s handsome face. At last he made up his mind.
‘Take your choice, M. Poirot,’ he said, and leaning forward he turned his pocket inside out. There was a cigarette holder, a handkerchief, a tiny silk rosebud, and a little gold match box.
A moment’s silence and then Keene said, ‘As a matter of fact it was this.’ He picked up the match box. ‘I must have dropped it earlier in the evening.’
‘I think not,’ said Poirot.
‘What do you mean?’
‘What I say. I, monsieur, am a man of tidiness, of method, of order. A match box on the ground, I should see it and pick it up—a match box of this size, assuredly I should see it! No, monsieur, I think it was something very much smaller—such as this, perhaps.’
He picked up the little silk rosebud.
‘From Miss Cleve’s bag, I think?’
There was a moment’s pause, then Keene admitted it with a laugh.
‘Yes, that’s so. She—gave it to me last night.’
‘I see,’ said Poirot, and at the moment the door opened and a tall fair-haired man in a lounge suit strode into the room.
‘Keene—what’s all this? Lytcham Roche shot himself? Man, I can’t believe it. It’s incredible.’
‘Let me introduce you,’ said Keene, ‘to M. Hercule Poirot.’ The other started. ‘He will tell you all about it.’ And he left the room, banging the door.
‘M. Poirot—’ John Marshall was all eagerness ‘—I’m most awfully pleased to meet you. It is a bit of luck your being down here. Lytcham Roche never told me you were coming. I’m a most frightful admirer of yours, sir.’
A disarming young man, thought Poirot—not so young, either, for there was grey hair at the temples and lines in the forehead. It was the voice and manner that gave the impression of boyishness.
‘The police—’
‘They are here now, sir. I came up with them on hearing the news. They don’t seem particularly surprised. Of course, he was mad as a hatter, but even then—’
‘Even then you are surprised at his committing suicide?’
‘Frankly, yes. I shouldn’t have thought that—well, that Lytcham Roche could have imagined the world getting on without him.’
‘He has had money troubles of late, I understand?’
Marshall nodded.
‘He speculated. Wildcat schemes of Barling’s.’
Poirot said quietly, ‘I will be very frank. Had you any reason to suppose that Mr Lytcham Roche suspected you of tampering with your accounts?’
Marshall stared at Poirot in a kind of ludicrous bewilderment. So ludicrous was it that Poirot was forced to smile.
‘I see that you are utterly taken aback, Captain Marshall.’
‘Yes, indeed. The idea’s ridiculous.’
‘Ah! Another question. He did not suspect you of robbing him of his adopted daughter?’
‘Oh, so you know about me and Di?’ He laughed in an embarrassed fashion.
‘It is so, then?’
Marshall nodded.
‘But the old man didn’t know anything about it. Di wouldn’t have him told. I suppose she was right. He’d have gone up like a—a basketful of rockets. I should have been chucked out of a job, and that would have been that.’
‘And instead what was your plan?’
‘Well, upon my word, sir, I hardly know. I left things to Di. She said she’d fix it. As a matter of fact I was looking out for a job. If I could have got one I would have chucked this up.’
‘And mademoiselle would have married you? But M. Lytcham Roche might have stopped her allowance. Mademoiselle Diana is, I should say, fond of money.’
Marshall looked rather uncomfortable.
‘I’d have tried to make it up to her, sir.’
Geoffrey Keene came into the room. ‘The police are just going and would like to see you, M. Poirot.’
‘Merci. I will come.’
In the study were a stalwart inspector and the police surgeon.
‘Mr Poirot?’ said the inspector. ‘We’ve heard of you, sir. I’m Inspector Reeves.’
‘You are most amiable,’ said Poirot, shaking hands. ‘You do not need my co-operation, no?’ He gave a little laugh.
‘Not this time, sir. All plain sailing.’
‘The case is perfectly straightforward, then?’ demanded Poirot.
‘Absolutely. Door and window locked, key of door in dead man’s pocket. Manner very strange the past few days. No doubt about it.’
‘Everything quite—natural?’
The doctor grunted.
‘Must have been sitting at a damned queer angle for the bullet to have hit that mirror. But suicide’s a queer business.’
‘You found the bullet?’
‘Yes, here.’ The doctor held it out. ‘Near the wall below the mirror. Pistol was Mr Roche’s own. Kept it in the drawer of the desk always. Something behind it all, I daresay, but what that is we shall never know.’
Poirot nodded.
The body had been carried to a bedroom. The police now took their leave. Poirot stood at the front door looking after them. A sound made him turn. Harry Dalehouse was close behind him.
‘Have you, by any chance, a strong flashlight, my friend?’ asked Poirot.
‘Yes, I’ll get it for you.’
When he returned with it Joan Ashby was with him.
‘You may accompany me if you like,’ said Poirot graciously.
He stepped out of the front door and turned to the right, stopping before the study window. About six feet of grass separated it from the path. Poirot bent down, playing the flashlight on the grass. He straightened himself and shook his head.
‘No,’ he said, ‘not there.’
Then he paused and slowly his figure stiffened. On either side of the grass was a deep flower border. Poirot’s attention was focused on the right hand border, full of Michaelmas daisies and dahlias. His torch was directed on the front of the bed. Distinct on the soft mould were footprints.
‘Four of them,’ murmured Poirot. ‘Two going toward the window, two coming from it.’
‘A gardener,’ suggested Joan.
‘But no, mademoiselle, but no. Employ your eyes. These shoes are small, dainty, high-heeled, the shoes of a woman. Mademoiselle Diana mentioned having been out in the garden. Do you know if she went downstairs before you did, mademoiselle?’
Joan shook her head.
‘I can’t remember. I was in such a hurry because the gong went, and I thought I’d heard the first one. I do seem to remember that her room door was open as I went past, but I’m not sure. Mrs Lytcham Roche’s was shut, I know.’
‘I see,’ said Poirot.
Something in his voice made Harry look up sharply, but Poirot was merely frowning gently to himself.
In the doorway they met Diana Cleves.
‘The police have gone,’ she said. ‘It’s all—over.’
She gave a deep sigh.
‘May I request one little word with you, mademoiselle?’
She led the way into the morning room, and Poirot followed, shutting the door.
‘Well?’ She looked a little surprised.
‘One little question, mademoiselle. Were you tonight at any time in the flower border outside the study window?’
‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘About seven o’clock and again just before dinner.’
‘I do not understand,’ he said.
‘I can’t see that there is anything to “understand”, as you call it,’ she said coldly. ‘I was picking Michaelmas daisies—for the table. I always do the flowers. That was about seven o’clock.’
‘And afterward—later?’
