Two

THE TRAGEDY AT MARSDON MANOR¹

I had been called away from town for a few days, and on my return found Poirot in the act ofstrapping up his small valise.

“A la bonne heure, Hastings, I feared you would not have returned in time to accompanyme.”

“You are called away on a case, then?”

“Yes, though I am bound to admit that, on the face of it, the affair does not seem promising².

The Northern Union Insurance Company have asked me to investigate the death of aMr.?Maltravers who a few weeks ago insured his life with them for the large sum of fifty thousandpounds.”

“Yes?” I said, much interested.

“There was, of course, the usual suicide clause in the policy. In the event of his committingsuicide within a year the premiums³ would be forfeited⁴. Mr.?Maltravers was duly examined by theCompany’s own doctor, and although he was a man slightly past the prime of life was passed asbeing in quite sound health. However, on Wednesday last—the day before yesterday—the body ofMr.?Maltravers was found in the grounds of his house in Essex, Marsdon Manor, and the cause ofhis death is described as some kind of internal haemorrhage. That in itself would be nothingremarkable, but sinister⁶ rumours⁷ as to Mr.?Maltravers’ financial position have been in the air oflate, and the Northern Union have ascertained⁸ beyond any possible doubt that the deceasedgentleman stood upon the verge⁹ of bankruptcy¹⁰. Now that alters matters considerably¹¹. Maltravershad a beautiful young wife, and it is suggested that he got together all the ready money he couldfor the purpose of paying the premiums on a life insurance for his wife’s benefit, and thencommitted suicide. Such a thing is not uncommon¹². In any case, my friend Alfred Wright, who is adirector of the Northern Union, has asked me to investigate the facts of the case, but, as I told him,I am not very hopeful of success. If the cause of the death had been heart failure, I should havebeen more sanguine¹³. Heart failure may always be translated as the inability of the local GP todiscover what his patient really did die of, but a haemorrhage seems fairly definite. Still, we canbut make some necessary inquiries¹⁴. Five minutes to pack your bag, Hastings, and we will take ataxi to Liverpool Street.”

About an hour later, we alighted from a Great Eastern train at the little station of MarsdonLeigh. Inquiries at the station yielded the information that Marsdon Manor was about a miledistant. Poirot decided¹⁵ to walk, and we betook ourselves along the main street.

“What is our plan of campaign?” I asked.

“First I will call upon the doctor. I have ascertained that there is only one doctor in MarsdonLeigh, Dr.?Ralph Bernard. Ah, here we are at his house.”

The house in question was a kind of superior cottage, standing¹⁶ back a little from the road. Abrass plate on the gate bore the doctor’s name. We passed up the path and rang the bell.

We proved to be fortunate in our call. It was the doctor’s consulting hour, and for the momentthere were no patients waiting for him. Dr.?Bernard was an elderly man, high-shouldered andstooping, with a pleasant vagueness of manner.

Poirot introduced himself and explained the purpose of our visit, adding that InsuranceCompanies were bound to investigate fully¹⁷ in a case of this kind.

“Of course, of course,” said Dr.?Bernard vaguely¹⁸. “I suppose, as he was such a rich man, hislife was insured for a big sum?”

“You consider him a rich man, doctor?”

The doctor looked rather surprised.

“Was he not? He kept two cars, you know, and Marsdon Manor is a pretty big place to keepup, although I believe he bought it very cheap.”

“I understand that he had had considerable losses of late,” said Poirot, watching the doctornarrowly.

The latter, however, merely shook his head sadly.

“Is that so? Indeed. It is fortunate for his wife, then, that there is this life insurance. A verybeautiful and charming young creature, but terribly unstrung by this sad catastrophe¹⁹. A mass ofnerves, poor thing. I have tried to spare her all I can, but of course the shock was bound to beconsiderable.”

“You had been attending Mr.?Maltravers recently?”

“My dear sir, I never attended him.”

“What?”

“I understand Mr.?Maltravers was a Christian²⁰ Scientist—or something of that kind.”

“But you examined the body?”

“Certainly. I was fetched by one of the undergardeners.”

“And the cause of death was clear?”

“Absolutely. There was blood on the lips, but most of the bleeding must have been internal.”

“Was he still lying where he had been found?”

“Yes, the body had not been touched. He was lying at the edge of a small plantation²¹. He hadevidently been out shooting rooks, a small rook rifle lay beside him. The haemorrhage must haveoccurred quite suddenly. Gastric²² ulcer²³, without a doubt.”

“No question of his having been shot, eh?”

“My dear sir!”

“I demand pardon,” said Poirot humbly²⁴. “But, if my memory is not at fault, in the case of arecent murder, the doctor first gave a verdict of heart failure—altering it when the local constablepointed out that there was a bullet wound through the head!”

“You will not find any bullet wounds on the body of Mr.?Maltravers,” said Dr.?Bernard dryly.

“Now gentlemen, if there is nothing further—”

We took the hint.

“Good morning, and many thanks to you, doctor, for so kindly²⁵ answering our questions. Bythe way, you saw no need for an autopsy²⁶?”

“Certainly not.” The doctor became quite apoplectic²⁷. “The cause of death was clear, and inmy profession we see no need to distress²⁸ unduly²⁹ the relatives of a dead patient.”

And, turning, the doctor slammed the door sharply in our faces.

“And what do you think of Dr.?Bernard, Hastings?” inquired Poirot, as we proceeded on ourway to the Manor.

“Rather an old ass⁵.”

“Exactly. Your judgements of character are always profound, my friend.”

I glanced at him uneasily, but he seemed perfectly³⁰ serious. A twinkle, however, came into hiseye, and he added slyly:

“That is to say, where there is no question of a beautiful woman!”

I looked at him coldly.

On our arrival at the manor house, the door was opened to us by a middle-aged³¹ parlourmaid.

Poirot handed her his card, and a letter from the Insurance Company for Mrs.?Maltravers. Sheshowed us into a small morning room, and retired³² to tell her mistress. About ten minutes elapsed,and then the door opened, and a slender figure in widow’s weeds stood upon the threshold.

“Monsieur Poirot?” she faltered³³.

“Madame!” Poirot sprang gallantly³⁴ to his feet and hastened towards her. “I cannot tell youhow I regret to derange³⁵ you in this way. But what will you? Les affaires—they know no mercy.”

Mrs.?Maltravers permitted him to lead her to a chair. Her eyes were red with weeping, but thetemporary disfigurement could not conceal³⁶ her extraordinary beauty. She was about twenty-sevenor -eight, and very fair, with large blue eyes and a pretty pouting³⁷ mouth.

“It is something about my husband’s insurance, is it? But must I be bothered now—so soon?”

“Courage, my dear madame. Courage! You see, your late husband insured his life for rather alarge sum, and in such a case the Company always has to satisfy itself as to a few details. Theyhave empowered me to act for them. You can rest assured that I will do all in my power to renderthe matter not too unpleasant for you. Will you recount to me briefly³⁸ the sad events ofWednesday?”

“I was changing for tea when my maid came up—one of the gardeners had just run to thehouse. He had found—”

Her voice trailed away. Poirot pressed her hand sympathetically.

“I comprehend. Enough! You had seen your husband earlier in the afternoon?”

“Not since lunch. I had walked down to the village for some stamps, and I believe he was outpottering round the grounds.”

“Shooting rooks, eh?”

“Yes, he usually took his little rook rifle with him, and I heard one or two shots in thedistance.”

“Where is this little rook rifle now?”

“In the hall, I think.”

She led the way out of the room and found and handed the little weapon to Poirot, whoexamined it cursorily³⁹.

“Two shots fired, I see,” he observed, as he handed it back. “And now, madame, if I mightsee—”

He paused delicately.

“The servant shall take you,” she murmured, averting⁴⁰ her head.

The parlourmaid, summoned, led Poirot upstairs. I remained with the lovely and unfortunatewoman. It was hard to know whether to speak or remain silent. I essayed one or two generalreflections to which she responded absently, and in a very few minutes Poirot rejoined us.

“I thank you for all your courtesy, madame. I do not think you need be troubled any furtherwith this matter. By the way, do you know anything of your husband’s financial position?”

She shook her head.

“Nothing whatever. I am very stupid over business things.”

“I see. Then you can give us no clue as to why he suddenly decided to insure his life? He hadnot done so previously⁴¹, I understand.”

“Well, we had only been married a little over a year. But, as to why he insured his life, it wasbecause he had absolutely made up his mind that he would not live long. He had a strongpremonition of his own death. I gather that he had had one haemorrhage already, and that he knewthat another one would prove fatal. I tried to dispel⁴² these gloomy fears of his, but without avail.

Alas⁴³, he was only too right!”

Tears in her eyes, she bade us a dignified⁴⁴ farewell. Poirot made a characteristic gesture as wewalked down the drive together.

“Eh bien, that is that! Back to London, my friend, there appears to be no mouse in this mousehole. And yet—”

“Yet what?”

“A slight discrepancy⁴⁵, that is all! You noticed it? You did not? Still, life is full ofdiscrepancies, and assuredly the man cannot have taken his life—there is no poison that would fillhis mouth with blood. No, no, I must resign myself to the fact that all here is clear and aboveboard—but who is this?”

A tall young man was striding up the drive towards us. He passed us without making anysign, but I noted⁴⁶ that he was not ill-looking, with a lean, deeply-bronzed face that spoke⁴⁷ of life in atropic clime. A gardener who was sweeping⁴⁸ up leaves had paused for a minute in his task, andPoirot ran quickly up to him.

“Tell me, I pray you, who is that gentleman? Do you know?him?”

“I don’t remember his name, sir, though I did hear it. He was staying down here last week fora night. Tuesday, it was.”

“Quick, mon ami, let us follow him.”

We hastened up the drive after the retreating figure. A glimpse of a black-robed figure on theterrace at the side of the house, and our quarry⁴⁹ swerved⁵⁰ and we after him, so that we werewitnesses of the meeting.

Mrs.?Maltravers almost staggered where she stood, and her face blanched⁵¹ noticeably.

“You,” she gasped⁵². “I thought you were on the sea—on your way to East Africa?”

“I got some news from my lawyers that detained me,” explained the young man. “My olduncle in Scotland died unexpectedly and left me some money. Under the circumstances I thoughtit better to cancel my passage. Then I saw this bad news in the paper and I came down to see ifthere was anything I could do. You’ll want someone to look after things for you a bitperhaps.”

At that moment they became aware of our presence. Poirot stepped forward, and with manyapologies explained that he had left his stick in the hall. Rather reluctantly, it seemed to me,Mrs.?Maltravers made the necessary introduction.

“Monsieur Poirot, Captain Black.”

A few minutes’ chat ensued, in the course of which Poirot elicited⁵⁴ the fact that Captain Blackwas putting up at the Anchor Inn. The missing stick not having been discovered (which was notsurprising), Poirot uttered more apologies and we withdrew.

We returned to the village at a great pace, and Poirot made a beeline for the Anchor Inn.

“Here we establish ourselves until our friend the Captain returns,” he explained. “Younoticed that I emphasized the point that we were returning to London by the first train? Possiblyyou thought I meant it. But no—you observed Mrs.?Maltravers’ face when she caught sight of thisyoung Black? She was clearly taken aback, and he—eh bien, he was very devoted⁵⁵, did you notthink so? And he was here on Tuesday night—the day before Mr.?Maltravers died. We mustinvestigate the doings of Captain Black, Hastings.”

In about half an hour we espied⁵⁶ our quarry approaching the inn. Poirot went out and accostedhim and presently brought him up to the room we had engaged.

“I have been telling Captain Black of the mission which brings us here,” he explained. “Youcan understand, monsieur le capitaine, that I am anxious to arrive at Mr.?Maltravers’ state of mindimmediately before his death, and that at the same time I do not wish to distress Mrs.?Maltraversunduly by asking her painful questions. Now, you were here just before the occurrence, and cangive us equally valuable information.”

“I’ll do anything I can to help you, I’m sure,” replied the young soldier; “but I’m afraid Ididn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. You see, although Maltravers was an old friend of mypeople’s, I didn’t know him very well myself.”

“You came down—when?”

“Tuesday afternoon. I went up to town early Wednesday morning, as my boat sailed fromTilbury about twelve o’clock. But some news I got made me alter my plans, as I dare say youheard me explain to Mrs.?Maltravers.”

“You were returning to East Africa, I understand?”

“Yes. I’ve been out there ever since the War—a great country.”

“Exactly. Now what was the talk about at dinner on Tuesday night?”

“Oh, I don’t know. The usual odd topics. Maltravers asked after my people, and then wediscussed the question of German reparations, and then Mr.?Maltravers asked a lot of questionsabout East Africa, and I told them one or two yarns⁵⁷, that’s about all, I think.”

“Thank you.”

Poirot was silent for a moment, then he said gently: “With your permission, I should like totry a little experiment. You have told us all that your conscious self knows, I want now to questionyour subconscious⁵⁸ self.”

“Psychoanalysis, what?” said Black, with visible alarm.

“Oh, no,” said Poirot reassuringly⁵⁹. “You see, it is like this, I give you a word, you answerwith another, and so on. Any word, the first you think of. Shall we begin?”

“All right,” said Black slowly, but he looked uneasy.

“Note down the words, please, Hastings,” said Poirot. Then he took from his pocket his bigturnip-faced watch and laid it on the table beside him. “We will commence. Day.”

There was a moment’s pause, and then Black replied:

“Night.”

As Poirot proceeded, his answers came quicker.

“Name,” said Poirot.

“Place.”

“Bernard.”

“Shaw.”

“Tuesday.”

“Dinner.”

“Journey.”

“Ship.”

“Country.”

“Uganda.”

“Story.”

“Lions.”

“Rook Rifle.”

“Farm.”

“Shot.”

“Suicide.”

“Elephant.”

“Tusks.”

“Money.”

“Lawyers.”

“Thank you, Captain Black. Perhaps you could spare me a few minutes in about half anhour’s time?”

“Certainly.” The young soldier looked at him curiously⁶⁰ and wiped his brow as he got up.

“And now, Hastings,” said Poirot, smiling at me as the door closed behind him. “You see itall, do you not?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Does that list of words tell you nothing?”

I scrutinized⁶¹ it, but was forced to shake my head.

“I will assist you. To begin with, Black answered well within the normal time limit, with nopauses, so we can take it that he himself has no guilty knowledge to conceal. ‘Day’ to ‘Night’ and‘Place’ to ‘Name’ are normal associations. I began work with ‘Bernard,’ which might havesuggested the local doctor had he come across him at all. Evidently he had not. After our recentconversation, he gave ‘Dinner’ to my ‘Tuesday,’ but ‘Journey’ and ‘Country’ were answered by‘Ship’ and ‘Uganda,’ showing clearly that it was his journey abroad that was important to him andnot the one which brought him down here. ‘Story’ recalls to him one of the ‘Lion’ stories he toldat dinner. I proceeded to ‘Rook Rifle’ and he answered with the totally unexpected word ‘Farm.’

When I say ‘Shot,’ he answers at once ‘Suicide.’ The association seems clear. A man he knowscommitted suicide with a rook rifle on a farm somewhere. Remember, too, that his mind is still onthe stories he told at dinner, and I think you will agree that I shall not be far from the truth if Irecall Captain Black and ask him to repeat the particular suicide story which he told at the dinnertable on Tuesday

evening.”

Black was straightforward⁶² enough over the matter.

“Yes, I did tell them that story now that I come to think of it. Chap shot himself on a farm outthere. Did it with a rook rifle through the roof of the mouth, bullet lodged⁶³ in the brain. Doctorswere no end puzzled over it—there was nothing to show except a little blood on the lips. But what—?”

“What has it got to do with Mr.?Maltravers? You did not know, I see, that he was found witha rook rifle by his side.”

“You mean my story suggested to him—oh, but that is awful!”

“Do not distress yourself—it would have been one way or another. Well, I must get on thetelephone to London.”

Poirot had a lengthy⁶⁴ conversation over the wire, and came back thoughtful. He went off byhimself in the afternoon, and it was not till seven o’clock that he announced that he could put it offno longer, but must break the news to the young widow. My sympathy had already gone out to herunreservedly. To be left penniless, and with the knowledge that her husband had killed himself toassure her future, was a hard burden for any woman to bear. I cherished a secret hope, however,that young Black might prove capable of consoling her after her first grief had passed. Heevidently admired her enormously.

Our interview with the lady was painful. She refused vehemently⁶⁵ to believe the facts thatPoirot advanced, and when she was at last convinced broke down into bitter weeping. Anexamination of the body turned our suspicions into certainty. Poirot was very sorry for the poorlady, but, after all, he was employed by the Insurance Company, and what could he do? As he waspreparing to leave he said gently to Mrs.?Maltravers:

“Madame, you of all people should know that there are no dead!”

“What do you mean?” she faltered, her eyes growing wide.

“Have you never taken part in any spiritualistic séances? You are mediumistic, you know.”

“I have been told so. But you do not believe in Spiritualism, surely?”

“Madame, I have seen some strange things. You know that they say in the village that thishouse is haunted?”

She nodded, and at that moment the parlourmaid announced that dinner was ready.

“Won’t you just stay and have something to eat?”

We accepted gracefully⁶⁶, and I felt that our presence could not but help distract her a littlefrom her own griefs.

We had just finished our soup, when there was a scream outside the door, and the sound ofbreaking crockery. We jumped up. The parlourmaid appeared, her hand to her heart.

“It was a man—standing in the passage.”

Poirot rushed out, returning quickly.

“There is no one there.”

“Isn’t there, sir?” said the parlourmaid weakly. “Oh it did give me a start!”

“But why?”

She dropped her voice to a whisper.

“I thought—I thought it was the master—it looked like ’im.”

I saw Mrs.?Maltravers give a terrified start, and my mind flew to the old superstition⁶⁷ that asuicide cannot rest. She thought of it too, I am sure, for a minute later, she caught Poirot’s armwith a scream.

“Didn’t you hear that? Those three taps on the window? That’s how he always used to tapwhen he passed round the house.”

“The ivy⁶⁸,” I cried. “It was the ivy against the pane⁶⁹.”

But a sort of terror was gaining on us all. The parlourmaid was obviously unstrung, and whenthe meal was over Mrs.?Maltravers besought⁷⁰ Poirot not to go at once. She was clearly terrified tobe left alone. We sat in the little morning room. The wind was getting up, and moaning round thehouse in an eerie⁷¹ fashion. Twice the door of the room came unlatched and the door slowly opened,and each time she clung to me with a terrified gasp⁵³.

“Ah, but this door, it is bewitched!” cried Poirot angrily at last. He got up and shut it oncemore, then turned the key in the lock. “I shall lock it, so!”

“Don’t do that,” she gasped. “If it should come open now—”

And even as she spoke the impossible happened. The locked door slowly swung open. I couldnot see into the passage from where I sat, but she and Poirot were facing it. She gave one longshriek as she turned to him.

“You saw him—there in the passage?” she cried.

He was staring down at her with a puzzled face, then shook his head.

“I saw him—my husband—you must have seen him too?”

“Madame, I saw nothing. You are not well—unstrung—”

“I am perfectly well, I—Oh, God!”

Suddenly, without warning, the lights quivered and went out. Out of the darkness came threeloud raps. I could hear Mrs.?Maltravers moaning.

And then—I saw!

The man I had seen on the bed upstairs stood there facing us, gleaming with a faint ghostlylight. There was blood on his lips, and he held his right hand out, pointing. Suddenly a brilliantlight seemed to proceed from it. It passed over Poirot and me, and fell on Mrs.?Maltravers. I sawher white terrified face, and something else!

“My God, Poirot!” I cried. “Look at her hand, her right hand. It’s all red!”

Her own eyes fell on it, and she collapsed⁷² in a heap on the floor.

“Blood,” she cried hysterically⁷³. “Yes, it’s blood. I killed him. I did it. He was showing me,and then I put my hand on the trigger and pressed. Save me from him—save me! He’s comeback!”

Her voice died away in a gurgle.

“Lights,” said Poirot briskly.

The lights went on as if by magic.

“That’s it,” he continued. “You heard, Hastings? And you, Everett? Oh, by the way, this isMr.?Everett, rather a fine member of the theatrical⁷⁴ profession. I phoned to him this afternoon. Hismakeup is good, isn’t it? Quite like the dead man, and with a pocket torch and the necessaryphosphorescence he made the proper impression. I shouldn’t touch her right hand if I were you,Hastings. Red paint marks so. When the lights went out I clasped her hand, you see. By the way,we mustn’t miss our train. Inspector⁷⁵ Japp is outside the window. A bad night—but he has beenable to while away the time by tapping on the window every now and then.”

“You see,” continued Poirot, as we walked briskly through the wind and rain, “there was alittle discrepancy. The doctor seemed to think the deceased was a Christian Scientist, and whocould have given him that impression but Mrs.?Maltravers? But to us she represented him as beingin a great state of apprehension⁷⁶ about his own health. Again, why was she so taken aback by thereappearance of young Black? And lastly although I know that convention decrees that a womanmust make a decent pretence⁷⁷ of mourning for her husband, I do not care for such heavily-rougedeyelids! You did not observe them, Hastings? No? As I always tell you, you see nothing!

“Well, there it was. There were the two possibilities. Did Black’s story suggest an ingeniousmethod of committing suicide to Mr.?Maltravers, or did his other listener, the wife, see an equallyingenious method of committing murder? I inclined to the latter view. To shoot himself in the wayindicated, he would probably have had to pull the trigger with his toe—or at least so I imagine.

Now if Maltravers had been found with one boot off, we should almost certainly have heard of itfrom someone. An odd detail like that would have been remembered.

“No, as I say, I inclined to the view that it was the case of murder, not suicide, but I realizedthat I had not a shadow of proof in support of my theory. Hence the elaborate little comedy yousaw played tonight.”

“Even now I don’t quite see all the details of the crime,” I said.

“Let us start from the beginning. Here is a shrewd and scheming woman who, knowing of herhusband’s financial déb?cle and tired of the elderly mate she had only married for his money,induces him to insure his life for a large sum, and then seeks for the means to accomplish herpurpose. An accident gives her that—the young soldier’s strange story. The next afternoon whenmonsieur le capitaine, as she thinks, is on the high seas, she and her husband are strolling roundthe grounds. ‘What a curious story that was last night!’ she observes. ‘Could a man shoot himselfin such a way? Do show me if it is possible!’ The poor fool—he shows her. He places the end ofhis rifle in his mouth. She stoops down, and puts her finger on the trigger, laughing up at him.

‘And now, sir,’ she says saucily⁷⁸, ‘supposing I pull the trigger?’

“And then—and then, Hastings—she pulls it!”

 

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