"Did you give him any money, sir?"
There was a fractional pause and then David said:
"Just a fiver - for luck. He'd been in the war all right."
"He mentioned certain names that you knew?"
"Yes."
"Was one of those names Captain Robert Underhay?"
Now at last he got his effect. David stiffened. Behind him, Rosaleen gave a little frightened gasp.
"What makes you think that, Superintendent?" David asked at last. His eyes were cautious, probing.
"Information received," said the Superintendent stolidly.
There was a short silence. The Superintendent was aware of David's eyes, studying him, sizing him up, striving to know... He himself waited quietly.
"Any idea who Robert Underhay was, Superintendent?" David asked.
"Suppose you tell me, sir."
"Robert Underhay was my sister's first husband. He died in Africa some years ago."
"Quite sure of that, Mr Hunter?"
Spence asked quickly.
"Quite sure. That's so, isn't it, Rosaleen?"
He turned to her.
"Oh, yes." She spoke quickly and breathlessly. "Robert died of fever - blackwater fever. It was very sad."
"Sometimes stories get about that aren't quite true, Mrs Cloade."
She said nothing. She was looking not at him, but at her brother. Then, after a moment, she said:
"Robert's dead."
"From information in my possession," said the Superintendent, "I understand that this man, Enoch Arden, claimed to be a friend of the late Robert Underhay and at the same time informed you, Mr Hunter, that Robert Underhay was alive."
David shook his head.
"Nonsense," he said. "Absolute nonsense."
"You state definitely that the name of Robert Underhay was not mentioned?"
"Oh," David smiled charmingly, "it was mentioned. This poor fellow had known Underhay."
"There was no question of - blackmail, Mr Hunter?"
"Blackmail? I don't understand you, Superintendent."
"Don't you really, Mr Hunter? By the way, just as a matter of form, where were you last night - between, shall we say, seven and eleven?"
"Just as a matter of form, Superintendent, suppose I refuse to answer?"
"Aren't you behaving rather childishly, Mr Hunter?"
"I don't think so. I dislike - I always have disliked, being bullied."
The Superintendent thought that was probably true.
He'd known witnesses of the David Hunter type before. Witnesses who were obstructive for the sake of being obstructive, and not in the least because they had anything to hide. The mere fact of being asked to account for their comings and goings seemed to raise a black pride and sullenness in them. They would make it a point to give the law all the trouble they could.
Superintendent Spence, though he prided himself on being a fair-minded man, had nevertheless come to Shepherd's Court with a very strong conviction that David Hunter was a murderer.
Now, for the first time, he was not so sure. The very puerility of David's defiance awoke doubts in him.
Spence looked at Rosaleen Cloade. She responded at once.
"David, why don't you tell him?"
"That's right, Mrs Cloade. We only want to clear things up -"
David broke in savagely:
"You'll stop bullying my sister, do you hear? What is it to you where I may have been, here, or at Warmsley Vale or in Timbuctoo?"
Spence said warningly:
"You'll be subpoenaed for the Inquest, Mr Hunter, and there you'll have to answer questions."
"I'll wait for the Inquest, then! And now, Superintendent, will you get to hell out of here?"
"Very good, sir." The Superintendent rose, imperturbable. "But I've something to ask Mrs Cloade first."
"I don't want my sister worried."
"Quite so. But I want her to look at the body and tell me if she can identify it. I'm within my rights there. It'll have to be done sooner or later. Why not let her come down with me now and get it over? The late Mr Arden was heard by a witness to say that he knew Robert Underhay - ergo he may have known Mrs Underhay - and therefore Mrs Underhay may know him. If his name isn't Enoch Arden, we could do with knowing what it really is."
Rather unexpectedly Rosaleen Cloade got up.
"I'll come, of course," she said.
Spence expected a fresh outburst from David, but to his surprise the other grinned.
"Good for you, Rosaleen," he said. "I'll confess, I'm curious myself. After all, you may be able to put a name to the fellow."
Spence said to her:
"You didn't see him yourself in Warmsley Vale?"
She shook her head.
"I've been in London since Saturday last."
"And Arden arrived on Friday night - yes."
Rosaleen asked: "Do you want me to come now?"
She asked the question with something of the submissiveness of a little girl. In spite of himself the Superintendent was favourably impressed. There was a docility, a willingness about her which he had not expected.
"That would be very nice of you, Mrs Cloade," he said. "The sooner we can get certain facts definitely established the better. I haven't got a police car here, I'm afraid."
David crossed to the telephone.
"I'll ring up the Daimler Hire. It's beyond the legal limit - but I expect you can square that, Superintendent."
"I think that can be arranged, Mr Hunter." He got up. "I'll be waiting for you downstairs."
He went down in the lift and pushed open the office door once more.
The Field Marshal was awaiting him.
"Well?"
"Both beds slept in last night, sir. Baths and towels used. Breakfast was served to them in the flat at nine-thirty."
"And you don't know what time Mr Hunter came in yesterday evening?"
"I can't tell you anything further, I'm afraid, sir!"
Well, that was that, Spence thought.
He wondered if there was anything behind David's refusal to speak except pure childlike defiance. He must realise that a charge of murder was hovering over him. Surely he must see that the sooner he told his story the better. Never a good thing to antagonise the police. But antagonising the police, he thought ruefully, was just what David Hunter would enjoy doing.
They talked very little on the way down. When they arrived at the mortuary Rosaleen Cloade was very pale. Her hands were shaking. David looked concerned for her. He spoke to her as though she was a small child.
"It'll be only a minute or two, Rosaleen. It's nothing at all, nothing at all now. Don't get worked up. You go in with the Superintendent and I'll wait for you. And there's nothing at all to mind about. Peaceful he'll look and just as though he were asleep."
She gave him a little nod of the head and stretched out her hand. He gave it a little squeeze.
"Be a brave girl now, alanna."
As she followed the Superintendent she said in her soft voice: "You must think I'm a terrible coward. Superintendent. But when they've been all dead in the house - all dead but you - that awful night in London -"
He said gently: "I understand, Mrs Cloade. I know you went through a bad experience in the Blitz when your husband was killed. Really, it will be only a minute or two."
At a sign from Spence the sheet was turned back. Rosaleen Cloade stood looking down at the man who had called himself Enoch Arden. Spence, unobtrusively standing to one side, was actually watching her closely.
She looked at the dead man curiously and as though wondering - she gave no start, no sign of emotion or recognition, just looked long and wonderingly at him.
Then, very quietly, in an almost matter of fact way, she made the sign of the cross.
"God rest, his soul," she said. "I've never seen that man in my life. I don't know who he is."
Spence thought to himself:
"Either you're one of the finest actresses I've ever known or else you're speaking the truth."
Later, Spence rang up Rowley Cloade.
"I've had the widow down," he said. "She says definitely that he's not Robert Underhay, and that she's never seen him before. So that settles that!"
There was a pause. Then Rowley said slowly:
"Does it settle it?"
"I think a jury would believe her - in the absence of evidence to the contrary, of course."
"Ye-es," said Rowley and rang off.
Then, frowning, he picked up not the local telephone directory, but the London one. His forefingers ran methodically down the letter P. Presently he found what he wanted.
BOOK II
Chapter 1
Hercule Poirot carefully folded the last of the newspapers he had sent George out to purchase. The information they gave was somewhat meagre. Medical evidence was given that the man's skull was fractured by a series of heavy blows. The inquest had been adjourned for a fortnight. Anybody who could give information about a man named Enoch Arden believed to have lately arrived from Cape Town was asked to communicate with the Chief Constable of Oatshire.
Poirot laid the papers in a neat pile and gave himself up to meditation. He was interested. He might, perhaps, have passed the first small paragraph by without interest if it had not been for the recent visit of Mrs Lionel Cloade. But that visit had recalled to him very clearly the incidents of that day at the Club during that Air Raid. He remembered, very distinctly, Major Porter's voice saying, "Maybe a Mr Enoch Arden will turn up somewhere a thousand miles away and start life anew." He wanted now, rather badly, to know more about this man called Enoch Arden who had died by violence at Warmsley Vale.
He remembered that he was slightly acquainted with Superintendent Spence of the Oatshire police and he also remembered that young Mellon lived not very far from Warmsley Heath, and that young Mellon knew Jeremy Cloade.
It was while he was meditating a telephone call to young Mellon that George came in and announced that a Mr Rowland Cloade would like to see him.
"Aha," said Hercule Poirot with satisfaction. "Show him in."
A good-looking worried young man was shown in, and seemed rather at a loss how to begin.
"Well, Mr Cloade," said Poirot helpfully, "and what can I do for you?"
Rowley Cloade was eyeing Poirot rather doubtfully. The flamboyant moustaches, the sartorial elegance, the white spats and the pointed patent leather shoes all filled this insular young man with distinct misgivings.
Poirot realised this perfectly well, and was somewhat amused.
Rowley Cloade began rather heavily:
"I'm afraid I'll have to explain who I am and all that. You won't know my name -"
Poirot interrupted him:
"But yes, I know your name perfectly. Your aunt, you see, came to see me last week."
"My aunt?" Rowley's jaw dropped.
He stared at Poirot with the utmost astonishment.
This so clearly was news to him, that Poirot put aside his first surmise which was that the two visits were connected.
For a moment it seemed to him a remarkable coincidence that two members of the Cloade family should choose to consult him within such a short period of time, but a second later he realised that there was no coincidence - merely a natural sequence proceeding from one initial cause.
Aloud he said:
"I assume that Mrs Lionel Cloade is your aunt."
If anything Rowley looked rather more astonished than before.
He said with the utmost incredulity:
"Aunt Kathie? Surely - don't you mean - Mrs Jeremy Cloade?"
Poirot shook his head.
"But what on earth could Aunt Kathie -"
Poirot murmured discreetly:
"She was directed to me, I understand, by spirit guidance."
"Oh Lord!" said Rowley. He looked relieved and amused. He said, as though reassuring Poirot, "She's quite harmless, you know."
"I wonder," said Poirot.
"What do you mean?"
"Is anybody - ever - quite harmless?"
Rowley stared. Poirot sighed.
"You have come to me to ask me something? - Yes?" he prompted gently.
The worried look came back to Rowley's face.
"It's rather a long story, I'm afraid -"
Poirot was afraid of it, too. He had a very shrewd idea that Rowley Cloade was not the sort of person to come to the point quickly. He leaned back and half closed his eyes as Rowley began:
"My uncle, you see, was Gordon Cloade -"
"I know all about Gordon Cloade," said Poirot, helpfully.
"Good. Then I needn't explain. He married a few weeks before his death - a young widow called Underhay. Since his death she has been living at Warmsley Vale - she and a brother of hers. We all understood that her first husband had died of fever in Africa. But now it seems as though that mightn't be so."
"Ah," Poirot sat up. "And what has led you to that surmise?"
Rowley described the advent of Mr Enoch Arden in Warmsley Vale. "Perhaps you have seen in the papers -"
"Yes, I have seen." Poirot was again helpful.
Rowley went on. He described his first impression of the man Arden, his visit to the Stag, the letter he had received from Beatrice Lippincott and finally the conversation that Beatrice had overheard.
"Of course," Rowley said, "one can't be sure just what she did hear. She may have exaggerated it all a bit - or even got it wrong."
"Has she told her story to the police?"
Rowley nodded. "I told her she'd better."
"I don't quite see - pardon me - why you come to me, Mr Cloade? Do you want me to investigate this - murder? For it is murder, I assume."
"Lord, no," said Rowley. "I don't want anything of that kind. That's a police job. He was bumped off all right. No, what I'm after is this. I want you to find out who the fellow was."
Poirot's eyes narrowed.
"Who do you think he was, Mr Cloade?"
"Well, I mean - Enoch Arden isn't a name. Dash it all, it's a quotation. Tennyson. I went and mugged it up. Fellow who comes back and finds out his wife has married another fellow."
