Quietly he let his eyes pass over the assembled Cloades.
"Mr Hunter, will you tell us where you were on the evening of Tuesday?"
"Find out!"said David.
"Mr Hunter!" The coroner rapped the table. "That is a most foolish and ill-advised thing to say."
"Why should I tell you where I was, and what I was doing? Time enough for that when you accuse me of murdering the man."
"If you persist in that attitude it may come to that sooner than you think. Do you recognise this, Mr Hunter?"
Leaning forward, David took the gold cigarette lighter into his hand. His face was puzzled. Handing it back, he said slowly: "Yes, it's mine."
"When did you have it last?"
"I missed it -" He paused.
"Yes, Mr Hunter?" The coroner's voice was suave.
Gaythorne fidgeted, seemed about to speak. But David was too quick for him.
"I had it last Friday - Friday morning. I don't remember seeing it since."
Mr Gaythorne rose.
"With your permission, Mr Coroner. You visited the deceased Saturday evening. Might you not have left the lighter there then?"
"I might have, I suppose," David said slowly. "I certainly don't remember seeing it after Friday -" He added: "Where was it found?"
The coroner said:
"We shall go into that later. You can stand down now, Mr Hunter."
David moved slowly back to his seat.
He bent his head and whispered to Rosaleen Cloade.
"Major Porter."
Hemming and hawing a little, Major Porter took the stand. He stood there, an erect soldierly figure, as though on parade.
Only the way he moistened his lips showed the intense nervousness from which he was suffering.
"You are George Douglas Porter, late Major of the Royal African Rifles?"
"Yes."
"How well did you know Robert Underhay?"
In a parade-ground voice Major Porter barked out places and dates.
"You have viewed the body of the deceased?"
"Yes."
"Can you identify that body?"
"Yes. It is the body of Robert Underhay."
A buzz of excitement went round the court.
"You state that positively and without the least doubt?"
"I do."
"There is no possibility of your being mistaken?"
"None."
"Thank you, Major Porter. Mrs Gordon Cloade."
Rosaleen rose. She passed Major Porter.
He looked at her with some curiosity.
She did not even glance at him.
"Mrs Cloade, you were taken by the police to see the body of the deceased?"
She shivered.
"Yes."
"You stated definitely that it was the body of a man completely unknown to you?"
"Yes."
"In view of the statement just made by Major Porter would you like to withdraw or amend your own statement?"
"No."
"You still assert definitely that the body was not that of your husband, Robert Underhay?"
"It was not my husband's body. It was a man I had never seen in my life."
"Come now, Mrs Cloade, Major Porter has definitely recognised it as the body of his friend Robert Underhay."
Rosaleen said expressionlessly:
"Major Porter is mistaken."
"You are not under oath in this court, Mrs Cloade. But it is likely that you will be under oath in another court shortly. Are you prepared then to swear that the body is not that of Robert Underhay but of an unknown stranger?"
"I am prepared to swear that it is not the body of my husband but of a man quite unknown to me."
Her voice was clear and unfaltering. Her eyes met the coroner unshrinkingly.
He murmured: "You can stand down."
Then, removing his pince-nez, he addressed the jury.
They were there to discover how this man came to his death. As to that, there could be little question. There could be no idea of accident or suicide. Nor could there be any suggestion of manslaughter.
There remained only one verdict - wilful murder. As to the identity of the dead man, that was not clearly established.
They had heard one witness, a man of upright character and probity whose word could be relied upon, say that the body was that of a former friend of his, Robert Underhay. On the other hand Robert Underhay's death from fever in Africa had been established apparently to the satisfaction of the local authorities and no question had then been raised.
In contradiction of Major Porter's statement, Robert Underhay's widow, now Mrs Gordon Cloade, stated positively that the body was not that of Robert Underhay.
These were diametrically opposite statements. Passing from the question of identity they would have to decide if there was any evidence to show whose hand had murdered the deceased. They might think that the evidence pointed to a certain person, but a good deal of evidence was needed before a case could be made out - evidence and motive and opportunity.
The person must have been seen by someone in the vicinity of the crime at the appropriate time. If there was not such evidence the best verdict was that of Wilful Murder without sufficient evidence to show by whose hand. Such a verdict would leave the police free to pursue the necessary inquiries.
He then dismissed them to consider their Verdict.
They took three quarters of an hour.
They returned a Verdict of Wilful Murder against David Hunter.
Chapter 5
"I was afraid they'd do it," said the coroner apologetically. "Local prejudice! Feeling rather than logic."
The coroner, the Chief Constable, Superintendent Spence and Hercule Poirot were all in consultation together after the inquest.
"You did your best," said the Chief Constable.
"It's premature, to say the least of it," said Spence frowning. "And it hampers us. Do you know M. Hercule Poirot?
He was instrumental in bringing Porter forward."
The coroner said graciously:
"I have heard of you, M. Poirot," and Poirot made an unsuccessful attempt to look modest.
"M. Poirot's interested in the case," said Spence with a grin.
"Truly, that is so," said Poirot. "I was in it, as you might say, before there was a case."
And in answer to their interested glances he told of the queer little scene in the club when he had first heard a mention of Robert Underhay's name.
"That's an additional point in Porter's evidence when the case comes to trial," said the Chief Constable thoughtfully. "Underhay actually planned a pretended death - and spoke of using the name of Enoch Arden."
The Chief Constable murmured: "Ah, but will that be admissible as evidence? Words spoken by a man who is now dead?"
"It may not be admissible as evidence," said Poirot thoughtfully. "But it raises a very interesting and suggestive line of thought."
"What we want," said Spence, "is not suggestion, but a few concrete facts. Someone who actually saw David Hunter at the Stag or near it on Tuesday evening."
"It ought to be easy," said the Chief Constable, frowning.
"If it was abroad in my country it would be easy enough," said Poirot. "There would be a little café where someone takes the evening coffee - but in provincial England!" He threw up his hands.
The Superintendent nodded.
"Some of the folks are in the pubs, and will stay in the pubs till closing time, and the rest of the population are inside their houses listening to the nine o'clock news. If you ever go along the main street here between eight-thirty and ten it's completely deserted. Not a soul."
"He counted on that?" suggested the Chief Constable.
"Maybe," said Spence. His expression was not a happy one.
Presently the Chief Constable and the coroner departed. Spence and Poirot were left together.
"You do not like the case, no?" asked Poirot sympathetically.
"That young man worries me," said Spence. "He's the kind that you never know where you are with them. When they're most innocent of a business, they act as though they were guilty. And when they're guilty - why, you'd take your oath they were angels of light!"
"You think he is guilty?" asked Poirot.
"Don't you?" Spence countered.
Poirot spread out his hands.
"I should be interested to know," he said, "just exactly how much you have against him?"
"You don't mean legally? You mean in the way of probability?"
Poirot nodded.
"There's the lighter," said Spence.
"Where did you find it?"
"Under the body."
"Fingerprints on it?"
"None."
"Ah," said Poirot.
"Yes," said Spence. "I don't like that too much myself. Then the dead man's watch had stopped at 9.10. That fits in with the medical evidence quite nicely - and with Rowley Cloade's evidence that Underhay was expecting his client at any minute - presumably that client was almost due."
Poirot nodded.
"Yes - it is all very neat."
"And the thing you can't get away from, to my mind, M. Poirot, is that he's the only person (he and his sister, that is to say) who has the ghost or shadow of a motive. Either David Hunter killed Underhay - or else Underhay was killed by some outsider who followed him here for some reason that we know nothing about - and that seems wildly improbable."
"Oh, I agree, I agree."
"You see, there's no one in Warmsley Vale who could possibly have a motive - unless by a coincidence someone is living here (other than the Hunters) who had a connection with Underhay in the past. I never rule out coincidence, but there hasn't been a hint or suggestion of anything of the kind. The man was a stranger to every one but that brother and sister."
Poirot nodded.
"To the Cloade family Robert Underhay would be the apple of their eye to be kept alive by every possible precaution. Robert Underhay, alive and kicking, means the certainty of a large fortune divided amongst them."
"Again, mon ami, I agree with you enthusiastically. Robert Underhay, alive and kicking, is what the Cloade family needs."
"So back we come - Rosaleen and David Hunter are the only two people who have a motive. Rosaleen Cloade was in London. But David, we know, was in Warmsley Vale that day. He arrived at 5.30 at Warmsley Heath station."
"So now we have Motive, written very big and the fact that at 5.30 and onward to some unspecified time, he was on the spot."
"Exactly. Now take Beatrice Lippincott's story. I believe that story. She overheard what she says she overheard, though she may have gingered it up a little, as is only human."
"Only human as you say."
"Apart from knowing the girl, I believe her because she couldn't have invented some of the things. She'd never heard of Robert Underhay before, for instance. So I believe her story of what passed between the two men and not David Hunter's."
"I, too," said Poirot. "She strikes me as a singularly truthful witness."
"We've confirmation that her story is true. What do you suppose the brother and sister went off to London for?"
"That is one of the things that has interested me most."
"Well, the money position's like this. Rosaleen Cloade has only a life interest in Gordon Cloade's estate. She can't touch the capital - except, I believe, for about a thousand pounds. But jewellery, etc., is hers. The first thing she did on going to town was to take some of the most valuable pieces round to Bond Street and sell them. She wanted a large sum of cash quickly - in other words she had to pay a blackmailer."
"You call that evidence against David Hunter?"
"Don't you?"
Poirot shook his head.
"Evidence that there was blackmail, yes. Evidence of intent to commit murder, no. You cannot have it both ways, mon cher. Either that young man was going to pay up, or else he was planning to kill. You have produced evidence that he was planning to pay."
"Yes - yes, perhaps that is so. But he may have changed his mind."
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"I know this type," said the Superintendent thoughtfully. "It's a type that's done well during the war. Any amount of physical courage. Audacity and a reckless disregard of personal safety. The sort that will face any odds. It's the kind that is likely to win the V.C. - though, mind you, it's often a posthumous one. Yes, in wartime, a man like that is a hero. But in peace - well, in peace such men usually end up in prison. They like excitement and they can't run straight, and they don't give a damn for society - and finally they've no regard for human life."
Poirot nodded.
"I tell you," the Superintendent repeated, "I know the type."
There was some few minutes of silence.
"Eh bien," said Poirot at last. "We agree that we have here the type of a killer. But that is all. It takes us no further."
Spence looked at him with curiosity.
"You're taking a great interest in this business, M. Poirot?"
"Yes."
"Why, if I may ask?"
"Frankly," Poirot spread out his hands, "I do not quite know. Perhaps it is because when two years ago, I am sitting very sick in my stomach (for I did not like Air Raids, and I am not very brave though I endeavour to put up the good appearance) when, as I say, I am sitting with a sick feeling here," Poirot clasped his stomach expressively, "in the smoking-room of my friend's club, there, droning away, is the club bore, the good Major Porter, recounting a long history to which nobody listens, but me, I listen, because I am wishful to distract myself from the bombs, and because the facts he is relating seem to me interesting and suggestive. And I think to myself that it is possible that some day something may come of the situation he recounts. And now something has come of it."
"The unexpected has happened, eh?"
"On the contrary," Poirot corrected him. "It is the expected that has happened - which in itself is sufficiently remarkable."
"You expected murder?" Spence asked sceptically.
