"No, no, no! But a wife remarries. Possibility that first husband is still alive? He is alive. He may turn up? He does turn up! There may be blackmail. There is blackmail! Possibility, therefore, that the blackmailer may be silenced? Ma foi - he is silenced!"
"Well," said Spence, eyeing Poirot rather doubtfully. "I suppose these things run pretty close to type. It's a common sort of crime - blackmail resulting in murder."
"Not interesting, you would say? Usually, no. But this case is interesting, because, you see," said Poirot placidly, "it is all wrong."
"All wrong? What do you mean by all wrong?"
"None of it is, how shall I put it, the right shape?"
Spence stared. "Chief Inspector Japp," he remarked, "always said you have a tortuous mind. Give me an instance of what you call wrong?"
"Well, the dead man, for instance, he is all wrong."
Spence shook his head.
"You do not feel that?" Poirot asked. "Oh, well, perhaps I am fanciful. Then take this point. Underhay arrives at the Stag. He writes to David Hunter. Hunter receives that letter the next morning - at breakfast time?"
"Yes, that's so. He admits receiving a letter from Arden then."
"That was the first intimation, was it not, of the arrival of Underhay in Warmsley Vale? What is the first thing he does - bundles his sister off to London?"
"That's quite understandable," said Spence. "He wants a clear hand to deal with things his own way. He may have been afraid the woman would have been weak. He's the leading spirit, remember. Mrs Cloade is entirely under his thumb."
"Oh, yes, that shows itself plainly. So he sends her to London and calls on this Enoch Arden. We have a pretty clear account of their conversation from Beatrice Lippincott, and the thing that sticks out, a mile, as you say, is that David Hunter was not sure whether the man he was talking to was Robert Underhay or not. He suspected it, but he didn't know."
"But there's nothing odd about that, M. Poirot. Rosaleen Hunter married Underhay in Cape Town and went with him straight to Nigeria. Hunter and Underhay never met. Therefore though, as you say. Hunter suspected that Arden was Underhay, he couldn't know it for a fact - because he had never met the man."
Poirot looked at Superintendent Spence thoughtfully.
"So there is nothing there that strikes you as - peculiar?" he asked.
"I know what you're driving at. Why didn't Underhay say straight out that he was Underhay? Well, I think that's understandable, too. Respectable people who are doing something crooked like to preserve appearances. They like to put things in such a way that it keeps them in the clear - if you know what I mean. No - I don't think that that is so very remarkable. You've got to allow for human nature."
"Yes," said Poirot. "Human nature. That, I think, is perhaps the real answer as to why I am interested in this case. I was looking round the Coroner's Court, looking at all the people, looking particularly at the Cloades - so many of them, all bound by a common interest, all so different in their characters, in their thoughts and feelings. All of them dependent for many years on the strong man, the power in the family, on Gordon Cloade! I do not mean, perhaps, directly dependent. They all had their independent means of existence. But they had come, they must have come, consciously or unconsciously, to lean on him. And what happens - I will ask you this, Superintendent - What happens to the ivy when the oak round which it clings is struck down?"
"That's hardly a question in my line," said Spence.
"You think not? I think it is. Character, mon cher, does not stand still. It can gather strength. It can also deteriorate. What a person really is, is only apparent when the test comes - that is, the moment when you stand or fall on your own feet."
"I don't really know what you are getting at, M. Poirot." Spence looked bewildered. "Anyway, the Cloades are all right now. Or will be, once the legal formalities are through."
That, Poirot reminded him, might take some time. "There is still Mrs Gordon Cloade's evidence to shake. After all, a woman should know her own husband when she sees him?"
He put his head a little on one side and gazed inquiringly at the big Superintendent.
"Isn't it worth while to a woman not to recognise her husband if the income of a couple of million pounds depends on it?" asked the Superintendent cynically. "Besides, if he wasn't Robert Underhay, why was he killed?"
"That," murmured Poirot, "is indeed the question."
Chapter 6
Poirot left the police station frowning to himself. His steps grew slower as he walked. In the market square he paused, looking about him. There was Dr Cloade's house with its worn brass plate, and a little way along was the post office. On the other side was Jeremy Cloade's house.
In front of Poirot, set back a little, was the Roman Catholic Church of the Assumption, a small modest affair, a shrinking violet compared to the aggressiveness of St. Mary's which stood arrogantly in the middle of the square facing the Cornmarket, and proclaiming the dominance of the Protestant religion.
Moved by an impulse Poirot went through the gate and along the path to the door of the Roman Catholic building.
He removed his hat, genuflected in front of the altar and knelt down behind one of the chairs. His prayers were interrupted by the sound of stifled heartbroken sobs.
He turned his head. Across the aisle a woman in a dark dress was kneeling, her head buried in her hands. Presently she got up and, still sobbing under her breath, went towards the door. Poirot, his eyes wide with interest, got up and followed her. He had recognised Rosaleen Cloade.
She stood in the porch, fighting for control, and there Poirot spoke to her, very gently:
"Madame, can I help you?"
She showed no signs of surprise, but answered with the simplicity of an unhappy child.
"No," she said. "No one can help me."
"You are in very bad trouble. That is it, is it not?"
She said: "They've taken David away... I'm all alone. They say he killed - But he didn't! He didn't!"
She looked at Poirot and said: "You were there today? At the inquest. I saw you!"
"Yes. If I can help you, Madame, I shall be very glad to do so."
"I'm frightened. David said I'd be safe as long as he was there to look after me. But now they've taken him away - I'm afraid. He said - they all wanted me dead. That's a dreadful thing to say. But perhaps it's true."
"Let me help you, Madame."
She shook her head.
"No," she said. "No one can help me. I can't go to confession, even. I've got to bear the weight of my wickedness all alone. I'm cut off from the mercy of God."
"Nobody," said Hercule Poirot, "is cut off from the mercy of God. You know that well, my child."
Again she looked at him - a wild unhappy look.
"I'd have to confess my sins - to confess. If I could confess -"
"Can't you confess? You came to the church for that, did you not?"
"I came to get comfort - comfort. But what comfort is there for me? I'm a sinner."
"We are all sinners."
"But you'd have to repent - I'd have to say - to tell -" Her hands went up to her face. "Oh, the lies I've told - the lies I've told."
"You told a lie about your husband? About Robert Underhay? It was Robert Underhay who was killed here, wasn't it?"
She turned sharply on him. Her eyes were suspicious, wary. She cried out sharply:
"I tell you it was not my husband. It wasn't the least like him!"
"The dead man was not in the least like your husband?"
"No," she said defiantly.
"Tell me," said Poirot, "what was your husband like?"
Her eyes stared at him. Then her face hardened into alarm. Her eyes grew dark with fear.
She cried out:
"I'll not talk to you any more!"
Going swiftly past him, she ran down the path and passed through the gate out into the market square.
Poirot did not try and follow her. Instead he nodded his head with a good deal of satisfaction.
"Ah," he said. "So that is that!"
He walked slowly out into the square.
After a momentary hesitation he followed the High Street until he came to the Stag, which was the last building before the open country.
In the doorway of the Stag he met Rowley Cloade and Lynn Marchmont.
Poirot looked at the girl with interest. A handsome girl, he thought, and intelligent also. Not the type he himself admired. He preferred something softer, more feminine. Lynn Marchmont, he thought, was essentially a modern type - though one might, with equal accuracy, call it an Elizabethan type. Women who thought for themselves, who were free in language, and who admired enterprise and audacity in men.
"We're very grateful to you, M. Poirot," said Rowley. "By Jove, it really was quite like a conjuring trick."
Which was exactly what it had been, Poirot reflected! Asked a question to which you knew the answer, there was no difficulty whatsoever in performing a trick with the requisite frills. He quite appreciated that to the simple Rowley, the production of Major Porter out of the blue, so to speak, had been as breath-taking as any amount of rabbits produced from the conjurer's hat.
"How you go about these things beats me," said Rowley.
Poirot did not enlighten him. He was, after all, only human. The conjurer does not tell his audience how the trick was done.
"Anyway, Lynn and I are no end grateful," Rowley went on.
Lynn Marchmont, Poirot thought, was not looking particularly grateful. There were lines of strain round her eyes, her fingers had a nervous trick of twining and intertwining themselves.
"It's going to make a lot of difference to our future married life," said Rowley.
Lynn said sharply:
"How do you know? There are all sorts of formalities and things, I'm sure."
"You are getting married, when?" asked Poirot politely.
"June."
"And you have been engaged since when?"
"Nearly six years," said Rowley. "Lynn's just come out of the Wrens."
"And is it forbidden to marry in the Wrens, yes?"
Lynn said briefly:
"I've been overseas."
Poirot noticed Rowley's swift frown. He said shortly:
"Come on, Lynn. We must get going. I expect M. Poirot wants to get back to town."
Poirot said smilingly:
"But I'm not going back to town."
"What?"
Rowley stopped dead, giving a queer wooden effect.
"I am staying here, at the Stag, for a short while."
"But - but why?"
"C'est un beau paysage," Poirot said placidly.
Rowley said uncertainly:
"Yes, of course... But aren't you - well, I mean, busy?"
"I have made my economies," said Poirot, smiling. "I do not need to occupy myself unduly. No, I can enjoy my leisure and spend my time where the fancy takes me. And my fancy inclines to Warmsley Vale."
He saw Lynn Marchmont raise her head and gaze at him intently. Rowley, he thought, was slightly annoyed.
"I suppose you play golf?" he said. "There's a much better hotel at Warmsley Heath. This is a very one-horse sort of place."
"My interests," said Poirot, "lie entirely in Warmsley Vale."
Lynn said:
"Come along, Rowley."
Half reluctantly, Rowley followed her.
At the door, Lynn paused and then came swiftly back. She spoke to Poirot in a quiet low voice.
"They arrested David Hunter after the inquest. Do you - do you think they were right?"
"They had no alternative. Mademoiselle, after the verdict."
"I mean - do you think he did it?"
"Do you?" said Poirot.
But Rowley was back at her side. Her face hardened to a poker smoothness. She said:
"Good-bye, M. Poirot. I - I hope we meet again."
"Now, I wonder," said Poirot to himself.
Presently, after arranging with Beatrice Lippincott about a room, he went out again. His steps led him to Dr Lionel Cloade's house.
"Oh!" said Aunt Kathie, who opened the door, taking a step or two backwards. "M. Poirot!"
"At your service, Madame." Poirot bowed. "I came to pay my respects."
"Well, that's very nice of you, I'm sure. Yes - well - I suppose you'd better come in. Sit down - I'll move Madame Blavatsky - and perhaps a cup of tea - only the cake is terribly stale. I meant to go to Peacocks for some, they do have Swiss roll sometimes on a Wednesday - but an inquest puts one's household routine out, don't you think so?"
Poirot said that he thought that was entirely understandable.
He had fancied that Rowley Cloade was annoyed by the announcement of his stay in Warmsley Vale. Aunt Kathie's manner, without any doubt, was far from welcoming. She was looking at him with something not far from dismay. She said, leaning forward and speaking in a hoarse conspiratorial whisper:
"You won't tell my husband, will you, that I came and consulted you about - well, about we know what?"
"My lips are sealed."
"I mean - of course I'd no idea at the time - that Robert Underhay, poor man, so tragic - was actually in Warmsley Vale. That seems to me still a most extraordinary coincidence!"
"It would have been simpler," agreed Poirot, "if the Ouija board had directed you straight to the Stag."
Aunt Kathie cheered up a little at the mention of the Ouija board.
"The way things come about in the spirit world seem quite incalculable," she said. "But I do feel, M. Poirot, that there is a purpose in it all? Don't you feel that in life? That there is always a purpose?"
"Yes, indeed, Madame. Even that I should sit here, now, in your drawing-room, there is a purpose in that."
"Oh, is there?" Mrs Cloade looked rather taken aback. "Is there, really? Yes, I suppose so... You're on your way back to London, of course?"
