Agatha Christie - Peril at End House

We found him busy in his shirt sleeves over a steaming pot in the kitchen. A most savoury smell pervaded the little lodge.

He relinquished his cookery with enthusiasm, being clearly eager to talk about the murder.

'Half a jiffy,' he said. 'Walk upstairs. Mother will want to be in on this. She'd never forgive us for talking down here. Cooee-Milly. Two friends coming up.'

Mrs Croft greeted us warmly and was eager for news of Nick. I liked her much better than her husband.

'That poor dear girl,' she said. 'In a nursing home, you say? Had a complete breakdown, I shouldn't wonder. A dreadful business, M. Poirot-perfectly dreadful. An innocent girl like that shot dead. It doesn't bear thinking about-it doesn't indeed. And no lawless wild part of the world either. Right here in the heart of the old country. Kept me awake all night, it did.'

'It's made me nervous about going out and leaving you, old lady,' said her husband, who had put on his coat and joined us. 'I don't like to think of your having been left all alone here yesterday evening. It gives me the shivers.'

'You're not going to leave me again, I can tell you,' said Mrs Croft. 'Not after dark, anyway. And I'm thinking I'd like to leave this part of the world as soon as possible. I shall never feel the same about it. I shouldn't think poor Nicky Buckley could ever bear to sleep in that house again.'

It was a little difficult to reach the object of our visit. Both Mr and Mrs Croft talked so much and were so anxious to know all about everything. Were the poor dead girl's relations coming down? When was the funeral? Was there to be an inquest? What did the police think? Had they any clue yet? Was it true that a man had been arrested in Plymouth?

Then, having answered all these questions, they were insistent on offering us lunch. Only Poirot's mendacious statement that we were obliged to hurry back to lunch with the Chief Constable saved us.

At last a momentary pause occurred and Poirot got in the question he had been waiting to ask.

'Why, of course,' said Mr Croft. He pulled the blind cord up and down twice, frowning at it abstractedly. 'I remember all about it. Must have been when we first came here. I remember. Appendicitis-that's what the doctor said-'

'And probably not appendicitis at all,' interrupted Mrs Croft. 'These doctors-they always like cutting you up if they can. It wasn't the kind you have to operate on anyhow. She'd had indigestion and one thing and another, and they'd X-rayed her and they said out it had better come. And there she was, poor little soul, just going off to one of those nasty Homes.'

'I just asked her,' said Mr Croft, 'if she'd made a will. More as a joke than anything else.'

'Yes?'

'And she wrote it out then and there. Talked about getting a will form at the post office-but I advised her not to. Lot of trouble they cause sometimes, so a man told me. Anyway, her cousin is a lawyer. He could draw her out a proper one afterwards if everything was all right-as, of course, I knew it would be. This was just a precautionary matter.'

'Who witnessed it?'

'Oh! Ellen, the maid, and her husband.'

'And afterwards? What was done with it?'

'Oh! we posted it to Vyse. The lawyer, you know.'

'You know that it was posted?'

'My dear M. Poirot, I posted it myself. Right in this box here by the gate.'

'So if M. Vyse says he never got it-'

Croft stared.

'Do you mean that it got lost in the post? Oh! but surely that's impossible.'

'Anyway, you are certain that you posted it.'

'Certain sure,' said Mr Croft, heartily. 'I'll take my oath on that any day.'

'Ah! well,' said Poirot. 'Fortunately it does not matter. Mademoiselle is not likely to die just yet awhile.'

'Et voila!' said Poirot, when we were out of earshot and walking down to the hotel. 'Who is lying? M. Croft? Or M. Charles Vyse? I must confess I see no reason why M. Croft should be lying. To suppress the will would be of no advantage to him-especially when he had been instrumental in getting it made. No, his statement seems clear enough and tallies exactly with what was told us by Mademoiselle Nick. But all the same-'

'Yes?'

'All the same, I am glad that M. Croft was doing the cooking when we arrived. He left an excellent impression of a greasy thumb and first finger on a corner of the newspaper that covered the kitchen table. I managed to tear it off unseen by him. We will send it to our good friend Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard. There is just a chance that he might know something about it.'

'Yes?'

'You know, Hastings, I cannot help feeling that our genial M. Croft is a little too good to be genuine.'

'And now,' he added. 'Le dejeuner. I faint with hunger.'

Poirot's inventions about the Chief Constable were proved not to have been so mendacious after all. Colonel Weston called upon us soon after lunch.

He was a tall man of military carriage with considerable good-looks. He had a suitable reverence for Poirot's achievements, with which he seemed to be well acquainted.

'Marvellous piece of luck for us having you down here, M. Poirot,' he said again and again.

His one fear was that he should be compelled to call in the assistance of Scotland Yard. He was anxious to solve the mystery and catch the criminal without their aid. Hence his delight at Poirot's presence in the neighbourhood.

Poirot, so far as I could judge, took him completely into his confidence.

'Deuced odd business,' said the Colonel. 'Never heard of anything like it. Well, the girl ought to be safe enough in a nursing home. Still, you can't keep her there for ever!'

'That, M. le Colonel, is just the difficulty. There is only one way of dealing with it.'

'And that is?'

'We must lay our hands on the person responsible.'

'If what you suspect is true, that isn't going to be so easy.'

'Ah! je le sais bien.'

'Evidence! Getting evidence is going to be the devil.'

He frowned abstractedly.

'Always difficult, these cases, where there's no routine work. If we could get hold of the pistol-'

'In all probability it is at the bottom of the sea. That is, if the murderer had any sense.'

'Ah!' said Colonel Weston. 'But often they haven't. You'd be surprised at the fool things people do. I'm not talking of murders-we don't have many murders down in these parts, I'm glad to say-but in ordinary police court cases. The sheer damn foolishness of these people would surprise you.'

'They are of a different mentality, though,'

'Yes-perhaps. If Vyse is the chap, well, we'll have our work cut out. He's a cautious man and a sound lawyer. He'll not give himself away. The woman-well, there would be more hope there. Ten to one she'll try again. Women have no patience.'

He rose.

'Inquest tomorrow morning. Coroner will work in with us and give away as little as possible. We want to keep things dark at present.'

He was turning towards the door when he suddenly came back.

'Upon my soul, I'd forgotten the very thing that will interest you most, and that I want your opinion about.'

Sitting down again, he drew from his pocket a torn scrap of paper with writing on it and handed it to Poirot.

'My police found this when they were searching the grounds. Nor far from where you were all watching the fireworks. It's the only suggestive thing they did find.'

Poirot smoothed it out. The writing was large and straggling.

'…must have money at once. If not you… what will happen. I'm warning you.'

Poirot frowned. He read and re-read it.

'This is interesting,' he said. 'I may keep it?'

'Certainly. There are no finger-prints on it. I'll be glad if you can make anything of it.'

Colonel Weston got to his feet again.