Agatha Christie - The Labours of Hercules

He paused for a minute and then went on: "You see, Di's a fighter. She won't give in. She won't accept what she's darned well got to accept. She – she will go on believing that I'm – sane."

"While you yourself are quite certain that you are – pardon me – insane?"

The young man winced. He said: "I'm not actually hopelessly off my head yet – but it's getting worse. Diana doesn't know, bless her. She's only seen me when I am – all right."

"And when you are – all wrong, what happens?"

Hugh Chandler took a long breath. Then he said: "For one thing – I dream. And when I dream, I am mad. Last night, for instance – I wasn't a man any longer. I was first of all a bull – a mad bull – racing about in blazing sunlight – tasting dust and blood in my mouth – dust and blood… And then I was a dog – a great slavering dog. I had hydrophobia – children scattered and fled as I came – men tried to shoot me – someone set down a great bowl of water for me and I couldn't drink. I couldn't drink…"

He paused. "I woke up. And I knew it was true. I went over to the wash-stand. My mouth was parched – horribly parched – and dry. I was thirsty. But I couldn't drink, M. Poirot… I couldn't swallow… Oh, my God, I wasn't able to drink…"

Hercule Poirot made a gentle murmur. Hugh Chandler went on. His hands were clenched on his knees. His face was thrust forward, his eyes were half closed as though he saw something coming towards him.

"And there are things that aren't dreams. Things that I see when I'm wide awake. Spectres, frightful shapes. They leer at me. And sometimes I'm able to fly, to leave my bed, and fly through the air, to ride the winds – and fiends bear me company!"

"Tcha, tcha," said Hercule Poirot.

It was a gentle, deprecating little noise.

Hugh Chandler turned to him.

"Oh, there isn't any doubt. It's in my blood. It's my family heritage. I can't escape. Thank God I found it out in time! Before I'd married Diana. Suppose we'd had a child and handed on this frightful thing to him!"

He laid a hand on Poirot's arm.

"You must make her understand. You must tell her. She's got to forget. She's got to. There will be someone else someday. There's young Steve Graham – he's crazy about her and he's an awfully good chap. She'd be happy with him – and safe. I want her – to be happy. Graham's hard up, of course, and so are her people, but when I'm gone they'll be all right."

Hercule's voice interrupted him.

"Why will they be 'all right' when you are gone?"

Hugh Chandler smiled. It was a gentle, lovable smile.

He said: "There's my mother's money. She was an heiress, you know. It came to me. I've left it all to Diana."

Hercule Poirot sat back in his chair. He said: "Ah!"

Then he said: "But you may live to be quite an old man, Mr Chandler."

Hugh Chandler shook his head.

He said sharply: "No, M. Poirot. I am not going to live to be an old man."

Then he drew back with a sudden shudder.

"My God! Look!" He stared over Poirot's shoulder. "There – standing by you… it's a skeleton – its bones are shaking. It's calling to me – beckoning-"

His eyes, the pupils widely dilated, stared into the sunshine. He leaned suddenly sideways as though collapsing.

Then, turning to Poirot, he said in an almost childlike voice: "You didn't see – anything?"

Slowly, Hercule Poirot shook his head.

Hugh Chandler said hoarsely: "I don't mind this so much – seeing things. It's the blood I'm frightened of. The blood in my room – on my clothes… We had a parrot. One morning it was there in my room with its throat cut – and I was lying on the bed with the razor in my hand wet with its blood!"

He leant closer to Poirot.

"Even just lately things have been killed," he whispered. "All around – in the village – out on the downs. Sheep, young lambs – a collie dog. Father locks me in at night, but sometimes – sometimes – the door's open in the morning. I must have a key hidden somewhere but I don't know where I've hidden it. I don't know. It isn't I who do these things – it's someone else who comes into me – who takes possession of me – who turns me from a man into a raving monster who wants blood and who can't drink water…"

Suddenly he buried his face in his hands.

After a minute or two, Poirot asked: "I still do not understand why you have not seen a doctor?"

Hugh Chandler shook his head. He said: "Don't you really understand? Physically I'm strong. I'm as strong as a bull. I might live for years – years – shut up between four walls! That I can't face! It would be better to go out altogether… There are ways, you know. An accident, cleaning a gun… that sort of thing. Diana will understand… I'd rather take my own way out!"

He looked defiantly at Poirot, but Poirot did not respond to the challenge. Instead he asked mildly: "What do you eat and drink?"

Hugh Chandler flung his head back. He roared with laughter.

"Nightmares after indigestion? Is that your idea?"

Poirot merely repeated gently: "What do you eat and drink?"

"Just what everybody else eats and drinks."

"No special medicine? Cachets? Pills?"

"Good Lord, no. Do you really think patent pills would cure my trouble?" He quoted derisively: "'Canst though then minister to a mind diseased?'"

Hercule Poirot said dryly: "I am trying to. Does anyone in this house suffer with eye trouble?"

Hugh Chandler stared at him. He said: "Father's eyes give him a good deal of trouble. He has to go to an oculist fairly often."

"Ah!" Poirot meditated for a moment or two. Then he said: "Colonel Frobisher, I suppose, has spent much of his life in India?"

"Yes, he was in the Indian Army. He's very keen on India – talks about it a lot – native traditions – and all that."

Poirot murmured "Ah!" again.

Then he remarked: "I see that you have cut your chin."

Hugh put his hand up.

"Yes, quite a nasty gash. Father startled me one day when I was shaving. I'm a bit nervy these days, you know. And I've had a bit of a rash over my chin and neck. Makes shaving difficult."

Poirot said: "You should use a soothing cream."

"Oh, I do. Uncle George gave me one."

He gave a sudden laugh.

"We're talking like a woman's beauty parlour. Lotions, soothing creams, patent pills, eye trouble. What does it all amount to? What are you getting at, M. Poirot?"

Poirot said quietly: "I am trying to do the best I can for Diana Maberly."

Hugh's mood changed. His face sobered. He laid a hand on Poirot's arm.

"Yes, do what you can for her. Tell her she's got to forget. Tell her that it's no good hoping… Tell her some of the things I've told you… Tell her – oh, tell her for God's sake to keep away from me! That's the only thing she can do for me now. Keep away – and try to forget!"

"Have you courage. Mademoiselle? Great courage? You will need it."

Diana cried sharply: "Then it's true. It's true? He is mad?"

Hercule Poirot said: "I am not an alienist. Mademoiselle. It is not I who can say, 'This man is mad. This man is sane.'"

She came closer to him.

"Admiral Chandler thinks Hugh is mad. George Frobisher thinks he is mad. Hugh himself thinks he is mad -"

Poirot was watching her.

"And you, Mademoiselle?"

"I? I say he isn't mad! That's why -" She stopped.

"That is why you came to me?"

"Yes. I couldn't have had any other reason for coming to you, could I?"

"That," said Hercule Poirot, "is exactly what I have been asking myself, Mademoiselle!"

"I don't understand you."

"Who is Stephen Graham?"

She stared. "Stephen Graham? Oh, he's – he's just someone."

She caught him by the arm.

"What's in your mind? What are you thinking about? You just stand there – behind that great moustache of yours – blinking your eyes in the sunlight, and you don't tell me anything. You're making me afraid – horribly afraid. Why are you making me afraid?"