Agatha Christie - The Harlequin Tea Set and Other Stories

"What did your husband tell you exactly?"

"He came in with a telegram in his hand. As far as I remember, he said, 'This is most annoying. I shall have to take the night mail to Edinburgh and see Johnston first thing tomorrow morning. Too bad, when one thought the thing was going through smoothly at last.' Then he said, 'Shall I ring up Jock and get him to call for you?' and I said, 'Nonsense, I'll just take a taxi,' and he said that Jock or the Spences would see me home. I said did he want anything packed and he said he'd just throw a few things into a bag, and have a quick snack at the club, before catching the train. Then he went off and - and that's the last time I saw him."

Her voice broke a little on the last words.

Poirot looked at her very hard.

"Did he show you the telegram?"

"No."

"A pity."

"Why do you say that?"

He did not answer that question. Instead he said briskly:

"Now to business. Who are the solicitors acting for Major Rich?"

She told him and he made a note of the address.

"Will you write a few words to them and give it to me? I shall want to make arrangements to see Major Rich."

"He - it's been remanded for a week."

"Naturally. That is the procedure. Will you also write a note to Commander McLaren and to your friends the Spences? I shall want to see all of them, and it is essential that they do not at once show me the door."

When she rose from the writing desk, he said:

"One thing more. I shall register my own impressions, but I also want yours - of Commander McLaren and of Mr. and Mrs. Spence."

"Jock is one of our oldest friends. I've known him ever since I was a child. He appears to be quite a dour person, but he's really a dear - always the same - always to be relied upon. He's not gay and amusing but he's a tower of strength - both Arnold and I relied on his judgement a lot."

"And he, also, is doubtless in love with you?" Poirot's eyes twinkled slightly.

"Oh yes," said Margharita happily. "He's always been in love with me - but by now it's become a kind of habit."

"And the Spences?"

"They're amusing - and very good company. Linda Spence is really rather a clever girl. Arnold enjoyed talking with her. She's attractive, too."

"You are friends?"

"She and I? In a way. I don't know that I really like her. She's too malicious."

"And her husband?"

"Oh, Jeremy is delightful. Very musical. Knows a good deal about pictures, too. He and I go to picture shows a good deal together "

"Ah, well, I shall see for myself." He took her hand in his, "I hope, madame, you will not regret asking for my help."

"Why should I regret it?" Her eyes opened wide

"One never knows," said Poirot cryptically.

"And I - I do not know," he said to himself, as he went down the stairs. The cocktail party was still in full spate, but he avoided being captured and reached the street.

"No," he repeated. "I do not know."

It was of Margharita Clayton he was thinking. That apparently childlike candor, that frank innocence - Was it just that? Or did it mask something else? There had been women like that in medieval days - women on whom history had not been able to agree.

He thought of Mary Stuart, the Scottish Queen. Had she known, that night in Kirk o'Fields, of the deed that was to be done? Or was she completely innocent? Had the conspirators told her nothing? Was she one of those childlike simple women who can say to themselves "I do not know" and believe it? He felt the spell of Margharita Clayton. But he was not entirely sure about her...

Such women could be, though innocent themselves, the cause of crimes.

Such women could be, in intent and design, criminals themselves, though not in action.

Theirs was never the hand that held the knife - As to Margharita Clayton - no - he did not know!

Hercule Poirot did not find Major Rich's solicitors very helpful. He had not expected to do so.

They managed to indicate, though without saying so, that it would be in their client's best interest if Mrs. Clayton showed no sign of activity on his behalf.

His visit to them was in the interests of "correctness." He had enough pull with the Home Office and the CID to arrange his interview with the prisoner.

Inspector Miller, who was in charge of the Clayton case, was not one of Poirot's favorites. He was not, however, hostile on this occasion, merely contemptuous.

"Can't waste much time over the old dodderer," he had said to his assisting sergeant before Poirot was shown in. "Still, I'll have to be polite."

"You'll really have to pull some rabbits out of a hat if you're going to do anything with this one, M. Poirot," he remarked cheerfully. "Nobody else but Rich could have killed the bloke."

"Except the valet."

"Oh, I'll give you the valet! As a possibility, that is. But you won't find anything there. No motives whatever."

"You cannot be entirely sure of that. Motives are very curious things."

"Well, he wasn't acquainted with Clayton in any way. He's got a perfectly innocuous past. And he seems to be perfectly right in his head. I don't know what more you want?"

"I want to find out that Rich did not commit the crime."

"To please the lady, eh?" Inspector Miller grinned wickedly. "She's been getting at you, I suppose. Quite something, isn't she? Cherchez la femme with a vengeance. If she'd had the opportunity, you know, she might have done it herself."

"That, no!"

"You'd be surprised. I once knew a woman like that. Put a couple of husbands ott of the way without a blink of her innocent blue eyes. Broken-hearted each time, too. The jury would have aquitted her if they'd had half a chance which they hadn't, the evidence being practically cast iron."

"Well, my friend, let us not argue. What I make so bold as to ask is a few reliable details on the facts. What a newspaper prints is news - but not always truth!"

"They have to enjoy themselves. What do you want?"

"Time of death as near as can be."

"Which can't be very near because the body wasn't examined until the following morning. Death is estimated to have taken place from thirteen to ten hours previously. That is, between seven and ten o'clock the night before... He was stabbed through the jugular vein - Death must have been matter of moments."

"And the weapon?"

"A kind of Italian stiletto - quite small - razor sharp. Nobody has ever seen it before, or knows where it comes from. But we shall know - in the end it's a matter of time and patience."

"It could not have been picked up in the course of a quarrel."

"No. The valet says no such thing was in the flat."

"What interests me is the telegram," said Poirot. "The telegram that called Arnold Clayton away to Scot- land. Was that summons genuine?"

"No. There was no hitch or trouble up there. The land transfer, or whatever it was, was proceeding normally."

"Then who sent that telegram - I am presuming there was a telegram?"

"There must have been. Not that we'd necessarily believe Mrs. Clayton. But Clayton told the valet he was called by wire to Scotland. And he also told Commander McLaren."

"What time did he see Commander McLaren?"

"They had a snack together at their club - Combined Services - that was at about a quarter past seven. Then Clayton took a taxi to Rich's flat, arriving there just before eight o'clock. After that -" Miller spread his hands out.

"Anybody notice anything at all odd about Rich's manner that evening?"

"Oh well, you know what people are. Once a thing has happened, people think they noticed a lot of things I bet they never saw at all. Mrs. Spence, now, she says he was distrait all the evening. Didn't always answer to the point. As though he had 'something on his mind.' I bet he had, too, if he had a body in the chest! Wondering how the hell to get rid of it!"