Agatha Christie

Taken at the Flood

A Hercule Poirot Mystery

Epigraph

There is a tide in the affairs of men,

Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;

Omitted, all the voyage of their life

Is bound in shallows and in miseries.

On such a full sea are we now afloat,

And we must take the current when it serves,

Or lose our ventures.

Prologue

I

In every club there is a club bore. The Coronation Club was no exception, and the fact that an air raid was in progress made no difference to normal procedure.

Major Porter, late Indian Army, rustled his newspaper and cleared his throat. Every one avoided his eye, but it was no use.

âI see theyâve got the announcement of Gordon Cloadeâs death in the Times,â he said. âDiscreetly put, of course. On Oct. 5th, result of enemy action. No address given. As a matter of fact it was just round the corner from my little place. One of those big houses on top of Campden Hill. I can tell you it shook me up a bit. Iâm a Warden, you know. Cloade had only just got back from the States. Heâd been over on that Government Purchase business. Got married while he was over there. A young widowâyoung enough to be his daughter. Mrs. Underhay. As a matter of fact I knew her first husband out in Nigeria.â

Major Porter paused. Nobody displayed any interest or asked him to continue. Newspapers were held up sedulously in front of faces, but it took more than that to discourage Major Porter. He always had long histories to relate, mostly about people whom nobody knew.

âInteresting,â said Major Porter, firmly, his eyes fixed absently on a pair of extremely pointed patent-leather shoesâa type of foot-wear of which he profoundly disapproved. âAs I said, Iâm a Warden. Funny business this blast. Never know what itâs going to do. Blew the basement in and ripped off the roof. First floor practically wasnât touched. Six people in the house. Three servants: married couple and a housemaid, Gordon Cloade, his wife and the wifeâs brother. They were all down in the basement except the wifeâs brotherâex-Commando fellowâhe preferred his own comfortable bedroom on the first floorâand by Jove, he escaped with a few bruises. The three servants were all killed by blastâGordon Cloade must have been worth well over a million.â

Again Major Porter paused. His eyes had travelled up from the patent-leather shoesâstriped trousersâblack coatâegg-shaped head and colossal moustaches. Foreign, of course! That explained the shoes. âReally,â thought Major Porter, âwhatâs the club coming to? Canât get away from foreigners even here.â This separate train of thought ran alongside his narrative.

The fact that the foreigner in question appeared to be giving him full attention did not abate Major Porterâs prejudice in the slightest.

âShe canât be more than about twenty-five,â he went on. âAnd a widow for the second time. Or at any rateâthatâs what she thinksâ¦.â

He paused, hoping for curiosityâfor comment. Not getting it, he nevertheless went doggedly on:

âMatter of fact Iâve got my own ideas about that. Queer business. As I told you, I knew her first husband, Underhay. Nice fellowâdistrict commissioner in Nigeria at one time. Absolutely dead keen on his jobâfirst-class chap. He married this girl in Cape Town. She was out there with some touring company. Very down on her luck, and pretty and helpless and all that. Listened to poor old Underhay raving about his district and the great wide-open spacesâand breathed out, âWasnât it wonderful?â and how she wanted âto get away from everything.â Well, she married him and got away from it. He was very much in love, poor fellowâbut the thing didnât tick over from the first. She hated the bush and was terrified of the natives and was bored to death. Her idea of life was to go round to the local and meet the theatrical crowd and talk shop. Solitude Ã  deux in the jungle wasnât at all her cup of tea. Mind you, I never met her myselfâI heard all this from poor old Underhay. It hit him pretty hard. He did the decent thing, sent her home and agreed to give her a divorce. It was just after that I met him. He was all on edge and in the mood when a manâs got to talk. He was a funny old-fashioned kind of chap in some waysâan R.C., and he didnât care for divorce. He said to me, âThere are other ways of giving a woman her freedom.â âNow, look here, old boy,â I said, âdonât go doing anything foolish. No woman in the world is worth putting a bullet through your head.â

âHe said that that wasnât his idea at all. âBut Iâm a lonely man,â he said. âGot no relations to bother about me. If a report of my death gets back that will make Rosaleen a widow, which is what she wants.â âAnd what about you?â I said. âWell,â he said, âmaybe a Mr. Enoch Arden will turn up somewhere a thousand miles or so away and start life anew.â âMight be awkward for her some day,â I warned him. âOh, no,â he says, âIâd play the game. Robert Underhay would be dead all right.â

âWell, I didnât think any more of it, but six months later I heard that Underhay had died of fever up in the bush somewhere. His natives were a trustworthy lot and they came back with a good circumstantial tale and a few last words scrawled in Underhayâs writing saying theyâd done all they could for him, and he was afraid he was pegging out, and praising up his headman. That man was devoted to him and so were all the others. Whatever he told them to swear to, they would swear to. So there it isâ¦Maybe Underhayâs buried up country in the midst of equatorial Africa but maybe he isnâtâand if he isnât Mrs. Gordon Cloade may get a shock one day. And serve her right, I say. I never met her, but I know the sound of a little gold digger! She broke up poor old Underhay all right. Itâs an interesting story.â

Major Porter looked round rather wistfully for confirmation of this assertion. He met two bored and fishy stares, the half-averted gaze of young Mr. Mellon and the polite attention of M. Hercule Poirot.

Then the newspaper rustled and a grey-haired man with a singularly impassive face rose quietly from his armchair by the fire and went out.

Major Porterâs jaw dropped, and young Mr. Mellon gave a faint whistle.

âNow youâve done it!â he remarked. âKnow who that was?â

âGod bless my soul,â said Major Porter in some agitation. âOf course. I donât know him intimately but we are acquaintedâ¦Jeremy Cloade, isnât it, Gordon Cloadeâs brother? Upon my word, how extremely unfortunate! If Iâd had any ideaââ

âHeâs a solicitor,â said young Mr. Mellon. âBet he sues you for slander or defamation of character or something.â

For young Mr. Mellon enjoyed creating alarm and despondency in such places as it was not forbidden by the Defence of the Realm Act.

Major Porter continued to repeat in an agitated manner:

âMost unfortunate. Most unfortunate!â

âIt will be all over Warmsley Heath by this evening,â said Mr. Mellon. âThatâs where all the Cloades hang out. Theyâll sit up late discussing what action to take.â

But at that moment the All Clear sounded, and young Mr. Mellon stopped being malicious, and tenderly piloted his friend Hercule Poirot out into the street.

âTerrible atmosphere, these clubs,â he said. âThe most crashing collection of old bores. Porterâs easily the worst, though. His description of the Indian rope trick takes three-quarters of an hour, and he knows everybody whose mother ever passed through Poona!â

This was in the autumn of 1944. It was in late spring, 1946, that Hercule Poirot received a visit.

II

Hercule Poirot was sitting at his neat writing desk on a pleasant May morning when his manservant George approached him and murmured deferentially:

âThere is a lady, sir, asking to see you.â

âWhat kind of a lady?â Poirot asked cautiously.

He always enjoyed the meticulous accuracy of Georgeâs descriptions.

âShe would be aged between forty and fifty, I should say, sir. Untidy and somewhat artistic in appearance. Good walking shoes, brogues. A tweed coat and skirtâbut a lace blouse. Some questionable Egyptian beads and a blue chiffon scarf.â

Poirot shuddered slightly.

âI do not think,â he said, âthat I wish to see her.â

âShall I tell her, sir, that you are indisposed?â

Poirot looked at him thoughtfully.

âYou have already, I gather, told her that I am engaged on important business and cannot be disturbed?â

George coughed again.

âShe said, sir, that she had come up from the country specially, and did not mind how long she waited.â

Poirot sighed.

âOne should never struggle against the inevitable,â he said. âIf a middle-aged lady wearing sham Egyptian beads has made up her mind to see the famous Hercule Poirot, and has come up from the country to do so, nothing will deflect her. She will sit there in the hall till she gets her way. Show her in, George.â

George retreated, returning presently to announce formally:

âMrs. Cloade.â

The figure in the worn tweeds and the floating scarf came in with a beaming face. She advanced to Poirot with an outstretched hand, all her bead necklaces swinging and clinking.

âM. Poirot,â she said, âI have come to you under spirit guidance.â

Poirot blinked slightly.

âIndeed, Madame. Perhaps you will take a seat and tell meââ

He got no further.

âBoth ways, M. Poirot. With the automatic writing and with the ouija board. It was the night before last. Madame Elvary (a wonderful woman she is) and I were using the board. We got the same initials repeatedly. H.P. H.P. H.P. Of course I did not get the true significance at once. It takes, you know, a little time. One cannot, on this earthly plane, see clearly. I racked my brains thinking of someone with those initials. I knew it must connect up with the last sÃ©anceâreally a most poignant one, but it was some time before I got it. And then I bought a copy of Picture Post (Spirit guidance again, you see, because usually I buy the New Statesman) and there you wereâa picture of you, and described, and on account of what you had done. It is wonderful, donât you think, M. Poirot, how everything has a purpose? Clearly, you are the person appointed by the Guides to elucidate this matter.â

Poirot surveyed her thoughtfully. Strangely enough the thing that really caught his attention was that she had remarkably shrewd light-blue eyes. They gave point, as it were, to her rambling method of approach.

âAnd what, Mrs.âCloadeâis that right?â He frowned. âI seem to have heard the name some time agoââ

She nodded vehemently.

âMy poor brother-in-lawâGordon. Immensely rich and often mentioned in the press. He was killed in the Blitz over a year agoâa great blow to all of us. My husband is his younger brother. He is a doctor. Dr. Lionel Cloadeâ¦Of course,â she added, lowering her voice, âhe has no idea that I am consulting you. He would not approve. Doctors, I find, have a very materialistic outlook. The spiritual seems to be strangely hidden from them. They pin their faith on Scienceâbut what I say isâ¦what is Scienceâwhat can it do?â

There seemed, to Hercule Poirot, to be no answer to the question other than a meticulous and painstaking description embracing Pasteur, Lister, Humphry Davyâs safety lampâthe convenience of electricity in the home and several hundred other kindred items. But that, naturally, was not the answer Mrs. Lionel Cloade wanted. In actual fact her question, like so many questions, was not really a question at all. It was a mere rhetorical gesture.

Hercule Poirot contented himself with inquiring in a practical manner:

âIn what way do you believe I can help you, Mrs. Cloade?â

âDo you believe in the reality of the spirit world, M. Poirot?â

âI am a good Catholic,â said Poirot cautiously.

Mrs. Cloade waved aside the Catholic faith with a smile of pity.

âBlind! The Church is blindâprejudiced, foolishânot welcoming the reality and beauty of the world that lies behind this one.â

âAt twelve oâclock,â said Hercule Poirot, âI have an important appointment.â

It was a well-timed remark. Mrs. Cloade leaned forward.

âI must come to the point at once. Would it be possible for you, M. Poirot, to find a missing person?â

Poirotâs eyebrows rose.

âIt might be possibleâyes,â he replied cautiously. âBut the police, my dear Mrs. Cloade, could do so a great deal more easily than I could. They have all the necessary machinery.â

Mrs. Cloade waved away the police as she had waved away the Catholic Church.

âNo, M. Poirotâit is to you I have been guidedâby those beyond the veil. Now listen. My brother Gordon married some weeks before his death, a young widowâa Mrs. Underhay. Her first husband (poor child, such a grief to her) was reported dead in Africa. A mysterious countryâAfrica.â

âA mysterious continent,â Poirot corrected her. âPossibly. What partââ

She swept on.

âCentral Africa. The home of voodoo, of the zombieââ

âThe zombie is in the West Indies.â

Mrs. Cloade swept on:

ââof black magicâof strange and secret practicesâa country where a man could disappear and never be heard of again.â

âPossibly, possibly,â said Poirot. âBut the same is true of Piccadilly Circus.â

Mrs. Cloade waved away Piccadilly Circus.

âTwice lately, M. Poirot, a communication has come through from a spirit who gives his name as Robert. The message was the same each time. Not deadâ¦We were puzzled, we knew no Robert. Asking for further guidance we got this. âR.U. R.U. R.U.âthen Tell R. Tell R.â âTell Robert?â we asked. âNo, from Robert. R.U.â âWhat does the U. stand for?â Then, M. Poirot, the most significant answer came. âLittle Boy Blue. Little Boy Blue. Ha ha ha!â You see?â

âNo,â said Poirot, âI do not.â

She looked at him pityingly.

âThe nursery rhyme Little Boy Blue. âUnder the Haycock fast asleepââUnderhayâyou see?â

Poirot nodded. He forbore to ask why, if the name Robert could be spelt out, the name Underhay could not have been treated the same way, and why it had been necessary to resort to a kind of cheap Secret service spy jargon.

âAnd my sister-in-lawâs name is Rosaleen,â finished Mrs. Cloade triumphantly. âYou see? Confusing all these Rs. But the meaning is quite plain. âTell Rosaleen that Robert Underhay is not dead.ââ

âAha, and did you tell her?â

Mrs. Cloade looked slightly taken aback.

âErâwellâno. You see, I meanâwell, people are so sceptical. Rosaleen, I am sure, would be so. And then, poor child, it might upset herâwondering, you know, where he wasâand what he was doing.â

âBesides projecting his voice through the ether? Quite so. A curious method, surely, of announcing his safety?â

âAh, M. Poirot, you are not an initiate. And how do we know what the circumstances are? Poor Captain Underhay (or is it Major Underhay) may be a prisoner somewhere in the dark interior of Africa. But if he could be found, M. Poirot. If he could be restored to his dear young Rosaleen. Think of her happiness! Oh, M. Poirot, I have been sent to youâsurely, surely you will not refuse the behest of the spiritual world.â

Poirot looked at her reflectively.

âMy fees,â he said softly, âare very expensive. I may say enormously expensive! And the task you suggest would not be easy.â

âOh dearâbut surelyâit is most unfortunate. I and my husband are very badly offâvery badly off indeed. Actually my own plight is worse than my dear husband knows. I bought some sharesâunder spirit guidanceâand so far they have proved very disappointingâin fact, quite alarming. They have gone right down and are now, I gather, practically unsaleable.â

She looked at him with dismayed blue eyes.

âI have not dared to tell my husband. I simply tell you in order to explain how I am situated. But surely, dear M. Poirot, to reunite a young husband and wifeâit is such a noble missionââ

âNobility, chÃ¨re Madame, will not pay steamer and railway and air travel fares. Nor will it cover the cost of long telegrams and cables, and the interrogations of witnesses.â

âBut if he is foundâif Captain Underhay is found alive and wellâthenâwell, I think I may safely say that, once that was accomplished, thereâthere would be no difficulty aboutâerâreimbursing you.â

âAh, he is rich, then, this Captain Underhay?â

âNo. Well, noâ¦But I can assure youâI can give you my wordâthatâthat the money situation will not present difficulties.â

Slowly Poirot shook his head.

âI am sorry, Madame. The answer is No.â

He had a little difficulty in getting her to accept that answer.

When she had finally gone away, he stood lost in thought, frowning to himself. He remembered now why the name of Cloade was familiar to him. The conversation at the club the day of the air raid came back to him. The booming boring voice of Major Porter, going on and on, telling a story to which nobody wanted to listen.

He remembered the rustle of a newspaper and Major Porterâs suddenly dropped jaw and expression of consternation.

But what worried him was trying to make up his mind about the eager middle-aged lady who had just left him. The glib spiritualistic patter, the vagueness, the floating scarves, the chains and amulets jingling round her neckâand finally, slightly at variance with all this, that sudden shrewd glint in a pair of pale-blue eyes.

âJust why exactly did she come to me?â he said to himself. âAnd what, I wonder, has been going on inââhe looked down at the card on his deskââWarmsley Vale?â

III

It was exactly five days later that he saw a small paragraph in an evening paperâit referred to the death of a man called Enoch Ardenâat Warmsley Vale, a small old-world village about three miles from the popular Warmsley Heath Golf Course.

Hercule Poirot said to himself again:

âI wonder what has been going on in Warmsley Valeâ¦.â

BOOK I

One

I

Warmsley Heath consists of a golf course, two hotels, some very expensive modern villas giving on to the golf course, a row of what were, before the war, luxury shops, and a railway station.

Emerging from the railway station, a main road roars its way to London on your leftâto your right a small path across a field is signposted

Footpath to Warmsley Vale.

Warmsley Vale, tucked away amongst wooded hills, is as unlike Warmsley Heath as well can be. It is in essence a microscopic old-fashioned market town now degenerated into a village. It has a main street of Georgian houses, several pubs, a few unfashionable shops and a general air of being a hundred and fifty instead of twenty-eight miles from London.

Its occupants one and all unite in despising the mushroom growth of Warmsley Heath.

On the outskirts are some charming houses with pleasant old-world gardens. It was to one of these houses, the White House, that Lynn Marchmont returned in the early spring of 1946 when she was demobbed from the Wrens.

On her third morning she looked out of her bedroom window, across the untidy lawn to the elms in the meadow beyond, and sniffed the air happily. It was a gentle grey morning with a smell of soft wet earth. The kind of smell that she had been missing for the past two years and a half.

Wonderful to be home again, wonderful to be here in her own little bedroom which she had thought of so often and so nostalgically whilst she had been overseas. Wonderful to be out of uniform, to be able to get into a tweed skirt and a jumperâeven if the moths had been rather too industrious during the war years!

It was good to be out of the Wrens and a free woman again, although she had really enjoyed her overseas service very much. The work had been reasonably interesting, there had been parties, plenty of fun, but there had also been the irksomeness of routine and the feeling of being herded together with her companions which had sometimes made her feel desperately anxious to escape.

It was then, during the long scorching summer out East, that she had thought so longingly of Warmsley Vale and the shabby cool pleasant house, and of dear Mums.

Lynn both loved her mother and was irritated by her. Far away from home, she had loved her still and had forgotten the irritation, or remembered it only with an additional homesick pang. Darling Mums, so completely maddening! What she would not have given to have heard Mums enunciate one clichÃ© in her sweet complaining voice. Oh, to be at home again and never, never to have to leave home again!

And now here she was, out of the service, free, and back at the White House. She had been back three days. And already a curious dissatisfied restlessness was creeping over her. It was all the sameâalmost too much all the sameâthe house and Mums and Rowley and the farm and the family. The thing that was different and that ought not to be different was herselfâ¦.

âDarlingâ¦â Mrs. Marchmontâs thin cry came up the stairs. âShall I bring my girl a nice tray in bed?â

Lynn called out sharply:

âOf course not. Iâm coming down.â

âAnd why,â she thought, âhas Mums got to say âmy girl.â Itâs so silly!â

She ran downstairs and entered the dining room. It was not a very good breakfast. Already Lynn was realizing the undue proportion of time and interest taken by the search for food. Except for a rather unreliable woman who came four mornings a week, Mrs. Marchmont was alone in the house, struggling with cooking and cleaning. She had been nearly forty when Lynn was born and her health was not good. Also Lynn realized with some dismay how their financial position had changed. The small but adequate fixed income which had kept them going comfortably before the war was now almost halved by taxation. Rates, expenses, wages had all gone up.

âOh! brave new world,â thought Lynn grimly. Her eyes rested lightly on the columns of the daily paper.

âEx-W.A.A.F. seeks post where initiative and drive will be appreciated.â âFormer W.R.E.N. seeks post where organizing ability and authority are needed.â

Enterprise, initiative, command, those were the commodities offered. But what was wanted? People who could cook and clean, or write decent shorthand. Plodding people who knew a routine and could give good service.

Well, it didnât affect her. Her way ahead lay clear. Marriage to her cousin Rowley Cloade. They had got engaged seven years ago, just before the outbreak of war. Almost as long as she could remember, she had meant to marry Rowley. His choice of a farming life had been acquiesced in readily by her. A good lifeânot exciting perhaps, and with plenty of hard work, but they both loved the open air and the care of animals.

Not that their prospects were quite what they had beenâUncle Gordon had always promisedâ¦.

Mrs. Marchmontâs voice broke in plaintively apposite:

âItâs been the most dreadful blow to us all, Lynn darling, as I wrote you. Gordon had only been in England two days. We hadnât even seen him. If only he hadnât stayed in London. If heâd come straight down here.â

II

âYes, if onlyâ¦.â

Far away, Lynn had been shocked and grieved by the news of her uncleâs death, but the true significance of it was only now beginning to come home to her.

For as long as she could remember, her life, all their lives, had been dominated by Gordon Cloade. The rich, childless man had taken all his relatives completely under his wing.

Even Rowleyâ¦Rowley and his friend Johnnie Vavasour had started in partnership on the farm. Their capital was small, but they had been full of hope and energy. And Gordon Cloade had approved.

To her he had said more.

âYou canât get anywhere in farming without capital. But the first thing to find out is whether these boys have really got the will and the energy to make a go of it. If I set them up now, I wouldnât know thatâmaybe for years. If theyâve got the right stuff in them, if Iâm satisfied that their side of it is all right, well then, Lynn, you neednât worry. Iâll finance them on the proper scale. So donât think badly of your prospects, my girl. Youâre just the wife Rowley needs. But keep what Iâve told you under your hat.â

Well, she had done that, but Rowley himself had sensed his uncleâs benevolent interest. It was up to him to prove to the old boy that Rowley and Johnnie were a good investment for money.

Yes, they had all depended on Gordon Cloade. Not that any of the family had been spongers or idlers. Jeremy Cloade was senior partner in a firm of solicitors, Lionel Cloade was in practice as a doctor.

But behind the workaday life was the comforting assurance of money in the background. There was never any need to stint or to save. The future was assured. Gordon Cloade, a childless widower, would see to that. He had told them all, more than once, that that was so.

His widowed sister, Adela Marchmont, had stayed on at the White House when she might, perhaps, have moved into a smaller, more labour-saving house. Lynn went to first-class schools. If the war had not come, she would have been able to take any kind of expensive training she had pleased. Cheques from Uncle Gordon flowed in with comfortable regularity to provide little luxuries.

Everything had been so settled, so secure. And then had come Gordon Cloadeâs wholly unexpected marriage.

âOf course, darling,â Adela went on, âwe were all flabbergasted. If there was one thing that seemed quite certain, it was that Gordon would never marry again. It wasnât, you see, as though he hadnât got plenty of family ties.â

Yes, thought Lynn, plenty of family. Sometimes, possibly, rather too much family?

âHe was so kind always,â went on Mrs. Marchmont. âThough perhaps just a weeny bit tyrannical on occasions. He never liked the habit of dining off a polished table. Always insisted on my sticking to the old-fashioned tablecloths. In fact, he sent me the most beautiful Venetian lace ones when he was in Italy.â

âIt certainly paid to fall in with his wishes,â said Lynn dryly. She added with some curiosity, âHow did he meet thisâsecond wife? You never told me in your letters.â

âOh, my dear, on some boat or plane or other. Coming from South America to New York, I believe. After all those years! And after all those secretaries and typists and housekeepers and everything.â

Lynn smiled. Ever since she could remember, Gordon Cloadeâs secretaries, housekeepers, and office staff had been subjected to the closest scrutiny and suspicion.

She asked curiously, âSheâs good-looking, I suppose?â

âWell, dear,â said Adela, âI think myself she has rather a silly face.â

âYouâre not a man, Mums!â

âOf course,â Mrs. Marchmont went on, âthe poor girl was blitzed and had shock from blast and was really frightfully ill and all that, and itâs my opinion sheâs never really quite recovered. Sheâs a mass of nerves, if you know what I mean. And really, sometimes, she looks quite half-witted. I donât feel she could ever have made much of a companion for poor Gordon.

Lynn smiled. She doubted whether Gordon Cloade had chosen to marry a woman years younger than himself for her intellectual companionship.

âAnd then, dear,â Mrs. Marchmont lowered her voice, âI hate to say it, but of course sheâs not a lady!â

âWhat an expression, Mums! What does that matter nowadays?â

âIt still matters in the country, dear,â said Adela placidly. âI simply mean that she isnât exactly one of us!â

âPoor little devil!â

âReally, Lynn, I donât know what you mean. We have all been most careful to be kind and polite and to welcome her amongst us for Gordonâs sake.â

âSheâs at Furrowbank, then?â Lynn asked curiously.

âYes, naturally. Where else was there for her to go when she came out of the nursing home? The doctors said she must be out of London. Sheâs at Furrowbank with her brother.â

âWhatâs he like?â Lynn asked.

âA dreadful young man!â Mrs. Marchmont paused, and then added with a good deal of intensity: âRude.â

A momentary flicker of sympathy crossed Lynnâs mind. She thought: âI bet Iâd be rude in his place!â

She asked: âWhatâs his name?â

âHunter. David Hunter. Irish, I believe. Of course they are not people one has ever heard of. She was a widowâa Mrs. Underhay. One doesnât wish to be uncharitable, but one canât help asking oneselfâwhat kind of a widow would be likely to be travelling about from South America in wartime? One canât help feeling, you know, that she was just looking for a rich husband.â

âIn which case, she didnât look in vain,â remarked Lynn.

Mrs. Marchmont sighed.

âIt seems so extraordinary. Gordon was such a shrewd man always. And it wasnât, I mean, that women hadnât tried. That last secretary but one, for instance. Really quite blatant. She was very efficient, I believe, but he had to get rid of her.â

Lynn said vaguely: âI suppose thereâs always a Waterloo.â

âSixty-two,â said Mrs. Marchmont. âA very dangerous age. And a war, I imagine, is unsettling. But I canât tell you what a shock it was when we got his letter from New York.â

âWhat did it say exactly?â

âHe wrote to FrancesâI really canât think why. Perhaps he imagined that owing to her upbringing she might be more sympathetic. He said that weâd probably be surprised to hear that he was married. It had all been rather sudden, but he was sure we should all soon grow very fond of Rosaleen (such a very theatrical name, donât you think, dear? I mean definitely rather bogus). She had had a very sad life, he said, and had gone through a lot although she was so young. Really it was wonderful the plucky way she had stood up to life.â

âQuite a well-known gambit,â murmured Lynn.

âOh, I know. I do agree. One has heard it so many times. But one would really think that Gordon with all his experienceâstill, there it is. She has the most enormous eyesâdark blue and what they call put in with a smutty finger.â

âAttractive?â

âOh, yes, she is certainly very pretty. Itâs not the kind of prettiness I admire.â

âIt never is,â said Lynn with a wry smile.

âNo, dear. Really, menâbut well, thereâs no accounting for men! Even the most well-balanced of them do the most incredibly foolish things! Gordonâs letter went on to say that we mustnât think for a moment that this would mean any loosening of old ties. He still considered us all his special responsibility.â

âBut he didnât,â said Lynn, âmake a will after his marriage?â

Mrs. Marchmont shook her head.

âThe last will he made was in 1940. I donât know any details, but he gave us to understand at the time that we were all taken care of by it if anything should happen to him. That will, of course, was revoked by his marriage. I suppose he would have made a new will when he got homeâbut there just wasnât time. He was killed practically the day after he landed in this country.â

âAnd so sheâRosaleenâgets everything?â

âYes. The old will was invalidated by his marriage.â

Lynn was silent. She was not more mercenary than most, but she would not have been human if she had not resented the new state of affairs. It was not, she felt, at all what Gordon Cloade himself would have envisaged. The bulk of his fortune he might have left to his young wife, but certain provisions he would certainly have made for the family he had encouraged to depend upon him. Again and again he had urged them not to save, not to make provision for the future. She had heard him say to Jeremy, âYouâll be a rich man when I die.â To her mother he had often said, âDonât worry, Adela. Iâll always look after Lynnâyou know that, and Iâd hate you to leave this houseâitâs your home. Send all the bills for repairs to me.â Rowley he had encouraged to take up farming. Antony, Jeremyâs son, he had insisted should go into the Guards and he had always made him a handsome allowance. Lionel Cloade had been encouraged to follow up certain lines of medical research that were not immediately profitable and to let his practice run down.

Lynnâs thoughts were broken into. Dramatically, and with a trembling lip, Mrs. Marchmont produced a sheaf of bills.

âAnd look at all these,â she wailed. âWhat am I to do? What on earth am I to do, Lynn? The bank manager wrote me only this morning that Iâm overdrawn. I donât see how I can be. Iâve been so careful. But it seems my investments just arenât producing what they used to. Increased taxation he says. And all these yellow things, War Damage Insurance or somethingâone has to pay them whether one wants to or not.â

Lynn took the bills and glanced through them. There were no records of extravagance amongst them. They were for slates replaced on the roof, the mending of fences, replacement of a worn-out kitchen boilerâa new main water pipe. They amounted to a considerable sum.

Mrs. Marchmont said piteously:

âI suppose I ought to move from here. But where could I go? There isnât a small house anywhereâthere just isnât such a thing. Oh, I donât want to worry you with all this, Lynn. Not just as soon as youâve come home. But I donât know what to do. I really donât.â

Lynn looked at her mother. She was over sixty. She had never been a very strong woman. During the war she had taken in evacuees from London, had cooked and cleaned for them, had worked with the W.V.S., made jam, helped with school meals. She had worked fourteen hours a day in contrast to a pleasant easy life before the war. She was now, as Lynn saw, very near a breakdown. Tired out and frightened of the future.

A slow quiet anger rose in Lynn. She said slowly:

âCouldnât this Rosaleenâhelp?â

Mrs. Marchmont flushed.

âWeâve no right to anythingâanything at all.â

Lynn demurred.

âI think youâve a moral right. Uncle Gordon always helped.â

Mrs. Marchmont shook her head. She said:

âIt wouldnât be very nice, dear, to ask favoursânot of someone one doesnât like very much. And anyway that brother of hers would never let her give away a penny!â

And she added, heroism giving place to pure female cattiness: âIf he really is her brother, that is to say!â

Two

Frances Cloade looked thoughtfully across the dinner table at her husband.

Frances was forty-eight. She was one of those lean greyhound women who look well in tweeds. There was a rather arrogant ravaged beauty about her face which had no makeup except a little carelessly applied lipstick. Jeremy Cloade was a spare grey-haired man of sixty-three, with a dry expressionless face.

It was, this evening, even more expressionless than usual.

His wife registered the fact with a swift flashing glance.

A fifteen-year-old girl shuffled round the table, handing the dishes. Her agonized gaze was fixed on Frances. If Frances frowned, she nearly dropped something, a look of approval set her beaming.

It was noted enviously in Warmsley Vale that if any one had servants it would be Frances Cloade. She did not bribe them with extravagant wages, and she was exacting as to performanceâbut her warm approval of endeavour and her infectious energy and drive made of domestic service something creative and personal. She had been so used to being waited on all her life that she took it for granted without self-consciousness, and she had the same appreciation of a good cook or a good parlourmaid as she would have had for a good pianist.

Frances Cloade had been the only daughter of Lord Edward Trenton, who had trained his horses in the neighbourhood of Warmsley Heath. Lord Edwardâs final bankruptcy was realized by those in the know to be a merciful escape from worse things. There had been rumours of horses that had signally failed to stay at unexpected moments, other rumours of inquiries by the Stewards of the Jockey Club. But Lord Edward had escaped with his reputation only lightly tarnished and had reached an arrangement with his creditors which permitted him to live exceedingly comfortably in the South of France. And for these unexpected blessings he had to thank the shrewdness and special exertions of his solicitor, Jeremy Cloade. Cloade had done a good deal more than a solicitor usually does for a client, and had even advanced guarantees of his own. He had made it clear that he had a deep admiration for Frances Trenton, and in due course, when her fatherâs affairs had been satisfactorily wound up, Frances became Mrs. Jeremy Cloade.

What she had felt about it no one had ever known. All that could be said was that she had kept her side of the bargain admirably. She had been an efficient and loyal wife to Jeremy, a careful mother to his son, had forwarded Jeremyâs interests in every way and had never once suggested by word or deed that the match was anything but a freewill impulse on her part.

In response the Cloade family had an enormous respect and admiration for Frances. They were proud of her, they deferred to her judgmentâbut they never felt really quite intimate with her.

What Jeremy Cloade thought of his marriage nobody knew, because nobody ever did know what Jeremy Cloade thought or felt. âA dry stickâ was what people said about Jeremy. His reputation both as a man and a lawyer was very high. Cloade, Brunskill and Cloade never touched any questionable legal business. They were not supposed to be brilliant but were considered very sound. The firm prospered and the Jeremy Cloades lived in a handsome Georgian house just off the Market Place with a big old-fashioned walled garden behind it where the pear trees in spring showed a sea of white blossom.

It was to a room overlooking the garden at the back of the house that the husband and wife went when they rose from the dinner table. Edna, the fifteen-year-old, brought in coffee, breathing excitedly and adenoidally.

Frances poured a little coffee into the cup. It was strong and hot. She said to Edna, crisply and approvingly:

âExcellent, Edna.â

Edna went crimson with pleasure and went out marvelling nevertheless at what some people liked. Coffee, in Ednaâs opinion, ought to be a pale cream colour, ever so sweet, with lots of milk!

In the room overlooking the garden, the Cloades drank their coffee, black and without sugar. They had talked in a desultory way during dinner, of acquaintances met, of Lynnâs return, of the prospects of farming in the near future, but now, alone together, they were silent.

Frances leaned back in her chair, watching her husband. He was quite oblivious of her regard. His right hand stroked his upper lip. Although Jeremy Cloade did not know it himself the gesture was a characteristic one and coincided with inner perturbation. Frances had not observed it very often. Once when Antony, their son, had been seriously ill as a child; once when waiting for a jury to consider their verdict; at the outbreak of war, waiting to hear the irrevocable words over the wireless; on the eve of Antonyâs departure after embarkation leave.

Frances thought a little while before she spoke. Their married life had been happy, but never intimate in so far as the spoken word went. She had respected Jeremyâs reserves and he hers. Even when the telegram had come announcing Antonyâs death on active service, they had neither of them broken down.

He had opened it, then he had looked up at her. She had said, âIs itâ?â

He had bowed his head, then crossed and put the telegram into her outstretched hand.

They had stood there quite silently for a while. Then Jeremy had said: âI wish I could help you, my dear.â And she had answered, her voice steady, her tears unshed, conscious only of the terrible emptiness and aching: âItâs just as bad for you.â He had patted her shoulder: âYes,â he said. âYesâ¦â Then he had moved towards the door, walking a little awry, yet stiffly, suddenly an old manâ¦saying as he did so, âThereâs nothing to be saidânothing to be saidâ¦.â

She had been grateful to him, passionately grateful, for understanding so well, and had been torn with pity for him, seeing him suddenly turn into an old man. With the loss of her boy, something had hardened in herâsome ordinary common kindness had dried up. She was more efficient, more energetic than everâpeople became sometimes a little afraid of her ruthless common senseâ¦.

Jeremy Cloadeâs finger moved along his upper lip againâirresolutely, searching. And crisply, across the room, Frances spoke.

âIs anything the matter, Jeremy?â

He started. His coffee cup almost slipped from his hand. He recovered himself, put it firmly down on the tray. Then he looked across at her.

âWhat do you mean, Frances?â

âIâm asking you if anything is the matter?â

âWhat should be the matter?â

âIt would be foolish to guess. I would rather you told me.â

She spoke without emotion in a businesslike way.

He said unconvincingly:

âThere is nothing the matterââ

She did not answer. She merely waited inquiringly. His denial, it seemed, she put aside as negligible. He looked at her uncertainly.

And just for a moment the imperturbable mask of his grey face slipped, and she caught a glimpse of such turbulent agony that she almost exclaimed aloud. It was only for a moment but she didnât doubt what she had seen.

She said quietly and unemotionally:

âI think you had better tell meââ

He sighedâa deep unhappy sigh.

âYou will have to know, of course,â he said, âsooner or later.â

And he added what was to her a very astonishing phrase.

âIâm afraid youâve made a bad bargain, Frances.â

She went right past an implication she did not understand to attack hard facts.

âWhat is it,â she said; âmoney?â

She did not know why she put money first. There had been no special signs of financial stringency other than were natural to the times. They were short staffed at the office with more business than they could cope with, but that was the same everywhere and in the last month they had got back some of their people released from the Army. It might just as easily have been illness that he was concealingâhis colour had been bad lately, and he had been overworked and overtired. But nevertheless Francesâ instinct went towards money, and it seemed she was right.

Her husband nodded.

âI see.â She was silent a moment, thinking. She herself did not really care about money at allâbut she knew that Jeremy was quite incapable of realizing that. Money meant to him a four-square worldâstabilityâobligationsâa definite place and status in life.

Money to her was a toy tossed into oneâs lap to play with. She had been born and bred in an atmosphere of financial instability. There had been wonderful times when the horses had done what was expected of them. There had been difficult times when the tradesmen wouldnât give credit and Lord Edward had been forced to ignominious straits to avoid the bailiffs on the front doorstep. Once they had lived on dry bread for a week and sent all the servants away. They had had the bailiffs in the house for three weeks once when Frances was a child. She had found the bum in question very agreeable to play with and full of stories of his own little girl.

If one had no money one simply scrounged, or went abroad, or lived on oneâs friends and relations for a bit. Or somebody tided you over with a loanâ¦.

But looking across at her husband Frances realized that in the Cloade world you didnât do that kind of thing. You didnât beg or borrow or live on other people. (And conversely you didnât expect them to beg or borrow or live off you!)

Frances felt terribly sorry for Jeremy and a little guilty about being so unperturbed herself. She took refuge in practicality.

âShall we have to sell up everything? Is the firm going smash?â

Jeremy Cloade winced, and she realized she had been too matter-of-fact.

âMy dear,â she said gently, âdo tell me. I canât go on guessing.â

Cloade said stiffly, âWe went through rather a bad crisis two years ago. Young Williams, you remember, absconded. We had some difficulty getting straight again. Then there were certain complications arising out of the position in the Far East after Singaporeââ

She interrupted him.

âNever mind the whysâthey are so unimportant. You were in a jam. And you havenât been able to snap out of it?â

He said, âI relied on Gordon. Gordon would have put things straight.â

She gave a quick impatient sigh.

âOf course. I donât want to blame the poor manâafter all, itâs only human nature to lose your head about a pretty woman. And why on earth shouldnât he marry again if he wanted to? But it was unfortunate his being killed in that air raid before heâd settled anything or made a proper will or adjusted his affairs. The truth is that one never believes for a minute, no matter what danger youâre in, that you yourself are going to be killed. The bomb is always going to hit the other person!â

âApart from his loss, and I was very fond of Gordonâand proud of him too,â said Gordon Cloadeâs elder brother, âhis death was a catastrophe for me. It came at a momentââ

He stopped.

âShall we be bankrupt?â Frances asked with intelligent interest.

Jeremy Cloade looked at her almost despairingly. Though she did not realize it, he could have coped much better with tears and alarm. This cool detached practical interest defeated him utterly.

He said harshly, âItâs a good deal worse than thatâ¦.â

He watched her as she sat quite still, thinking over that. He said to himself, âIn another minute I shall have to tell her. Sheâll know what I amâ¦Sheâll have to know. Perhaps she wonât believe it at first.â

Frances Cloade sighed and sat up straight in her big armchair.

âI see,â she said. âEmbezzlement. Or if that isnât the right word, that kind of thingâ¦like young Williams.â

âYes, but this timeâyou donât understandâIâm responsible. Iâve used trust funds that were committed to my charge. So far, Iâve covered my tracksââ

âBut now itâs all going to come out?â

âUnless I can get the necessary moneyâquickly.â

The shame he felt was the worst he had known in his life. How would she take it?

At the moment she was taking it very calmly. But then, he thought, Frances would never make a scene. Never reproach or upbraid.

Her hand to her cheek, she was frowning.

âItâs so stupid,â she said, âthat I havenât got any money of my own at allâ¦.â

He said stiffly, âThere is your marriage settlement, butââ

She said absently, âBut I suppose thatâs gone too.â

He was silent. Then he said with difficulty, in his dry voice: âIâm sorry, Frances. More sorry than I can say. You made a bad bargain.â

She looked up sharply.

âYou said that before. What do you mean by that?â

Jeremy said stiffly:

âWhen you were good enough to marry me, you had the right to expectâwell, integrityâand a life free from sordid anxieties.â

She was looking at him with complete astonishment.

âReally, Jeremy! What on earth do you think I married you for?â

He smiled slightly.

âYou have always been a most loyal and devoted wife, my dear. But I can hardly flatter myself that you would have accepted me inâerâdifferent circumstances.â

She stared at him and suddenly burst out laughing.

âYou funny old stick! What a wonderful novelettish mind you must have behind that legal faÃ§ade! Do you really think that I married you as the price of saving Father from the wolvesâor the Stewards of the Jockey Club, et cetera?â

âYou were very fond of your father, Frances.â

âI was devoted to Daddy! He was terribly attractive and the greatest fun to live with! But I always knew he was a bad hat. And if you think that Iâd sell myself to the family solicitor in order to save him from getting what was always coming to him, then youâve never understood the first thing about me. Never!â

She stared at him. Extraordinary, she thought, to have been married to someone for over twenty years and not have known what was going on in their minds. But how could one know when it was a mind so different from oneâs own? A romantic mind, of course, well camouflaged, but essentially romantic. She thought: âAll those old Stanley Weymans in his bedroom. I might have known from them! The poor idiotic darling!â

Aloud she said:

âI married you because I was in love with you, of course.â

âIn love with me? But what could you see in me?â

âIf you ask me that, Jeremy, I really donât know. You were such a change, so different from all Fatherâs crowd. You never talked about horses for one thing. Youâve no idea how sick I was of horsesâand what the odds were likely to be for the Newmarket Cup! You came to dinner one nightâdo you remember?âand I sat next to you and asked you what bimetallism was, and you told meâreally told me! It took the whole of dinnerâsix coursesâwe were in funds at the moment and had a French chef!â

âIt must have been extremely boring,â said Jeremy.

âIt was fascinating! Nobody had ever treated me seriously before. And you were so polite and yet never seemed to look at me or think I was nice or good-looking or anything. It put me on my mettle. I swore Iâd make you notice me.â

Jeremy Cloade said grimlyâ¦âI noticed you all right. I went home that evening and didnât sleep a wink. You had a blue dress with cornflowersâ¦.â

There was silence for a moment or two, then Jeremy cleared his throat.

âErâall that is a long time agoâ¦.â

She came quickly to the rescue of his embarrassment.

âAnd weâre now a middle-aged married couple in difficulties, looking for the best way out.â

âAfter what youâve just told me, Frances, it makes it a thousand times worse that thisâthis disgraceââ

She interrupted him.

âLet us please get things clear. You are being apologetic because youâve fallen foul of the law. You may be prosecutedâgo to prison.â (He winced.) âI donât want that to happen. Iâll fight like anything to stop it, but donât credit me with moral indignation. Weâre not a moral family, remember. Father, in spite of his attractiveness, was a bit of a crook. And there was Charlesâmy cousin. They hushed it up and he wasnât prosecuted, and they hustled him off to the Colonies. And there was my cousin Geraldâhe forged a cheque at Oxford. But he went to fight and got a posthumous V.C. for complete bravery and devotion to his men and superhuman endurance. What Iâm trying to say is people are like thatânot quite bad or quite good. I donât suppose Iâm particularly straight myselfâI have been because there hasnât been any temptation to be otherwise. But what I have got is plenty of courage andâ (she smiled at him) âIâm loyal!â

âMy dear!â He got up and came over to her. He stopped and put his lips to her hair.

âAnd now,â said Lord Edward Trentonâs daughter, smiling up at him, âwhat are we going to do? Raise money somehow?â

Jeremyâs face stiffened.

âI donât see how.â

âA mortgage on this house. Oh, I see,â she was quick, âthatâs been done. Iâm stupid. Of course youâve done all the obvious things. Itâs a question then of a touch? Who can we touch? I suppose thereâs only one possibility. Gordonâs widowâthe dark Rosaleen!â

Jeremy shook his head dubiously.

âIt would have to be a large sumâ¦And it canât come out of capital. The moneyâs only in trust for her for her life.â

âI hadnât realized that. I thought she had it absolutely. What happens when she dies?â

âIt comes to Gordonâs next of kin. That is to say it is divided between myself, Lionel, Adela, and Mauriceâs son, Rowley.â

âIt comes to usâ¦â said Frances slowly.

Something seemed to pass through the roomâa cold airâthe shadow of a thoughtâ¦.

Frances said: âYou didnât tell me thatâ¦I thought she got it for keepsâthat she could leave it to any one she liked?â

âNo. By the statute relating to intestacy of 1925â¦.â

It is doubtful whether Frances listened to his explanation. She said when his voice stopped:

âIt hardly matters to us personally. Weâll be dead and buried, long before sheâs middle-aged. How old is she? Twenty-fiveâtwenty-six? Sheâll probably live to be seventy.â

Jeremy Cloade said doubtfully:

âWe might ask her for a loanâputting it on family grounds? She may be a generous-minded girlâreally we know so little of herââ

Frances said: âAt any rate we have been reasonably nice to herânot catty like Adela. She might respond.â

Her husband said warningly:

âThere must be no hint ofâerâreal urgency.â

Frances said impatiently: âOf course not! The trouble is that itâs not the girl herself we shall have to deal with. Sheâs completely under the thumb of that brother of hers.â

âA very unattractive young man,â said Jeremy Cloade.

Francesâ sudden smile flashed out.

âOh, no,â she said. âHeâs attractive. Most attractive. Rather unscrupulous, too, I should imagine. But then as far as that goes, Iâm unscrupulous too!â

Her smile hardened. She looked up at her husband.

âWeâre not going to be beaten, Jeremy,â she said. âThereâs bound to be some wayâ¦if I have to rob a bank!â

Three

âMoney!â said Lynn.

Rowley Cloade nodded. He was a big square young man with a brick-red skin, thoughtful blue eyes and very fair hair. He had a slowness that seemed more purposeful than ingrained. He used deliberation as others use quickness of repartee.

âYes,â he said, âeverything seems to boil down to money these days.â

âBut I thought farmers had done so well during the war?â

âOh, yesâbut that doesnât do you any permanent good. In a year weâll be back where we wereâwith wages up, workers unwilling, everybody dissatisfied and nobody knowing where they are. Unless, of course, you can farm in a really big way. Old Gordon knew. That was where he was preparing to come in.â

âAnd nowââ Lynn asked.

Rowley grinned.

âAnd now Mrs. Gordon goes to London and spends a couple of thousand on a nice mink coat.â

âItâsâitâs wicked!â

âOh, noââ He paused and said: âIâd rather like to give you a mink coat, Lynnââ

âWhatâs she like, Rowley?â She wanted to get a contemporary judgment.

âYouâll see her tonight. At Uncle Lionelâs and Aunt Kathieâs party.â

âYes, I know. But I want you to tell me. Mums says sheâs half-witted?â

Rowley considered.

âWellâI shouldnât say intellect was her strong point. But I think really she only seems half-witted because sheâs being so frightfully careful.â

âCareful? Careful about what?â

âOh, just careful. Mainly, I imagine, about her accentâsheâs got quite a brogue, you know, or else about the right fork, and any literary allusions that might be flying around.â

âThen she really isâquiteâwell, uneducated?â

Rowley grinned.

âOh, sheâs not a lady, if thatâs what you mean. Sheâs got lovely eyes, and a very good complexionâand I suppose old Gordon fell for that, with her extraordinary air of being quite unsophisticated. I donât think itâs put onâthough of course you never know. She just stands around looking dumb and letting David run her.â

âDavid?â

âThatâs the brother. I should say thereâs nothing much about sharp practice he doesnât know!â Rowley added: âHe doesnât like any of us much.â

âWhy should he?â said Lynn sharply, and added as he looked at her, slightly surprised, âI mean you donât like him.â

âI certainly donât. You wonât either. Heâs not our sort.â

âYou donât know who I like, Rowley, or who I donât! Iâve seen a lot of the world in the last three years. IâI think my outlook has broadened.â

âYouâve seen more of the world than I have, thatâs true.â

He said it quietlyâbut Lynn looked up sharply.

There had been somethingâbehind those even tones.

He returned her glance squarely, his face unemotional. It had never, Lynn remembered, been easy to know exactly what Rowley was thinking.

What a queer topsy-turvy world it was, thought Lynn. It used to be the man who went to the wars, the woman who stayed at home. But here the positions were reversed.

Of the two young men, Rowley and Johnnie, one had had perforce to stay on the farm. They had tossed for it and Johnnie Vavasour had been the one to go. He had been killed almost at onceâin Norway. All through the years of war Rowley had never been more than a mile or two from home.

And she, Lynn, had been to Egypt, to North Africa, to Sicily. She had been under fire more than once.

Here was Lynn Home-from-the-wars, and here was Rowley Stay-at-home.

She wondered, suddenly, if he mindedâ¦.

She gave a nervous little half laugh. âThings seem sometimes a bit upside down, donât they?â

âOh, I donât know.â Rowley stared vacantly out over the countryside. âDepends.â

âRowley,â she hesitated, âdid you mindâI meanâJohnnieââ

His cold level gaze threw her back on herself.

âLetâs leave Johnnie out of it! The warâs overâand Iâve been lucky.â

âLucky, you meanââshe paused doubtfullyâânot to have had toâto go?â

âWonderful luck, donât you think so?â She didnât know quite how to take that. His voice was smooth with hard edges. He added with a smile, âBut, of course, you service girls will find it hard to settle down at home.â

She said irritably, âOh, donât be stupid, Rowley.â

(But why be irritable? Whyâunless, because his words touched a raw nerve of truth somewhere.)

âOh well,â said Rowley. âI suppose we might as well consider getting married. Unless youâve changed your mind?â

âOf course I havenât changed my mind. Why should I?â

He said vaguely:

âOne never knows.â

âYou mean you think IâmââLynn pausedââdifferent?â

âNot particularly.â

âPerhaps youâve changed your mind?â

âOh, no, Iâve not changed. Very little change down on the farm, you know.â

âAll right, then,â said Lynnâconscious, somehow, of anticlimax, âletâs get married. Whenever you like.â

âJune or thereabouts?â

âYes.â

They were silent. It was settled. In spite of herself, Lynn felt terribly depressed. Yet Rowley was Rowleyâjust as he always had been. Affectionate, unemotional, painstakingly given to understatement.

They loved each other. They had always loved each other. They had never talked about their love very muchâso why should they begin now?

They would get married in June and live at Long Willows (a nice name, she had always thought) and she would never go away again. Go away, that is to say, in the sense that the words now held for her. The excitement of gangplanks being pulled up, the racing of a shipâs screw, the thrill as an aeroplane became airborne and soared up and over the earth beneath. Watching a strange coastline take form and shape. The smell of hot dust, and paraffin, and garlicâthe clatter and gabble of foreign tongues. Strange flowers, red poinsettias rising proudly from a dusty gardenâ¦Packing, unpackingâwhere next?

All that was over. The war was over. Lynn Marchmont had come home. Home is the sailor, home from the seaâ¦But Iâm not the same Lynn who went away, she thought.

She looked up and saw Rowley watching herâ¦.

Four

Aunt Kathieâs parties were always much the same. They had a rather breathless amateurish quality about them characteristic of the hostess. Dr. Cloade had an air of holding irritability in check with difficulty. He was invariably courteous to his guestsâbut they were conscious of his courtesy being an effort.

In appearance Lionel Cloade was not unlike his brother Jeremy. He was spare and grey-hairedâbut he had not the lawyerâs imperturbability. His manner was brusque and impatientâand his nervous irritability had affronted many of his patients and blinded them to his actual skill and kindliness. His real interests lay in research and his hobby was the use of medicinal herbs throughout history. He had a precise intellect and found it hard to be patient with his wifeâs vagaries.

Though Lynn and Rowley always called Mrs. Jeremy Cloade âFrances,â Mrs. Lionel Cloade was invariably âAunt Kathie.â They were fond of her but found her rather ridiculous.

This âparty,â arranged ostensibly to celebrate Lynnâs homecoming, was merely a family affair.

Aunt Kathie greeted her niece affectionately:

âSo nice and brown you look, my dear. Egypt, I suppose. Did you read the book on the Pyramid prophecies I sent you? So interesting. Really explains everything, donât you think?â

Lynn was saved from replying by the entrance of Mrs. Gordon Cloade and her brother David.

âThis is my niece, Lynn Marchmont, Rosaleen.â

Lynn looked at Gordon Cloadeâs widow with decorously veiled curiosity.

Yes, she was lovely, this girl who had married old Gordon Cloade for his money. And it was true what Rowley had said, that she had an air of innocence. Black hair, set in loose waves, Irish blue eyes put in with the smutty fingerâhalf-parted lips.

The rest of her was predominantly expensive. Dress, jewels, manicured hands, fur cape. Quite a good figure, but she didnât, really, know how to wear expensive clothes. Didnât wear them as Lynn Marchmont could have worn them, given half a chance! (But you never will have a chance, said a voice in her brain.)

âHow do you do,â said Rosaleen Cloade.

She turned hesitatingly to the man behind her.

She said: âThisâthis is my brother.â

âHow do you do,â said David Hunter.

He was a thin young man with dark hair and dark eyes. His face was unhappy and defiant and slightly insolent.

Lynn saw at once why all the Cloades disliked him so much. She had met men of that stamp abroad. Men who were reckless and slightly dangerous. Men whom you couldnât depend upon. Men who made their own laws and flouted the universe. Men who were worth their weight in gold in a pushâand who drove their C.O.s to distraction out of the firing line!

Lynn said conversationally to Rosaleen:

âAnd how do you like living at Furrowbank?â

âI think itâs a wonderful house,â said Rosaleen.

David Hunter gave a faint sneering laugh.

âPoor old Gordon did himself well,â he said. âNo expense spared.â

It was literally the truth. When Gordon had decided to settle down in Warmsley Valeâor rather had decided to spend a small portion of his busy life there, he had chosen to build. He was too much of an individualist to care for a house that was impregnated with other peopleâs history.

He had employed a young modern architect and given him a free hand. Half Warmsley Vale thought Furrowbank a dreadful house, disliking its white squareness, its built-in furnishing, its sliding doors, and glass tables and chairs. The only part of it they really admired wholeheartedly were the bathrooms.

There had been awe in Rosaleenâs, âItâs a wonderful house.â Davidâs laugh made her flush.

âYouâre the returned Wren, arenât you?â said David to Lynn.

âYes.â

His eyes swept over her appraisinglyâand for some reason she flushed.

Aunt Katherine appeared again suddenly. She had a trick of seeming to materialize out of space. Perhaps she had caught the trick of it from many of the spiritualistic sÃ©ances she attended.

âSupper,â she said, rather breathlessly, and added, parentheticaly, âI think itâs better than calling it dinner. People donât expect so much. Everythingâs very difficult, isnât it? Mary Lewis tells me she slips the fishman ten shillings every other week. I think thatâs immoral.â

Dr. Lionel Cloade was giving his irritable nervous laugh as he talked to Frances Cloade. âOh, come, Frances,â he said. âYou canât expect me to believe you really think thatâletâs go in.â

They went into the shabby and rather ugly dining room. Jeremy and Frances, Lionel and Katherine, Adela, Lynn and Rowley. A family party of Cloadesâwith two outsiders. For Rosaleen Cloade, though she bore the name, had not become a Cloade as Frances and Katherine had done.

She was the stranger, ill at ease, nervous. And DavidâDavid was the outlaw. By necessity, but also by choice. Lynn was thinking these things as she took her place at the table.

There were waves in the air of feelingâa strong electrical current ofâwhat was it? Hate? Could it really be hate?

Something at any rateâdestructive.

Lynn thought suddenly, âBut thatâs whatâs the matter everywhere. Iâve noticed it ever since I got home. Itâs the aftermath war has left. Ill will. Ill feeling. Itâs everywhere. On railways and buses and in shops and amongst workers and clerks and even agricultural labourers. And I suppose worse in mines and factories. Ill will. But here itâs more than that. Here itâs particular. Itâs meant!â

And she thought, shocked: âDo we hate them so much? These strangers who have taken what we think is ours?â

And thenââNo, not yet. We mightâbut not yet. No, itâs they who hate us.â

It seemed to her so overwhelming a discovery that she sat silent thinking about it and forgetting to talk to David Hunter who was sitting beside her.

Presently he said: âThinking out something?â

His voice was quite pleasant, slightly amused, but she felt conscience stricken. He might think that she was going out of her way to be ill-mannered.

She said, âIâm sorry. I was having thoughts about the state of the world.â

David said coolly, âHow extremely unoriginal!â

âYes, is is rather. We are all so earnest nowadays. And it doesnât seem to do much good either.â

âIt is usually more practical to wish to do harm. Weâve thought up one or two rather practical gadgets in that line during the last few yearsâincluding that piÃ¨ce de rÃ©sistance, the Atom Bomb.â

âThat was what I was thinking aboutâoh, I donât mean the Atom Bomb. I meant ill will. Definite practical ill will.â

David said calmly:

âIll will certainlyâbut I rather take issue to the word practical. They were more practical about it in the Middle Ages.â

âHow do you mean?â

âBlack magic generally. Ill wishing. Wax figures. Spells at the turn of the moon. Killing off your neighbourâs cattle. Killing off your neighbour himself.â

âYou donât really believe there was such a thing as black magic?â asked Lynn incredulously.

âPerhaps not. But at any rate people did try hard. Nowadays, wellââ He shrugged his shoulders. âWith all the ill will in the world you and your family canât do much about Rosaleen and myself, can you?â

Lynnâs head went back with a jerk. Suddenly she was enjoying herself.

âItâs a little late in the day for that,â she said politely.

David Hunter laughed. He, too, sounded as though he were enjoying himself.

âMeaning weâve got away with the booty? Yes, weâre sitting pretty all right.â

âAnd you get a kick out of it!â

âOut of having a lot of money? Iâll say we do.â

âI didnât mean only the money. I meant out of us.â

âOut of having scored off you? Well, perhaps. Youâd all have been pretty smug and complacent about the old boyâs cash. Looked upon it as practically in your pockets already.â

Lynn said:

âYou must remember that weâd been taught to think so for years. Taught not to save, not to think of the futureâencouraged to go ahead with all sorts of schemes and projects.â

(Rowley, she thought, Rowley and the farm.)

âOnly one thing, in fact, that you hadnât learnt,â said David pleasantly.

âWhatâs that?â

âThat nothingâs safe.â

âLynn,â cried Aunt Katherine, leaning forward from the head of the table, âone of Mrs. Lesterâs controls is a fourth-dynasty priest. Heâs told us such wonderful things. You and I, Lynn, must have a long talk. Egypt, I feel, must have affected you physically.â

Dr. Cloade said sharply:

âLynnâs had better things to do than play about with all this superstitious tomfoolery.â

âYou are so biased, Lionel,â said his wife.

Lynn smiled at her auntâthen sat silent with the refrain of the words David had spoken swimming in her brain.

âNothingâs safeâ¦.â

There were people who lived in such a worldâpeople to whom everything was dangerous. David Hunter was such a personâ¦It was not the world that Lynn had been brought up inâbut it was a world that held attractions for her nevertheless.

David said presently in the same low amused voice:

âAre we still on speaking terms?â

âOh, yes.â

âGood. And do you still grudge Rosaleen and myself our ill-gotten access to wealth?â

âYes,â said Lynn with spirit.

âSplendid. What are you going to do about it?â

âBuy some wax and practise black magic!â

He laughed.

âOh, no, you wonât do that. You arenât one of those who rely on old outmoded methods. Your methods will be modern and probably very efficient. But you wonât win.â

âWhat makes you think there is going to be a fight? Havenât we all accepted the inevitable?â

âYou all behave beautifully. It is very amusing.â

âWhy,â said Lynn, in a low tone, âdo you hate us?â

Something flickered in those dark unfathomable eyes.

âI couldnât possibly make you understand.â

âI think you could,â said Lynn.

David was silent for a moment or two, then he asked in a light conversational tone:

âWhy are you going to marry Rowley Cloade? Heâs an oaf.â

She said sharply:

âYou know nothing about itâor about him. You couldnât begin to know!â

Without any air of changing the conversation David asked:

âWhat do you think of Rosaleen?â

âSheâs very lovely.â

âWhat else?â

âShe doesnât seem to be enjoying herself.â

âQuite right,â said David, âRosaleenâs rather stupid. Sheâs scared. She always has been rather scared. She drifts into things and then doesnât know what itâs all about. Shall I tell you about Rosaleen?â

âIf you like,â said Lynn politely.

âI do like. She started by being stagestruck and drifted on to the stage. She wasnât any good, of course. She got into a third-rate touring company that was going out to South Africa. She liked the sound of South Africa. The company got stranded in Cape Town. Then she drifted into marriage with a Government official from Nigeria. She didnât like Nigeriaâand I donât think she liked her husband much. If heâd been a hearty sort of fellow who drank and beat her, it would have been all right. But he was rather an intellectual man who kept a large library in the wilds and who liked to talk metaphysics. So she drifted back to Cape Town again. The fellow behaved very well and gave her an adequate allowance. He might have given her a divorce, but again he might not for he was a Catholic; but anyway he rather fortunately died of fever, and Rosaleen got a small pension. Then the war started and she drifted on to a boat for South America. She didnât like South America very much, so she drifted on to another boat and there she met Gordon Cloade and told him all about her sad life. So they got married in New York and lived happily for a fortnight, and a little later he was killed by a bomb and she was left a large house, a lot of expensive jewellery, and an immense income.â

âItâs nice that the story has such a happy ending,â said Lynn.

âYes,â said David Hunter. âPossessing no intellect at all, Rosaleen has always been a lucky girlâwhich is just as well. Gordon Cloade was a strong old man. He was sixty-two. He might easily have lived for twenty years. He might have lived even longer. That wouldnât have been much fun for Rosaleen, would it? She was twenty-four when she married him. Sheâs only twenty-six now.â

âShe looks even younger,â said Lynn.

David looked across the table. Rosaleen Cloade was crumbling her bread. She looked like a nervous child.

âYes,â he said thoughtfully. âShe does. Complete absence of thought, I suppose.â

âPoor thing,â said Lynn suddenly.

David frowned.

âWhy the pity?â he said sharply. âIâll look after Rosaleen.â

âI expect you will.â

He scowled.

âAny one who tries to do down Rosaleen has got me to deal with! And I know a good many ways of making warâsome of them not strictly orthodox.â

âAm I going to hear your life history now?â asked Lynn coldly.

âA very abridged edition.â He smiled. âWhen the war broke out I saw no reason why I should fight for England. Iâm Irish. But like all the Irish, I like fighting. The Commandos had an irresistible fascination for me. I had some fun but unfortunately I got knocked out with a bad leg wound. Then I went to Canada and did a job of training fellows there. I was at a loose end when I got Rosaleenâs wire from New York saying she was getting married! She didnât actually announce that there would be pickings, but Iâm quite sharp at reading between the lines. I flew there, tacked myself on to the happy pair and came back with them to London. And nowââhe smiled insolently at herââHome is the sailor, home from the sea. Thatâs you! And the Hunter home from the Hill. Whatâs the matter?â

âNothing,â said Lynn.

She got up with the others. As they went into the drawing-room, Rowley said to her: âYou seemed to be getting on quite well with David Hunter. What were you talking about?â

âNothing particular,â said Lynn.

Five

âDavid, when are we going back to London? When are we going to America?â

Across the breakfast table, David Hunter gave Rosaleen a quick surprised glance.

âThereâs no hurry, is there? Whatâs wrong with this place?â

He gave a swift appreciative glance round the room where they were breakfasting. Furrowbank was built on the side of a hill and from the windows one had an unbroken panorama of sleepy English countryside. On the slope of the lawn thousands of daffodils had been planted. They were nearly over now, but a sheet of golden bloom still remained.

Crumbling the toast on her plate, Rosaleen murmured:

âYou said weâd go to Americaâsoon. As soon as it could be managed.â

âYesâbut actually it isnât managed so easily. Thereâs priority. Neither you nor I have any business reasons to put forward. Things are always difficult after a war.â

He felt faintly irritated with himself as he spoke. The reasons he advanced, though genuine enough, had the sound of excuses. He wondered if they sounded that way to the girl who sat opposite him. And why was she suddenly so keen to go to America?

Rosaleen murmured: âYou said weâd only be here for a short time. You didnât say we were going to live here.â

âWhatâs wrong with Warmsley Valeâand Furrowbank? Come now?â

âNothing. Itâs themâall of them!â

âThe Cloades?â

âYes.â

âThatâs just what I get a kick out of,â said David. âI like seeing their smug faces eaten up with envy and malice. Donât grudge me my fun, Rosaleen.â

She said in a low troubled voice:

âI wish you didnât feel like that. I donât like it.â

âHave some spirit, girl. Weâve been pushed around enough, you and I. The Cloades have lived softâsoft. Lived on big brother Gordon. Little fleas on a big flea. I hate their kindâI always have.â

She said, shocked:

âI donât like hating people. Itâs wicked.â

âDonât you think they hate you? Have they been kind to youâfriendly?â

She said doubtfully:

âThey havenât been unkind. They havenât done me any harm.â

âBut theyâd like to, babyface. Theyâd like to.â He laughed recklessly. âIf they werenât so careful of their own skins, youâd be found with a knife in your back one fine morning.â

She shivered.

âDonât say such dreadful things.â

âWellâperhaps not a knife. Strychnine in the soup.â

She stared at him, her mouth tremulous.

âYouâre jokingâ¦.â

He became serious again.

âDonât worry, Rosaleen. Iâll look after you. Theyâve got me to deal with.â

She said, stumbling over the words, âIf itâs true what you sayâabout their hating usâhating meâwhy donât we go to London? Weâd be safe thereâaway from them all.â

âThe countryâs good for you, my girl. You know it makes you ill being in London.â

âThat was when the bombs were thereâthe bombs.â She shivered, closed her eyes. âIâll never forgetâneverâ¦.â

âYes, you will.â He took her gently by the shoulders, shook her slightly. âSnap out of it, Rosaleen. You were badly shocked, but itâs over now. There are no more bombs. Donât think about it. Donât remember. The doctor said country air and a country life for a long time to come. Thatâs why I want to keep you away from London.â

âIs that really why? Is it, David? I thoughtâperhapsââ

âWhat did you think?â

Rosaleen said slowly:

âI thought perhaps it was because of her you wanted to be hereâ¦.â

âHer?â

âYou know the one I mean. The girl the other night. The one who was in the Wrens.â

His face was suddenly black and stern.

âLynn? Lynn Marchmont.â

âShe means something to you, David.â

âLynn Marchmont? Sheâs Rowleyâs girl. Good old stay-at-home Rowley. That bovine slow-witted good-looking ox.â

âI watched you talking to her the other night.â

âOh, for Heavenâs sake, Rosaleen.â

âAnd youâve seen her since, havenât you?â

âI met her near the farm the other morning when I was out riding.â

âAnd youâll meet her again.â

âOf course Iâll always be meeting her! This is a tiny place. You canât go two steps without falling over a Cloade. But if you think Iâve fallen for Lynn Marchmont, youâre wrong. Sheâs a proud stuck-up unpleasant girl without a civil tongue in her head. I wish old Rowley joy of her. No, Rosaleen, my girl, sheâs not my type.â

She said doubtfully, âAre you sure, David?â

âOf course Iâm sure.â

She said half-timidly:

âI know you donât like my laying out the cardsâ¦But they come true, they do indeed. There was a girl bringing trouble and sorrowâa girl would come from over the sea. There was a dark stranger, too, coming into our lives, and bringing danger with him. There was the death card, andââ

âYou and your dark strangers!â David laughed. âWhat a mass of superstition you are. Donât have any dealings with a dark stranger, thatâs my advice to you.â

He strolled out of the house laughing, but when he was away from the house, his face clouded over and he frowned to himself, murmuring:

âBad luck to you, Lynn. Coming home from abroad and upsetting the apple cart.â

For he realized that at this very moment he was deliberately making a course on which he might hope to meet the girl he had just apostrophized so savagely.

Rosaleen watched him stroll away across the garden and out through the small gate that gave on to a public footpath across the fields. Then she went up to her bedroom and looked through the clothes in her wardrobe. She always enjoyed touching and feeling her new mink coat. To think she should own a coat like thatâshe could never quite get over the wonder of it. She was in her bedroom when the parlourmaid came up to tell her that Mrs. Marchmont had called.

Adela was sitting in the drawing room with her lips set tightly together and her heart beating at twice its usual speed. She had been steeling herself for several days to make an appeal to Rosaleen but true to her nature had procrastinated. She had also been bewildered by finding that Lynnâs attitude had unaccountably changed and that she was now rigidly opposed to her mother seeking relief from her anxieties by asking Gordonâs widow for a loan.

However another letter from the bank manager that morning had driven Mrs. Marchmont into positive action. She could delay no longer. Lynn had gone out early, and Mrs. Marchmont had caught sight of David Hunter walking along the footpathâso the coast was clear. She particularly wanted to get Rosaleen alone, without David, rightly judging that Rosaleen alone would be a far easier proposition.

Nevertheless she felt dreadfully nervous as she waited in the sunny drawing room, though she felt slightly better when Rosaleen came in with what Mrs. Marchmont always thought of as her âhalf-witted lookâ more than usually marked.

âI wonder,â thought Adela to herself, âif the blast did it or if she was always like that?â

âRosaleen stammered.

âOh, g-g-ood morning. Is there anything? Do sit down.â

âSuch a lovely morning,â said Mrs. Marchmont brightly. âAll my early tulips are out. Are yours?â

The girl stared at her vacantly.

âI donât know.â

What was one to do, thought Adela, with someone who didnât talk gardening or dogsâthose standbys of rural conversation?

Aloud she said, unable to help the tinge of acidity that crept into her tone:

âOf course you have so many gardenersâthey attend to all that.â

âI believe weâre shorthanded. Old Mullard wants two more men, he says. But there seems a terrible shortage still of labour.â

The words came out with a kind of glib parrotlike deliveryârather like a child who repeats what it has heard a grown-up person say.

Yes, she was like a child. Was that, Adela wondered, her charm? Was that what had attracted that hard-headed shrewd business man, Gordon Cloade, and blinded him to her stupidity and her lack of breeding? After all, it couldnât only be looks. Plenty of good-looking women had angled unsuccessfully to attract him.

But childishness, to a man of sixty-two, might be an attraction. Was it, could it be, realâor was it a poseâa pose that had paid and so had become second nature?

Rosaleen was saying, âDavidâs out, Iâm afraidâ¦â and the words recalled Mrs. Marchmont to herself. David might return. Now was her chance and she must not neglect it. The words stuck in her throat but she got them out.

âI wonderâif you would help me?â

âHelp you?â

Rosaleen looked surprised, uncomprehending.

âIâthings are very difficultâyou see, Gordonâs death has made a great difference to us all.â

âYou silly idiot,â she thought. âMust you go on gaping at me like that? You know what I mean! You must know what I mean. After all, youâve been poor yourselfâ¦.â

She hated Rosaleen at that moment. Hated her because she, Adela Marchmont, was sitting here whining for money. She thought, âI canât do itâI canât do it after all.â

In one brief instant all the long hours of thought and worry and vague planning flashed again across her brain.

Sell the houseâ(But move where? There werenât any small houses on the marketâcertainly not any cheap houses). Take paying guestsâ(But you couldnât get staffâand she simply couldnâtâshe just couldnât deal with all the cooking and housework involved. If Lynn helpedâbut Lynn was going to marry Rowley). Live with Rowley and Lynn herself? (No, sheâd never do that!) Get a job. What job? Who wanted an untrained elderly tired-out woman?

She heard her voice, belligerent because she despised herself.

âI mean money,â she said.

âMoney?â said Rosaleen.

She sounded ingenuously surprised, as though money was the last thing she expected to be mentioned.

Adela went on doggedly, tumbling the words out:

âIâm overdrawn at the bank, and I owe billsârepairs to the houseâand the rates havenât been paid yet. You see, everythingâs halvedâmy income, I mean. I suppose itâs taxation. Gordon, you see, used to help. With the house, I mean. He did all the repairs and the roof and painting and things like that. And an allowance as well. He paid it into the bank every quarter. He always said not to worry and of course I never did. I mean, it was all right when he was alive, but nowââ

She stopped. She was ashamedâbut at the same time relieved. After all, the worst was over. If the girl refused, she refused, and that was that.

Rosaleen was looking very uncomfortable.

âOh, dear,â she said. âI didnât know. I never thoughtâ¦Iâwell, of course, Iâll ask Davidâ¦.â

Grimly gripping the sides of her chair, Adela said, desperately:

âCouldnât you give me a chequeânowâ¦.â

âYesâyes, I suppose I could.â Rosaleen, looking startled, got up, went to the desk. She hunted in various pigeonholes and finally produced a chequebook. âShall Iâhow much?â

âWouldâwould five hundred poundsââ Adela broke off.

âFive hundred pounds,â Rosaleen wrote obediently.

A load slipped off Adelaâs back. After all, it had been easy! She was dismayed as it occurred to her that it was less gratitude that she felt than a faint scorn for the easiness of her victory! Rosaleen was surely strangely simple.

The girl rose from the writing desk and came across to her. She held out the cheque awkwardly. The embarrassment seemed now entirely on her side.

âI hope this is all right. Iâm really so sorryââ

Adela took the cheque. The unformed childish hand straggled across the pink paper. Mrs. Marchmont. Five hundred pounds Â£500. Rosaleen Cloade.

âItâs very good of you, Rosaleen. Thank you.â

âOh pleaseâI meanâI ought to have thoughtââ

âVery good of you, my dear.â

With the cheque in her handbag Adela Marchmont felt a different woman. The girl had really been very sweet about it. It would be embarrassing to prolong the interview. She said goodbye and departed. She passed David in the drive, said âGood morningâ pleasantly, and hurried on.

Six

âWhat was the Marchmont woman doing here?â demanded David as soon as he got in.

âOh, David. She wanted money dreadfully badly. Iâd never thoughtââ

âAnd you gave it her, I suppose.â

He looked at her in half-humorous despair.

âYouâre not to be trusted alone, Rosaleen.â

âOh, David, I couldnât refuse. After allââ

âAfter allâwhat? How much?â

In a small voice Rosaleen murmured, âFive hundred pounds.â

To her relief David laughed.

âA mere fleabite!â

âOh, David, itâs a lot of money.â

âNot to us nowadays, Rosaleen. You never really seem to grasp that youâre a very rich woman. All the same if she asked five hundred sheâd have gone away perfectly satisfied with two-fifty. You must learn the language of borrowing!â

She murmured, âIâm sorry, David.â

âMy dear girl! After all, itâs your money.â

âIt isnât. Not really.â

âNow donât begin that all over again. Gordon Cloade died before he had time to make a will. Thatâs whatâs called the luck of the game. We win, you and I. The othersâlose.â

âIt doesnât seemâright.â

âCome now, my lovely sister Rosaleen, arenât you enjoying all this? A big house, servantsâjewellery? Isnât it a dream come true? Isnât it? Glory be to God, sometimes I think Iâll wake up and find it is a dream.â

She laughed with him, and watching her narrowly, he was satisfied. He knew how to deal with his Rosaleen. It was inconvenient, he thought, that she should have a conscience, but there it was.

âItâs quite true, David, it is like a dreamâor like something on the pictures. I do enjoy it all. I do really.â

âBut what we have we hold,â he warned her. âNo more gifts to the Cloades, Rosaleen. Every one of them has got far more money than either you or I ever had.â

âYes, I suppose thatâs true.â

âWhere was Lynn this morning?â he asked.

âI think sheâd gone to Long Willows.â

To Long Willowsâto see Rowleyâthe oafâthe clodhopper! His good humour vanished. Set on marrying the fellow, was she?

Moodily he strolled out of the house, up through massed azaleas and out through the small gate on the top of the hill. From there the footpath dipped down the hill and past Rowleyâs farm.

As David stood there, he saw Lynn Marchmont coming up from the farm. He hesitated for a minute, then set his jaw pugnaciously and strolled down the hill to meet her. They met by a stile just halfway up the hill.

âGood morning,â said David. âWhenâs the wedding?â

âYouâve asked that before,â she retorted. âYou know well enough. Itâs in June.â

âYouâre going through with it?â

âI donât know what you mean, David.â

âOh, yes, you do.â He gave a contemptuous laugh. âRowley. Whatâs Rowley?â

âA better man than youâtouch him if you dare,â she said lightly.

âIâve no doubt heâs a better man than meâbut I do dare. Iâd dare anything for you, Lynn.â

She was silent for a moment or two. She said at last:

âWhat you donât understand is that I love Rowley.â

âI wonder.â

She said vehemently:

âI do, I tell you. I do.â

David looked at her searchingly.

âWe all see pictures of ourselvesâof ourselves as we want to be. You see yourself in love with Rowley, settling down with Rowley, living here contented with Rowley, never wanting to get away. But thatâs not the real you, is it, Lynn?â

âOh, what is the real me? Whatâs the real you, if it comes to that? What do you want?â

âIâd have said I wanted safety, peace after storm, ease after troubled seas. But I donât know. Sometimes I suspect, Lynn, that both you and I wantâtrouble.â He added moodily, âI wish youâd never turned up here. I was remarkably happy until you came.â

âArenât you happy now?â

He looked at her. She felt excitement rising in her. Her breath became faster. Never had she felt so strongly Davidâs queer moody attraction. He shot out a hand, grasped her shoulder, swung her roundâ¦.

Then as suddenly she felt his grasp slacken. He was staring over her shoulder up the hill. She twisted her head to see what it was that had caught his attention.

A woman was just going through the small gate above Furrowbank. David said sharply: âWhoâs that?â

Lynn said:

âIt looks like Frances.â

âFrances?â He frowned. âWhat does Frances want? My dear Lynn! Only those who want something drop in to see Rosaleen. Your mother has already dropped in this morning.â

âMother?â Lynn drew back. She frowned. âWhat did she want?â

âDonât you know? Money!â

âMoney?â Lynn stiffened.

âShe got it all right,â said David. He was smiling now the cool cruel smile that fitted his face so well.

They had been near a moment or two ago, now they were miles apart, divided by a sharp antagonism.

Lynn cried out, âOh, no, no, no!â

He mimicked her.

âYes, yes, yes!â

âI donât believe it! How much?â

âFive hundred pounds.â

She drew her breath in sharply.

David said musingly:

âI wonder how much Frances is going to ask for? Really itâs hardly safe to leave Rosaleen alone for five minutes! The poor girl doesnât know how to say No.â

âHave there beenâwho else?â

David smiled mockingly.

âAunt Kathie had incurred certain debtsâoh, nothing much, a mere two hundred and fifty covered themâbut she was afraid it might get to the doctorâs ears! Since they had been occasioned by payments to mediums, he might not have been sympathetic. She didnât know, of course,â added David, âthat the doctor himself had applied for a loan.â

Lynn said in a low voice, âWhat you must think of usâwhat you must think of us!â Then, taking him by surprise, she turned and ran helter-skelter down the hill to the farm.

He frowned as he watched her go. She had gone to Rowley, flown there as a homing pigeon flies, and the fact disturbed him more than he cared to acknowledge.

He looked up the hill again and frowned.

âNo, Frances,â he said under his breath. âI think not. Youâve chosen a bad day,â and he strode purposefully up the hill.

He went through the gate and down through the azaleasâcrossed the lawn, and came quietly in through the window of the drawing room just as Frances Cloade was saying:

ââI wish I could make it all clearer. But you see, Rosaleen, it really is frightfully difficult to explainââ

A voice from behind her said:

âIs it?â

Frances Cloade turned sharply. Unlike Adela Marchmont she had not deliberately tried to find Rosaleen alone. The sum needed was sufficiently large to make it unlikely that Rosaleen would hand it over without consulting her brother. Actually, Frances would far rather have discussed the matter with David and Rosaleen together, than have David feel that she had tried to get money out of Rosaleen during his absence from the house.

She had not heard him come through the window, absorbed as she was in the presentation of a plausible case. The interruption startled her, and she realized also that David Hunter was, for some reason, in a particularly ugly mood.

âOh, David,â she said easily, âIâm glad youâve come. Iâve just been telling Rosaleen. Gordonâs death has left Jeremy in no end of a hole, and Iâm wondering if she could possibly come to the rescue. Itâs like thisââ

Her tongue flowed on swiftlyâthe large sum involvedâGordonâs backingâpromised verballyâGovernment restrictionsâmortgagesâ

A certain admiration stirred in the darkness of Davidâs mind. What a damned good liar the woman was! Plausible, the whole story. But not the truth. No, heâd take his oath on that. Not the truth! What, he wondered, was the truth? Jeremy been getting himself into Queer Street? It must be something pretty desperate, if he was allowing Frances to come and try this stunt. She was a proud woman, tooâ

He said, âTen thousand?â

Rosaleen murmured in an awed voice:

âThatâs a lot of money.â

Frances said swiftly:

âOh, I know it is. I wouldnât come to you if it wasnât such a difficult sum to raise. But Jeremy would never have gone into the deal if it hadnât been for Gordonâs backing. Itâs so dreadfully unfortunate that Gordon should have died so suddenlyââ

âLeaving you all out in the cold?â Davidâs voice was unpleasant. âAfter a sheltered life under his wing.â

There was a faint flash in Francesâ eyes as she said:

âYou put things so picturesquely!â

âRosaleen canât touch the capital, you know. Only the income. And she pays about nineteen and six in the pound income tax.â

âOh, I know. Taxationâs dreadful these days. But it could be managed, couldnât it? Weâd repayââ

He interrupted:

âIt could be managed. But it wonât be!â

Frances turned swiftly to Rosaleen.

âRosaleen, youâre such a generousââ

Davidâs voice cut across her speech.

âWhat do you Cloades think Rosaleen isâa milch cow? All of you at herâhinting, asking, begging. And behind her back? Sneering at her, patronizing her, hating her, wishing her deadââ

âThatâs not true,â Frances cried.

âIsnât it? I tell you Iâm sick of you all! Sheâs sick of you all. Youâll get no money out of us, so you can stop coming and whining for it? Understand?â

His face was black with fury.

Frances stood up. Her face was wooden and expressionless. She drew on a washleather glove absently, yet with attention, as though it was a significant action.

âYou make your meaning quite plain, David,â she said.

Rosaleen murmured:

âIâm sorry. Iâm really sorryâ¦.â

Frances paid no attention to her. Rosaleen might not have been in the room. She took a step towards the window and paused, facing David.

âYou have said that I resent Rosaleen. That is not true. I have not resented Rosaleenâbut I do resentâyou!â

âWhat do you mean?â

He scowled at her.

âWomen must live. Rosaleen married a very rich man, years older than herself. Why not? But you! You must live on your sister, live on the fat of the land, live softlyâon her.â

âI stand between her and harpies.â

They stood looking at each other. He was aware of her anger and the thought flashed across him that Frances Cloade was a dangerous enemy, one who could be both unscrupulous and reckless.

When she opened her mouth to speak, he even felt a momentâs apprehension. But what she said was singularly noncommittal.

âI shall remember what you have said, David.â

Passing him, she went out of the window.

He wondered why he felt so strongly that the words had been a threat.

Rosaleen was crying.

âOh, David, Davidâyou oughtnât to have been saying those things to her. Sheâs the one of them thatâs been the nicest to me.â

He said furiously: âShut up, you little fool. Do you want them to trample all over you and bleed you of every penny?â

âBut the moneyâifâif it isnât rightfully mineââ

She quailed before his glance.

âIâI didnât mean that, David.â

âI should hope not.â

Conscience, he thought, was the devil!

He hadnât reckoned with the item of Rosaleenâs conscience. It was going to make things awkward in the future.

The future? He frowned as he looked at her and let his thoughts race ahead. Rosaleenâs futureâ¦His ownâ¦Heâd always known what he wantedâ¦he knew nowâ¦But Rosaleen? What future was there for Rosaleen?

As his face darkenedâshe cried outâsuddenly shivering:

âOh! Someoneâs walking over my grave.â

He said, looking at her curiously:

âSo you realize it may come to that?â

âWhat do you mean, David?â

âI mean that fiveâsixâseven people have every intention to hurry you into your grave before youâre due there!â

âYou donât meanâmurderââ Her voice was horrified. âYou think these people would do murderânot nice people like the Cloades.â

âIâm not sure that it isnât just nice people like the Cloades who do do murder. But they wonât succeed in murdering you while Iâm here to look after you. Theyâd have to get me out of the way first. But if they did get me out of the wayâwellâlook out for yourself!â

âDavidâdonât say such awful things.â

âListen,â he gripped her arm. âIf ever Iâm not here, look after yourself, Rosaleen. Life isnât safe, rememberâitâs dangerous, damned dangerous. And Iâve an idea itâs specially dangerous for you.â

Seven

I

âRowley, can you let me have five hundred pounds?â

Rowley stared at Lynn. She stood there, out of breath from running, her face pale, her mouth set.

He sat soothingly and rather as he would speak to a horse:

âThere, there, ease up, old girl. Whatâs all this about?â

âI want five hundred pounds.â

âI could do with it myself, for that matter.â

âBut Rowley, this is serious. Canât you lend me five hundred pounds?â

âIâm overdrawn as it is. That new tractorââ

âYes, yesââ She pushed aside the farming details. âBut you could raise money somehowâif you had to, couldnât you?â

âWhat do you want it for, Lynn? Are you in some kind of a hole?â

âI want it for himââ She jerked her head backwards towards the big square house on the hill.

âHunter? Why on earthââ

âItâs Mums. Sheâs been borrowing from him. Sheâsâsheâs in a bit of a jam about money.â

âYes, I expect she is.â Rowley sounded sympathetic. âDamned hard lines on her. I wish I could help a bitâbut I canât.â

âI canât stand her borrowing money from David!â

âHold hard, old girl. Itâs Rosaleen who actually has to fork out the cash. And after all, why not?â

âWhy not? You say, âWhy not,â Rowley?â

âI donât see why Rosaleen shouldnât come to the rescue once in a while. Old Gordon put us all in a spot by pegging out without a will. If the position is put clearly to Rosaleen she must see herself that a spot of help all round is indicated.â

âYou havenât borrowed from her?â

âNoâwellâthatâs different. I canât very well go and ask a woman for money. Sort of thing you donât like doing.â

âCanât you see that I donât like beingâbeing beholden to David Hunter?â

âBut youâre not. It isnât his money.â

âThatâs just what it is, actually. Rosaleenâs completely under his thumb.â

âOh, I dare say. But it isnât his legally.â

âAnd you wonât, you canâtâlend me some money?â

âNow look here, Lynnâif you were in some real jamâblackmail or debtsâI might be able to sell land or stockâbut it would be a pretty desperate proceeding. Iâm only just keeping my head above water as it is. And what with not knowing what this damned Government is going to do nextâhampered at every turnâsnowed under with forms, up to midnight trying to fill them in sometimesâitâs too much for one man.â

Lynn said bitterly:

âOh, I know! If only Johnnie hadnât been killedââ

He shouted out:

âLeave Johnnie out of it! Donât talk about that!â

She stared at him, astonished. His face was red and congested. He seemed beside himself with rage.

Lynn turned away and went slowly back to the White House.

II

âCanât you give it back, Mums?â

âReally, Lynn darling! I went straight to the bank with it. And then I paid Arthurs and Bodgham and Knebworth. Knebworth was getting quite abusive. Oh, my dear, the relief! I havenât been able to sleep for nights and nights. Really, Rosaleen was most understanding and nice about it.â

Lynn said bitterly:

âAnd I suppose youâll go to her again and again now.â

âI hope it wonât be necessary, dear. I shall try to be very economical, you know that. But of course everything is so expensive nowadays. And it gets worse and worse.â

âYes, and we shall get worse and worse. Going on cadging.â

Adela flushed.

âI donât think thatâs a nice way of putting it, Lynn. As I explained to Rosaleen, we had always depended on Gordon.â

âWe shouldnât have. Thatâs whatâs wrong, we shouldnât have,â Lynn added, âHeâs right to despise us.â

âWho despises us?â

âThat odious David Hunter.â

âReally,â said Mrs. Marchmont with dignity, âI donât see that it can matter in the least what David Hunter thinks. Fortunately he wasnât at Furrowbank this morningâotherwise I dare say he would have influenced that girl. Sheâs completely under his thumb, of course.â

Lynn shifted from one foot to the other.

âWhat did you mean, Mums, when you saidâthat first morning I was homeââIf he is her brother?ââ

âOh, that.â Mrs. Marchmont looked slightly embarrassed. âWell, thereâs been a certain amount of gossip, you know.â

Lynn merely waited inquiringly. Mrs. Marchmont coughed.

âThat type of young womanâthe adventuress type (of course poor Gordon was completely taken in)âtheyâve usually got aâwell, a young man of their own in the background. Suppose she says to Gordon sheâs got a brotherâwires to him in Canada or wherever he was. This man turns up. How is Gordon to know whether heâs her brother or not? Poor Gordon, absolutely infatuated no doubt, and believing everything she said. And so her âbrotherâ comes with them to Englandâpoor Gordon quite unsuspecting.â

Lynn said fiercely:

âI donât believe it. I donât believe it!â

Mrs. Marchmont raised her eyebrows.

âReally, my dearââ

âHeâs not like that. And sheâshe isnât either. Sheâs a fool perhaps, but sheâs sweetâyes, sheâs really sweet. Itâs just peopleâs foul minds. I donât believe it, I tell you.â

Mrs. Marchmont said with dignity:

âThereâs really no need to shout.â

Eight

I

It was a week later that the 5:20 train drew into Warmsley Heath Station and a tall bronzed man with a knapsack got out.

On the opposite platform a cluster of golfers were waiting for the up train. The tall bearded man with the knapsack gave up his ticket and passed out of the station. He stood uncertainly for a minute or twoâthen he saw the signpost: Footpath to Warmsley Valeâand directed his steps that way with brisk determination.

II

At Long Willows Rowley Cloade had just finished making himself a cup of tea when a shadow falling across the kitchen table made him look up.

If for just a moment he thought the girl standing just inside the door was Lynn, his disappointment turned to surprise when he saw it was Rosaleen Cloade.

She was wearing a frock of some peasant material in bright broad stripes of orange and greenâthe artificial simplicity of which had run into more money than Rowley could ever have imagined possible.

Up to now he had always seen her dressed in expensive and somewhat towny clothes which she wore with an artificial airâmuch, he had thought, as a mannequin might display dresses that did not belong to her but to the firm who employed her.

This afternoon in the broad peasant stripes of gay colour, he seemed to see a new Rosaleen Cloade. Her Irish origin was more noticeable, the dark curling hair and the lovely blue eyes put in with the smutty finger. Her voice, too, had a softer Irish sound instead of the careful rather mincing tones in which she usually spoke.

âItâs such a lovely afternoon,â she said. âSo I came for a walk.â

She added:

âDavidâs gone to London.â

She said it almost guiltily, then flushed and took a cigarette case out of her bag. She offered one to Rowley, who shook his head, then looked round for a match to light Rosaleenâs cigarette. But she was flicking unsuccessfully at an expensive-looking small gold lighter. Rowley took it from her and with one sharp movement it lit. As she bent her head towards him to light her cigarette he noticed how long and dark the lashes were that lay on her cheek and he thought to himself:

âOld Gordon knew what he was doingâ¦.â

Rosaleen stepped back a pace and said admiringly:

âThatâs a lovely little heifer youâve got in the top field.â

Astonished by her interest, Rowley began to talk to her about the farm. Her interest surprised him, but it was obviously genuine and not put on, and to his surprise he found that she was quite knowledgeable on farm matters. Butter-making and dairy produce she spoke of with familiarity.

âWhy, you might be a farmerâs wife, Rosaleen,â he said smiling.

The animation went out of her face.

She said:

âWe had a farmâin Irelandâbefore I came over hereâbeforeââ

âBefore you went on the stage?â

She said wistfully and a trifle, it seemed to him, guiltily:

âItâs not so very long agoâ¦I remember it all very well.â She added with a flash of spirit, âI could milk your cows for you, Rowley, now.â

This was quite a new Rosaleen. Would David Hunter have approved these casual references to a farming past? Rowley thought not. Old Irish landed gentry, that was the impression David tried to put over. Rosaleenâs version, he thought, was nearer the truth. Primitive farm life, then the lure of the stage, the touring company to South Africa, marriageâisolation in Central Africaâescapeâhiatusâand finally marriage to a millionaire in New Yorkâ¦.

Yes, Rosaleen Hunter had travelled a long way since milking a Kerry cow. Yet looking at her, he found it hard to believe that she had ever started. Her face had that innocent, slightly half-witted expression, the face of one who has no history. And she looked so youngâmuch younger than her twenty-six years.

There was something appealing about her, she had the same pathetic quality as the little calves he had driven to the butcher that morning. He looked at her as he had looked at them. Poor little devils, he had thought, a pity that they had to be killedâ¦.

A look of alarm came into Rosaleenâs eyes. She asked uneasily: âWhat are you thinking of, Rowley?â

âWould you like to see over the farm and the dairy?â

âOh, indeed, I would.â

Amused by her interest he took her all over the farm. But when he finally suggested making her a cup of tea, an alarmed expression came into her eyes.

âOh, noâthank you, RowleyâIâd best be getting home.â She looked down at her watch. âOh! how late it is! David will be back by the 5:20 train. Heâll wonder where I am. IâI must hurry.â She added shyly: âI have enjoyed myself, Rowley.â

And that, he thought, was true. She had enjoyed herself. She had been able to be naturalâto be her own raw unsophisticated self. She was afraid of her brother David, that was clear. David was the brains of the family. Well, for once, sheâd had an afternoon outâyes, that was it, an afternoon out just like a servant! The rich Mrs. Gordon Cloade!

He smiled grimly as he stood by the gate watching her hurrying up the hill towards Furrowbank. Just before she reached the stile a man came over itâRowley wondered if it was David but it was a bigger, heavier man. Rosaleen drew back to let him pass, then skipped lightly over the stile, her pace accentuating almost to a run.

Yes, sheâd had an afternoon offâand he, Rowley, had wasted over an hour of valuable time! Well, perhaps it hadnât been wasted. Rosaleen, he thought, had seemed to like him. That might come in useful. A pretty thingâyes, and the calves this morning had been prettyâ¦poor little devils.

Standing there, lost in thought, he was startled by a voice, and raised his head sharply.

A big man in a broad felt hat with a pack slung across his shoulders was standing on the footpath at the other side of the gate.

âIs this the way to Warmsley Vale?â

As Rowley stared he repeated his question. With an effort Rowley recalled his thoughts and answered:

âYes, keep right along the pathâacross that next field. Turn to the left when you get to the road and about three minutes takes you right into the village.â

In the self-same words he had answered that particular question several hundred times. People took the footpath on leaving the station, followed it up over the hill, and lost faith in it as they came down the other side and saw no sign of their destination, for Blackwell Copse masked Warmsley Vale from sight. It was tucked away in a hollow there with only the tip of its church tower showing.

The next question was not quite so usual, but Rowley answered it without much thought.

âThe Stag or the Bells and Motley. The Stag for choice. Theyâre both equally goodâor bad. I should think youâd get a room all right.â

The question made him look more attentively at his interlocutor. Nowadays people usually booked a room beforehand at any place they were going toâ¦.

The man was tall, with a bronzed face, a beard, and very blue eyes. He was about forty and not ill-looking in a tough and rather daredevil style. It was not, perhaps, a wholly pleasant face.

Come from overseas somewhere, thought Rowley. Was there or was there not a faint Colonial twang in his accent? Curious, in some way, the face was not unfamiliarâ¦.

Where had he seen that face, or a face very like it, before?

Whilst he was puzzling unsuccessfully over that problem, the stranger startled him by asking:

âCan you tell me if thereâs a house called Furrowbank near here?â

Rowley answered slowly:

âWhy, yes. Up there on the hill. You must have passed close by itâthat is, if youâve come along the footpath from the station.â

âYesâthatâs what I did.â He turned, staring up the hill. âSo that was itâthat big white new-looking house.â

âYes, thatâs the one.â

âA big place to run,â said the man. âMust cost a lot to keep up?â

A devil of a lot, thought Rowley. And our moneyâ¦A stirring of anger made him forget for the moment where he wasâ¦.

With a start he came back to himself to see the stranger staring up the hill with a curious speculative look in his eyes.

âWho lives there?â he said. âIs itâa Mrs. Cloade?â

âThatâs right,â said Rowley. âMrs. Gordon Cloade.â

The stranger raised his eyebrows. He seemed gently amused.

âOh,â he said, âMrs. Gordon Cloade. Very nice for her!â

Then he gave a short nod.

âThanks, pal,â he said, and shifting the pack he carried he strode on towards Warmsley Vale.

Rowley turned slowly back into the farmyard. His mind was still puzzling over something.

Where the devil had he seen that fellow before?

III

About nine-thirty that night, Rowley pushed aside a heap of forms that had been littering the kitchen table and got up. He looked absentmindedly at the photograph of Lynn that stood on the mantelpiece, then frowning, he went out of the house.

Ten minutes later he pushed open the door of the Stag Saloon Bar. Beatrice Lippincott, behind the bar counter, smiled welcome at him. Mr. Rowley Cloade, she thought, was a fine figure of a man. Over a pint of bitter Rowley exchanged the usual observations with the company present, unfavourable comment was made upon the Government, the weather, and sundry particular crops.

Presently, moving up a little, Rowley was able to address Beatrice in a quiet voice:

âGot a stranger staying here? Big man? Slouch hat?â

âThatâs right, Mr. Rowley. Came along about six oâclock. That the one you mean?â

Rowley nodded.

âHe passed my place. Asked his way.â

âThatâs right. Seems a stranger.â

âI wondered,â said Rowley, âwho he was.â

He looked at Beatrice and smiled. Beatrice smiled back.

âThatâs easy, Mr. Rowley, if youâd like to know.â

She dipped under the bar and out to return with a fat leather volume wherein were registered the arrivals.

She opened it at the page showing the most recent entries. The last of these ran as follows:

Enoch Arden. Cape Town. British.

Nine

I

It was a fine morning. The birds were singing, and Rosaleen, coming down to breakfast in her expensive peasant dress, felt happy.

The doubts and fears that had lately oppressed her seemed to have faded away. David was in a good temper, laughing and teasing her. His visit to London on the previous day had been satisfactory. Breakfast was well cooked and well served. They had just finished it when the post arrived.

There were seven or eight letters for Rosaleen. Bills, charitable appeals, some local invitationsânothing of any special interest.

David laid aside a couple of small bills and opened the third envelope. The enclosure, like the outside of the envelope, was written in printed characters.

Dear Mr. Hunter,

I think it is best to approach you rather than your sister, Mrs. Cloade,â in case the contents of this letter might come as somewhat of a shock to her. Briefly, I have news of Captain Robert Underhay, which she may be glad to hear. I am staying at the Stag and if you will call there this evening, I shall be pleased to go into the matter with you.

Yours faithfully,
Enoch Arden

A strangled sound came from Davidâs throat. Rosaleen looked up smiling, then her face changed to an expression of alarm.

âDavidâDavidâwhat is it?â

Mutely he held out the letter to her. She took it and read it.

âButâDavidâI donât understandâwhat does it mean?â

âYou can read, canât you?â

She glanced up at him timorously.

âDavidâdoes it meanâwhat are we going to do?â

He was frowningâplanning rapidly in his quick far-seeing mind.

âItâs all right, Rosaleen, no need to be worried. Iâll deal with itââ

âBut does it mean thatââ

âDonât worry, my dear girl. Leave it to me. Listen, this is what youâve got to do. Pack a bag at once and go up to London. Go to the flatâand stay there until you hear from me? Understand?â

âYes. Yes, of course I understand, but Davidââ

âJust do as I say, Rosaleen.â He smiled at her. He was kindly, reassuring. âGo and pack. Iâll drive you to the station. You can catch the 10:32. Tell the porter at the flats that you donât want to see any one. If any one calls and asks for you, heâs to say youâre out of town. Give him a quid. Understand? Heâs not to let any one up to see you except me.â

âOh.â Her hands went up to her cheeks. She looked at him with scared lovely eyes.

âItâs all right, Rosaleenâbut itâs tricky. Youâre not much hand at the tricky stuff. Thatâs my lookout. I want you out of the way so that Iâve got a free hand, thatâs all.â

âCanât I stay here, David?â

âNo, of course you canât, Rosaleen. Do have some sense. Iâve got to have a free hand to deal with this fellow whoever he isââ

âDo you think that itâsâthat itâsââ

He said with emphasis:

âI donât think anything at the moment. The first thing is to get you out of the way. Then I can find out where we stand. Go onâthereâs a good girl, donât argue.â

She turned and went out of the room.

David frowned down at the letter in his hand.

Very noncommittalâpoliteâwell phrasedâmight mean anything. It might be genuine solicitude in an awkward situation. Might be a veiled threat. He conned its phrases over and overââI have news of Captain Robert Underhayââ¦âBest to approach youââ¦âI shall be pleased to go into the matter with youâ¦â âMrs. Cloade.â Damn it all, he didnât like those inverted commasâMrs. Cloadeâ¦â

He looked at the signature. Enoch Arden. Something stirred in his mindâsome poetical memoryâ¦a line of verse.

II

When David strode into the hall of the Stag that evening, there was, as was usual, no one about. A door at the left was marked Coffee Room, a door on the right was marked Lounge. A door farther along was marked repressively âFor Resident Guests Only.â A passage on the right led along to the bar, from whence a faint hum of voices could be heard. A small glass-encased box was labelled Office and had a pushbell placed conveniently on the side of its sliding window.

Sometimes, as David knew by experience, you had to ring four or five times before any one condescended to come and attend to you. Except for the short period of meal times, the hall of the Stag was as deserted as Robinson Crusoeâs island.

This time, Davidâs third ring of the bell brought Miss Beatrice Lippincott along the passage from the bar, her hand patting her golden pompadour of hair into place. She slipped into the glass box and greeted him with a gracious smile.

âGood evening, Mr. Hunter. Rather cold weather for the time of year, isnât it?â

âYesâI suppose it is. Have you got a Mr. Arden staying here?â

âLet me see now,â said Miss Lippincott, making rather a parade of not knowing exactly, a proceeding she always adopted as tending to increase the importance of the Stag. âOh, yes. Mr. Enoch Arden. No. 5. On the first floor. You canât miss it, Mr. Hunter. Up the stairs, and donât go along the gallery but round to the left and down three steps.â

Following these complicated directions, David tapped on the door of No. 5 and a voice said Come in.

He went in, closing the door behind him.

III

Coming out of the office, Beatrice Lippincott called, âLily.â An adenoidal girl with a giggle and pale boiled-gooseberry eyes responded to the summons.

âCan you manage for a bit, Lily? Iâve got to see about some linen.â

Lily said, âOh, yes, Miss Lippincott,â gave a giggle and added, sighing gustily: âI do think Mr. Hunterâs ever so good-looking, donât you?â

âAh, Iâve seen a lot of his type in the war,â said Miss Lippincott, with a world-weary air. âYoung pilots and suchlike from the fighter station. Never could be sure about their cheques. Often had such a way with them that youâd cash the things against your better judgment. But, of course, Iâm funny that way, Lily, what I like is class. Give me class every time. What I say is a gentlemanâs a gentleman even if he does drive a tractor.â With which enigmatic pronouncement Beatrice left Lily and went up the stairs.

IV

Inside room No. 5, David Hunter paused inside the door and looked at the man who had signed himself Enoch Arden.

Fortyish, knocked about a bit, a suggestion of having come down in the worldâon the whole a difficult customer. Such was Davidâs summing up. Apart from that, not easy to fathom. A dark horse.

Arden said:

âHalloâyou Hunter? Good. Sit down. Whatâll you have? Whisky?â

Heâd made himself comfortable, David noted that. A modest array of bottlesâa fire burning in the grate on this chilly spring evening. Clothes not English cut, but worn as an Englishman wears clothes. The man was the right age, tooâ¦.

âThanks,â David said, âIâll have a spot of whisky.â

âSay When.â

âWhen. Not too much soda.â

They were a little like dogs, manoeuvring for positionâcircling round each other, backs stiff, hackles up, ready to be friendly or ready to snarl and snap.

âCheerio,â said Arden.

âCheerio.â

They set their glasses down, relaxed a little. Round One was over.

The man who called himself Enoch Arden said:

âYou were surprised to get my letter?â

âFrankly,â said David, âI donât understand it at all.â

âN-noân-noâwell, perhaps not.â

David said:

âI understand you knew my sisterâs first husbandâRobert Underhay.â

âYes, I knew Robert very well.â Arden was smiling, blowing clouds of smoke idly up in the air. âAs well, perhaps, as any one could know him. You never met him, did you, Hunter?â

âNo.â

âOh, perhaps thatâs as well.â

âWhat do you mean by that?â David asked sharply.

Arden said easily:

âMy dear fellow, it makes everything much simplerâthatâs all. I apologize for asking you to come here, but I did think it was best to keepââhe pausedââRosaleen out of it all. No need to give her unnecessary pain.â

âDo you mind coming to the point?â

âOf course, of course. Well now, did you ever suspectâhow shall we sayâthat there was anythingâwellâfishyâabout Underhayâs death?â

âWhat on earth do you mean?â

âWell, Underhay had rather peculiar ideas, you know. It may have been chivalryâit may just possibly have been for quite a different reasonâbut letâs say that, at a particular moment some years ago, there were certain advantages to Underhay in being considered dead. He was good at managing nativesâalways had been. No trouble to him to get a probable story circulated with any amount of corroborative detail. All Underhay had to do was to turn up about a thousand miles awayâwith a new name.â

âIt seems a most fantastic supposition to me,â said David.

âDoes it? Does it really?â Arden smiled. He leaned forward, tapped David on the knee. âSuppose itâs true, Hunter? Eh? Suppose itâs true?â

âI should require very definite proof of it.â

âWould you? Well, of course, thereâs no superdefinite proof. Underhay himself could turn up hereâin Warmsley Vale. Howâd you like that for proof?â

âIt would at least be conclusive,â said David dryly.

âOh, yes, conclusiveâbut just a little embarrassingâfor Mrs. Gordon Cloade, I mean. Because then, of course, she wouldnât be Mrs. Gordon Cloade. Awkward. You must admit, just a little bit awkward?â

âMy sister,â said David, âremarried in perfectly good faith.â

âOf course she did, my dear fellow. Of course she did. Iâm not disputing that for a second. Any judge would say the same. No actual blame could attach to her.â

âJudge?â said David sharply.

The other said as though apologetically:

âI was thinking of bigamy.â

âJust what are you driving at?â asked David savagely.

âNow donât get excited, old boy. We just want to put our heads together and see whatâs best to be doneâbest for your sister, thatâs to say. Nobody wants a lot of dirty publicity. Underhayâwell, Underhay was always a chivalrous kind of chap.â Arden paused. âHe still isâ¦.â

âIs?â asked David sharply.

âThatâs what I said.â

âYou say Robert Underhay is alive. Where is he now?â

Arden leaned forwardâhis voice became confidential.

âDo you really want to know, Hunter? Wouldnât it be better if you didnât know? Put it that, as far as you know, and as far as Rosaleen knows, Underhay died in Africa. Very good, and if Underhay is alive, he doesnât know his wife has married again, he hasnât the least idea of it. Because, of course, if he did know he would have come forwardâ¦Rosaleen, you see, has inherited a good deal of money from her second husbandâwell, then, of course she isnât entitled to any of that moneyâ¦Underhay is a man with a very sensitive sense of honour. He wouldnât like her inheriting money under false pretences.â He paused. âBut of course itâs possible that Underhay doesnât know anything about her second marriage. Heâs in a bad way, poor fellowâin a very bad way.â

âWhat do you mean by in a bad way?â

Arden shook his head solemnly.

âBroken down in health. He needs medical attentionâspecial treatmentsâall unfortunately rather expensive.â

The last word dropped delicately as though into a category of its own. It was the word for which David Hunter had been unconsciously waiting.

He said:

âExpensive?â

âYesâunfortunately everything costs money. Underhay, poor devil, is practically destitute.â He added: âHeâs got practically nothing but what he stands up inâ¦.â

Just for a moment Davidâs eyes wandered round the room. He noted the pack slung on a chair. There was no suitcase to be seen.

âI wonder,â said David, and his voice was not pleasant, âif Robert Underhay is quite the chivalrous gentleman you make him out to be.â

âHe was once,â the other assured him. âBut life, you know, is inclined to make a fellow cynical.â He paused and added softly: âGordon Cloade was really an incredibly wealthy fellow. The spectacle of too much wealth arouses oneâs baser instincts.â

David Hunter got up.

âIâve got an answer for you. Go to the devil.â

Unperturbed, Arden said, smiling:

âYes, I thought youâd say that.â

âYouâre a damned blackmailer, neither more nor less. Iâve a good mind to call your bluff.â

âPublish and be damned? An admirable sentiment. But you wouldnât like it if I did âpublish.â Not that I shall. If you wonât buy, Iâve another market.â

âWhat do you mean?â

âThe Cloades. Suppose I go to them. âExcuse me, but would you be interested to learn that the late Robert Underhay is very much alive?â Why, man, theyâll jump at it!â

David said scornfully:

âYou wonât get anything out of them. Theyâre broke, every one of them.â

âAh, but thereâs such a thing as a working arrangement. So much in cash on the day itâs proved that Underhay is alive, that Mrs. Gordon Cloade is still Mrs. Robert Underhay and that consequently Gordon Cloadeâs will, made before his marriage, is good in lawâ¦.â

For some few minutes David sat silent, then he asked bluntly:

âHow much?â

The answer came as bluntly:

âTwenty thousand.â

âOut of the question! My sister canât touch the capital, sheâs only got a life interest.â

âTen thousand, then. She can raise that, easily. Thereâs jewellery, isnât there?â

David sat silent, then he said unexpectedly:

âAll right.â

For a moment the other man seemed at a loss. It was as though the ease of his victory surprised him.

âNo cheques,â he said. âTo be paid in notes!â

âYouâll have to give us timeâto get hold of the money.â

âIâll give you forty-eight hours.â

âMake it next Tuesday.â

âAll right. Youâll bring the money here.â He added before David could speak, âIâm not meeting you at a lonely copseâor a deserted river bank, so donât you think so. Youâll bring the money hereâto the Stagâat nine oâclock next Tuesday evening.â

âSuspicious sort of chap, arenât you?â

âI know my way about. And I know your kind.â

âAs you said, then.â

David went out of the room and down the stairs. His face was black with rage.

Beatrice Lippincott came out of the room marked No. 4. There was a communicating door between 4 and 5, though the fact could hardly be noted by an occupant in 5 since a wardrobe stood upright in front of it.

Miss Lippincottâs cheeks were pink and her eyes bright with pleasurable excitement. She smoothed back her pompadour of hair with an agitated hand.

Ten

Shepherdâs Court, Mayfair, was a large block of luxury service flats. Unharmed by the ravages of enemy action, they had nevertheless been unable to keep up quite their prewar standard of ease. There was service still, although not very good service. Where there had been two uniformed porters there was now only one. The restaurant still served meals, but except for breakfast, meals were not sent up to the apartments.

The flat rented by Mrs. Gordon Cloade was on the third floor. It consisted of a sitting room with a built-in cocktail bar, two bedrooms with built-in cupboards, and a superbly appointed bathroom, gleaming with tiles and chromium.

In the sitting room David Hunter was striding up and down whilst Rosaleen sat on a big square-ended settee watching him. She looked pale and frightened.

âBlackmail!â he muttered. âBlackmail! My God, am I the kind of man to let myself be blackmailed?â

She shook her head, bewildered, troubled.

âIf I knew,â David was saying. âIf I only knew!â

From Rosaleen there came a small miserable sob.

He went on:

âItâs this working in the darkâworking blindfoldââ He wheeled round suddenly. âYou took those emeralds round to Bond Street to old Greatorex?â

âYes.â

âHow much?â

Rosaleenâs voice was stricken as she said:

âFour thousand. Four thousand pounds. He said if I didnât sell them they ought to be reinsured.â

âYesâprecious stones have doubled in value. Oh well, we can raise the money. But if we do, itâs only the beginningâit means being bled to deathâbled, Rosaleen, bled white!â

She cried:

âOh, letâs leave Englandâletâs get awayâcouldnât we go to IrelandâAmericaâsomewhere?â

He turned and looked at her.

âYouâre not a fighter, are you, Rosaleen? Cut and run is your motto.â

She wailed: âWeâre wrongâall this has been wrongâvery wicked.â

âDonât turn pious on me just now! I canât stand it. We were sitting pretty, Rosaleen. For the first time in my life I was sitting prettyâand Iâm not going to let it all go, do you hear? If only it wasnât this cursed fighting in the dark. You understand, donât you, that the whole thing may be bluffânothing but bluff? Underhayâs probably safely buried in Africa as weâve always thought he was.â

She shivered.

âDonât, David. You make me afraid.â

He looked at her, saw the panic in her face, and at once his manner changed. He came over to her, sat down, took her cold hands in his.

âYouâre not to worry,â he said. âLeave it all to meâand do as I tell you. You can manage that, canât you? Just do exactly as I tell you.â

âI always do, David.â

He laughed. âYes, you always do. Weâll snap out of this, never you fear. Iâll find a way of scotching Mr. Enoch Arden.â

âWasnât there a poem, Davidâsomething about a man coming backââ

âYes.â He cut her short. âThatâs just what worries meâ¦But Iâll get to the bottom of things, never you fear.â

She said:

âItâs Tuesday night youâtake him the money?â

He nodded.

âFive thousand. Iâll tell him I canât raise the rest all at once. But I must stop him going to the Cloades. I think that was only a threat, but I canât be sure.â

He stopped, his eyes became dreamy, far away. Behind them his mind worked, considering and rejecting possibilities.

Then he laughed. It was a gay reckless laugh. There were men, now dead, who would have recognized itâ¦.

It was the laugh of a man going into action on a hazardous and dangerous enterprise. There was enjoyment in it and defiance.

âI can trust you, Rosaleen,â he said. âThank goodness I can trust you absolutely!â

âTrust me?â She raised her big inquiring eyes. âTo do what?â

He smiled again.

âTo do exactly as you are told. Thatâs the secret, Rosaleen, of a successful operation.â

He laughed:

âOperation Enoch Arden.â

Eleven

Rowley opened the big mauve envelope with some surprise. Who on earth, he wondered, could be writing to him, using that kind of stationeryâand how did they manage to get it, anyway? These fancy lines had surely gone right out during the war.

âDear Mr. Rowley,â he read,

âI hope you wonât think Iâm taking a liberty in writing to you this way, but if youâll excuse me, I do think there are things going on that you ought to know about.â

He noted the underlining with a puzzled look.

âArising out of our conversation the other evening when you came in asking about a certain person. If you could call in at the Stag Iâd be very glad to tell you all about it. Weâve all of us felt down here what a wicked shame it was about your Uncle dying and his money going the way it did.

âHoping you wonât be angry with me, but I really do think you ought to know whatâs going on.

âYours ever,
âBeatrice Lippincott.â

Rowley stared down at this missive, his mind afire with speculation. What on earth was all this about? Good old Bee. Heâd known Beatrice all his life. Bought tobacco from her fatherâs shop and passed the time of day with her behind the counter. Sheâd been a good-looking girl. He remembered as a child hearing rumours about her during an absence of hers from Warmsley Vale. Sheâd been away about a year and everybody said sheâd gone away to have an illegitimate baby. Perhaps she had, perhaps she hadnât. But she was certainly highly respectable and refined nowadays. Plenty of backchat and giggles, but an almost painful propriety.

Rowley glanced up at the clock. Heâd go along to the Stag right away. To hell with all those forms. He wanted to know what it was that Beatrice was so anxious to tell him.

It was a little after eight when he pushed open the door of the saloon bar. There were the usual greetings, nods of the head, âEvening, sir.â Rowley edged up to the bar and asked for a Guinness. Beatrice beamed upon him.

âGlad to see you, Mr. Rowley.â

âEvening, Beatrice. Thanks for your note.â

She gave him a quick glance.

âIâll be with you in a minute, Mr. Rowley.â

He noddedâand drank his half pint meditatively whilst he watched Beatrice finish serving out. She called over her shoulder and presently the girl Lily came in to relieve her. Beatrice murmured, âIf youâll come with me, Mr. Rowley?â

She led him along a passage and in through a door marked Private. Inside it was very small and overfurnished with plush armchairs, a blaring radio, a lot of china ornaments and a rather battered-looking pierrot doll thrown across the back of a chair.

Beatrice Lippincott turned off the radio and indicated a plush armchair.

âIâm ever so glad you came up, Mr. Rowley, and I hope you didnât mind my writing to youâbut Iâve been turning it over in my mind all over the weekendâand as I said I really felt you ought to know whatâs going on.â

She was looking happy and important, clearly pleased with herself.

Rowley asked with mild curiosity:

âWhat is going on?â

âWell, Mr. Rowley, you know the gentleman whoâs staying hereâMr. Arden, the one you came and asked about.â

âYes?â

âIt was the very next evening. Mr. Hunter came along and asked for him.â

âMr. Hunter?â

Rowley sat up interestedly.

âYes, Mr. Rowley. No. 5, I said, and Mr. Hunter nodded and went straight up. I was surprised I must say, for this Mr. Arden hadnât said he knew any one in Warmsley Vale and Iâd kind of taken it for granted he was a stranger here and didnât know any one in the place. Very out of temper Mr. Hunter looked, as though something had happened to upset him but of course I didnât make anything of it then.â

She paused for breath. Rowley said nothing, just listened. He never hurried people. If they liked to take their time it suited him.

Beatrice continued with dignity:

âIt was just a little later I had occasion to go up to No. 4 to see to the towels and the bed linen. Thatâs next door to No. 5, and as it happens thereâs a communicating doorânot that youâd know it from No. 5 because the big wardrobe there stands right across it, so that you wouldnât know there was a door. Of course itâs always kept shut but as it happened this time it was just a bit openâthough who opened it Iâve no idea, Iâm sure!â

Again Rowley said nothing, but just nodded his head.

Beatrice, he thought, had opened it. She had been curious and had gone up deliberately to No. 4 to find out what she could.

âAnd so you see, Mr. Rowley, I couldnât help hearing what was going on. Really, you could have knocked me over with a featherââ

A pretty substantial feather, thought Rowley, would be needed.

He listened, with an impassive, almost bovine face, to Beatriceâs succinct account of the conversation she had overheard. When she had finished, she waited expectantly.

It was fully a couple of minutes before Rowley came out of his trance. Then he got up.

âThanks, Beatrice,â he said. âThanks a lot.â

And with that he went straight out of the room. Beatrice felt somewhat deflated. She really did think, she said to herself, that Mr. Rowley might have said something.

Twelve

When Rowley left the Stag his steps turned automatically in the direction of home, but after walking a few hundred yards, he pulled up short and retraced his steps.

His mind took things in slowly and his first astonishment over Beatriceâs revelations was only now beginning to give way to a true appreciation of the significance. If her version of what she had overheard was correct, and he had no doubt that in substance it was so, then a situation had arisen which concerned every member of the Cloade family closely. The person most fitted to deal with this was clearly Rowleyâs Uncle Jeremy. As a solicitor, Jeremy Cloade would know what use could best be made of this surprising information, and exactly what steps to take.

Though Rowley would have liked to take action himself, he realized rather grudgingly that it would be far better to lay the matter before a shrewd and experienced lawyer. The sooner Jeremy was in possession of this information the better, and accordingly Rowley bent his footsteps straight to Jeremyâs house in the High Street.

The little maid who opened the door informed him that Mr. and Mrs. Cloade were still at the dinner table. She would have shown him in there, but Rowley negatived this and said he would wait in Jeremyâs study till they had finished. He did not particularly want to include Frances in the colloquy. Indeed the fewer people who knew about it the better, until they should have determined on a definite course of action.

He wandered restlessly up and down Jeremyâs study. On the flat-topped desk was a tin dispatch box labelled Sir William Jessamy Deceased. The shelves held a collection of legal tomes. There was an old photograph of Frances in evening dress and one of her father, Lord Edward Trenton, in riding kit. On the desk was the picture of a young man in uniformâJeremyâs son Antony, killed in the war.

Rowley winced and turned away. He sat down in a chair and stared at Lord Edward Trenton instead.

In the dining room Frances said to her husband:

âI wonder what Rowley wants?â

Jeremy said wearily:

âProbably fallen foul of some Government regulation. No farmer understands more than a quarter of these forms they have to fill up. Rowleyâs a conscientious fellow. He gets worried.â

âHeâs nice,â said Frances, âbut terribly slow. I have a feeling, you know, that things arenât going too well between him and Lynn.â

Jeremy murmured vacantly:

âLynnâoh, yes, of course. Forgive me, IâI donât seem able to concentrate. The strainââ

Frances said swiftly:

âDonât think about it. Itâs going to be all right, I tell you.â

âYou frighten me sometimes, Frances. Youâre so terribly reckless. You donât realizeââ

âI realize everything. Iâm not afraid. Really, you know, Jeremy, Iâm rather enjoying myselfââ

âThat, my dear,â said Jeremy, âis just what causes me such anxiety.â

She smiled.

âCome,â she said. âYou mustnât keep that bucolic young man waiting too long. Go and help him to fill up form eleven hundred and ninety-nine, or whatever it is.â

But as they came out of the dining room the front door banged shut. Edna came to tell them that Mr. Rowley had said he wouldnât wait and that it was nothing that really mattered.

Thirteen

On that particular Tuesday afternoon, Lynn Marchmont had gone for a long walk. Conscious of a growing restlessness and dissatisfaction with herself, she felt the need for thinking things out.

She had not seen Rowley for some days. After their somewhat stormy parting on the morning she had asked him to lend her five hundred pounds they had met as usual. Lynn realized that her demand had been unreasonable and that Rowley had been well within his rights in turning it down. Nevertheless reasonableness has never been a quality that appeals to lovers. Outwardly things were the same between her and Rowley, inwardly she was not so sure. The last few days she had found unbearably monotonous, yet hardly liked to acknowledge to herself that David Hunterâs sudden departure to London with his sister might have something to do with their monotony. David, she admitted ruefully, was an exciting personâ¦.

As for her relations, at the moment she found them all unbearably trying. Her mother was in the best of spirits and had annoyed Lynn at lunch that day by announcing that she was going to try and find a second gardener. âOld Tom really canât keep up with things here.â

âBut, darling, we canât afford it,â Lynn had exclaimed.

âNonsense, I really think, Lynn, that Gordon would be terribly upset if he could see how the garden has gone down. He was so particular always about the border, and the grass being kept mown, and the paths in good orderâand just look at it now. I feel Gordon would want it put in order again.â

âEven if we have to borrow money from his widow to do it.â

âI told you, Lynn, Rosaleen couldnât have been nicer about it. I really think she quite saw my point of view. I have a nice balance at the bank after paying all the bills. And I really think a second gardener would be an economy. Think of the extra vegetables we could grow.â

âWe could buy a lot of extra vegetables for a good deal less than another three pounds a week.â

âI think we could get someone for less than that, dear. There are men coming out of the Services now who want jobs. The paper says so.â

Lynn said dryly: âI doubt if youâll find them in Warmsley Valeâor in Warmsley Heath.â

But although the matter was left like that, the tendency of her mother to count on Rosaleen as a regular source of support haunted Lynn. It revived the memory of Davidâs sneering words.

So, feeling disgruntled and out of temper, she set out to walk her black mood off.

Her temper was not improved by a meeting with Aunt Kathie outside the post office. Aunt Kathie was in good spirits.

âI think, Lynn dear, that we shall soon have good news.â

âWhat on earth do you mean, Aunt Kathie?â

Mrs. Cloade nodded and smiled and looked wise.

âIâve had the most astonishing communicationsâreally astonishing. A simple happy end to all our troubles. I had one setback, but since then Iâve got the message to Try try try again. If at first you donât succeed, etcâ¦Iâm not going to betray any secrets, Lynn dear, and the last thing I should want to do would be to raise false hopes prematurely, but I have the strongest belief that things will very soon be quite all right. And quite time, too. I am really very worried about your uncle. He worked far too hard during the war. He really needs to retire and devote himself to his specialized studiesâbut of course he canât do that without an adequate income. And sometimes he has such queer nervous fits, I am really very worried about him. He is really quite odd.â

Lynn nodded thoughtfully. The change in Lionel Cloade had not escaped her notice, nor his curious alternation of moods. She suspected that he occasionally had recourse to drugs to stimulate himself, and she wondered whether he were not to a certain extent an addict. It would account for his extreme nervous irritability. She wondered how much Aunt Kathie knew or guessed. Aunt Kathie, thought Lynn, was not such a fool as she looked.

Going down the High Street, she caught a glimpse of her Uncle Jeremy letting himself into his front door. He looked, Lynn thought, very much older just in these last three weeks.

She quickened her pace. She wanted to get out of Warmsley Vale, up on to the hills and open spaces. Setting out at a brisk pace she soon felt better. She would go for a good tramp of six or seven milesâand really think things out. Always, all her life, she had been a resolute clearheaded person. She had known what she wanted and what she didnât want. Never, until now, had she been content just to drift alongâ¦.

Yes, that was just what it was! Drifting along! An aimless, formless method of living. Ever since she had come out of the Service. A wave of nostalgia swept over her for those war days. Days when duties were clearly defined, when life was planned and orderlyâwhen the weight of individual decisions had been lifted from her. But even as she formulated the idea, she was horrified at herself. Was that really and truly what people were secretly feeling everywhere? Was that what, ultimately, war did to you? It was not the physical dangersâthe mines at sea, the bombs from the air, the crisp ping of a rifle bullet as you drove over a desert track. No, it was the spiritual danger of learning how much easier life was if you ceased to thinkâ¦She, Lynn Marchmont, was no longer the clearheaded resolute intelligent girl who had joined up. Her intelligence had been specialized, directed in well-defined channels. Now mistress of herself and her life once more, she was appalled at the disinclination of her mind to seize and grapple with her own personal problems.

With a sudden wry smile, Lynn thought to herself: Odd if itâs really that newspaper character âthe housewifeâ who has come into her own through war conditions. The women who, hindered by innumerable âshall nots,â were not helped by any definite âshalls.â Women who had to plan and think and improvise, who had to use every inch of the ingenuity they had been given, and to develop an ingenuity that they didnât know they had got! They alone, thought Lynn now, could stand upright without a crutch, responsible for themselves and others. And she, Lynn Marchmont, well educated, clever, having done a job that needed brains and close application, was now rudderless, devoid of resolutionâyes, hateful word: driftingâ¦.

The people who had stayed at home; Rowley, for instance.

But at once Lynnâs mind dropped from vague generalities to the immediate personal. Herself and Rowley. That was the problem, the real problemâthe only problem. Did she really want to marry Rowley?

Slowly the shadows lengthened to twilight and dusk. Lynn sat motionless, her chin cupped in her hands on the outskirts of a small copse on the hillside, looking down over the valley. She had lost count of time, but she knew that she was strangely reluctant to go home to the White House. Below her, away to the left, was Long Willows. Long Willows, her home if she married Rowley.

If! It came back to thatâifâifâif!

A bird flew out of the wood with a startled cry like the cry of an angry child. A billow of smoke from a train went eddying up in the sky forming as it did so a giant question mark:

???

Shall I marry Rowley? Do I want to marry Rowley? Did I ever want to marry Rowley? Could I bear not to marry Rowley?

The train puffed away up the valley, the smoke quivered and dispersed. But the question mark did not fade from Lynnâs mind.

She had loved Rowley before she went away. âBut Iâve come home changed,â she thought. âIâm not the same Lynn.â

A line of poetry floated into her mind.

âLife and the world and mine own self are changedâ¦.â

And Rowley? Rowley hadnât changed.

Yes, that was it. Rowley hadnât changed. Rowley was where she had left him four years ago.

Did she want to marry Rowley? If not, what did she want?

Twigs cracked in the copse behind her and a manâs voice cursed as he pushed his way through.

She cried out, âDavid!â

âLynn!â He looked amazed as he came crashing through the undergrowth. âWhat in the name of fortune are you doing here?â

He had been running and was slightly out of breath.

âI donât know. Just thinkingâsitting and thinking.â She laughed uncertainly. âI supposeâitâs getting very late.â

âHavenât you any idea of the time?â

She looked down vaguely at her wristwatch.

âItâs stopped again. I disorganize watches.â

âMore than watches!â David said. âItâs the electricity in you. The vitality. The life.â

He came up to her, and vaguely disturbed, she rose quickly to her feet.

âItâs getting quite dark. I must hurry home. What time is it, David?â

âQuarter past nine. I must run like a hare. I simply must catch the 9:20 train to London.â

âI didnât know you had come back here!â

âI had to get some things from Furrowbank. But I must catch this train. Rosaleenâs alone in the flatâand she gets the jitters if sheâs alone at night in London.â

âIn a service flat?â Lynnâs voice was scornful.

David said sharply:

âFear isnât logical. When youâve suffered from blastââ

Lynn was suddenly ashamedâcontrite. She said:

âIâm sorry. Iâd forgotten.â

With sudden bitterness David cried out:

âYes, itâs soon forgottenâall of it. Back to safety! Back to tameness! Back to where we were when the whole bloody show started! Creep into our rotten little holes and play safe again. You, too, Lynnâyouâre just the same as the rest of them!â

She cried, âIâm not. Iâm not, David. I was just thinkingânowââ

âOf me?â

His quickness startled her. His arm was round her, holding him to her. He kissed her with hot angry lips.

âRowley Cloade?â he said, âthat oaf? By God, Lynn, you belong to me.â

Then as suddenly as he had taken her, he released her, almost thrusting her away from him.

âIâll miss the train.â

He ran headlong down the hillside.

âDavidâ¦â

He turned his head, calling back:

âIâll ring you when I get to Londonâ¦.â

She watched him running through the gathering gloom, light and athletic and full of natural grace.

Then, shaken, her heart strangely stirred, her mind chaotic, she walked slowly homeward.

She hesitated a little before going in. She shrank from her motherâs affectionate welcome, her questionsâ¦.

Her mother who had borrowed five hundred pounds from people whom she despised.

âWeâve no right to despise Rosaleen and David,â thought Lynn as she went very softly upstairs. âWeâre just the same. Weâd do anythingâanything for money.â

She stood in her bedroom, looking curiously at her face in the mirror. It was, she thought, the face of a strangerâ¦.

And then, sharply, anger shook her.

âIf Rowley really loved me,â she thought, âheâd have got that five hundred pounds for me somehow. He wouldâhe would. He wouldnât let me be humiliated by having to take it from DavidâDavidâ¦.â

David had said he would ring her when he got to London.

She went downstairs, walking in a dream.

Dreams, she thought, could be very dangerous thingsâ¦.

Fourteen

âOh, there you are, Lynn.â Adelaâs voice was brisk and relieved. âI didnât hear you come in, darling. Have you been in long?â

âOh, yes, ages. I was upstairs.â

âI wish youâd tell me when you come in, Lynn. Iâm always nervous when youâre out alone after dark.â

âReally, Mums, donât you think I can look after myself?â

âWell, there have been dreadful things in the papers lately. All these discharged soldiersâthey attack girls.â

âI expect the girls ask for it.â

She smiledârather a twisted smile.

Yes, girls did ask for dangerâ¦Who, after all, really wanted to be safeâ¦?

âLynn, darling, are you listening?â

Lynn brought her mind back with a jerk.

Her mother had been talking.

âWhat did you say, Mums?â

âI was talking about your bridesmaids, dear. I suppose theyâll be able to produce the coupons all right. Itâs very lucky for you having all your demob ones. Iâm really terribly sorry for girls who get married nowadays on just their ordinary coupons. I mean they just canât have anything new at all. Not outside, I mean. What with the state all oneâs undies are in nowadays one just has to go for them. Yes, Lynn, you really are lucky.â

âOh, very lucky.â

She was walking round the roomâprowling, picking up things, putting them down.

âMust you be so terribly restless, dear? You make me feel quite jumpy!â

âSorry, Mums.â

âThereâs nothing the matter, is there?â

âWhat should be the matter?â asked Lynn sharply.

âWell, donât jump down my throat, darling. Now about bridesmaids. I really think you ought to ask the Macrae girl. Her mother was my closest friend, remember, and I do think sheâll be hurt ifââ

âI loathe Joan Macrae and always have.â

âI know, darling, but does that really matter? Marjorie will, Iâm sure, feel hurtââ

âReally, Mums, itâs my wedding, isnât it?â

âYes, I know, Lynn, butââ

âIf there is a wedding at all!â

She hadnât meant to say that. The words slipped out without her having planned them. She would have caught them back, but it was too late. Mrs. Marchmont was staring at her daughter in alarm.

âLynn, darling, what do you mean?â

âOh, nothing, Mums.â

âYou and Rowley havenât quarrelled?â

âNo, of course not. Donât fuss, Mums, everythingâs all right.â

But Adela was looking at her daughter in real alarm, sensitive to the turmoil behind Lynnâs frowning exterior.

âIâve always felt youâd be so safe married to Rowley,â she said piteously.

âWho wants to be safe?â Lynn asked scornfully. She turned sharply. âWas that the telephone?â

âNo. Why? Are you expecting a call?â

Lynn shook her head. Humiliating to be waiting for the telephone to ring. He had said he would ring her tonight. He must. âYouâre mad,â she told herself. âMad.â

Why did this man attract her so? The memory of his dark unhappy face rose up before her eyes. She tried to banish it, tried to replace it by Rowleyâs broad good-looking countenance. His slow smile, his affectionate glance. But did Rowley, she thought, really care about her? Surely if heâd really cared, heâd have understood that day when she came to him and begged for five hundred pounds. Heâd have understood instead of being so maddeningly reasonable and matter-of-fact. Marry Rowley, live on the farm, never go away again, never see foreign skies, smell exotic smellsânever again be freeâ¦.

Sharply the telephone rang. Lynn took a deep breath, walked across the hall and picked up the receiver.

With the shock of a blow, Aunt Kathieâs voice came thinly through the wire.

âLynn? Is that you? Oh, Iâm so glad. Iâm afraid, you know, Iâve made rather a muddleâabout the meeting at the Instituteââ

The thin fluttering voice went on. Lynn listened, interpolated comments, uttered reassurances, received thanks.

âSuch a comfort, dear Lynn, you are always so kind and so practical. I really canât imagine how I get things so muddled up.â

Lynn couldnât imagine either. Aunt Kathieâs capacity for muddling the simplest issues amounted practically to genius.

âBut I always do say,â finished Aunt Kathie, âthat everything goes wrong at once. Our telephone is out of order and Iâve had to go out to a call box, and now Iâm here I hadnât got twopence, only halfpenniesâand I had to go and askââ

It petered out at last. Lynn hung up and went back to the drawing-room. Adela Marchmont, alert, asked: âWas thatââ and paused.

Lynn said quickly: âAunt Kathie.â

âWhat did she want?â

âOh, just one of her usual muddles.â

Lynn sat down again with a book, glancing up at the clock. Yesâit had been too early. She couldnât expect her call yet. At five minutes past eleven the telephone rang again. She went slowly out to it. This time she wouldnât expectâit was probably Aunt Kathie againâ¦.

But no. âWarmsley Vale 34? Can Miss Lynn Marchmont take a personal call from London?â

Her heart missed a beat.

âThis is Miss Lynn Marchmont speaking.â

âHold on, please.â

She waitedâconfused noisesâthen silence. The telephone service was getting worse and worse. She waited. Finally she depressed the receiver angrily. Another womanâs voice, indifferent, cold, spoke, was uninterested. âHang up, please. Youâll be called later.â

She hung up, went back towards the drawing room, the bell rang again as she had her hand on the door. She hurried back to the telephone.

âHallo?â

A manâs voice said: âWarmsley Vale 34? Personal call from London for Miss Lynn Marchmont.â

âSpeaking.â

âJust a minute please.â Then, faintly, âSpeak up, London, youâre throughâ¦.â

And then, suddenly, Davidâs voice:

âLynn, is that you?â

âDavid!â

âI had to speak to you.â

âYesâ¦.â

âLook here, Lynn, I think Iâd better clear outââ

âWhat do you mean?â

âClear out of England altogether. Oh, itâs easy enough. Iâve pretended it wasnât to Rosaleenâsimply because I didnât want to leave Warmsley Vale. But whatâs the good of it all? You and Iâit wouldnât work. Youâre a fine girl, Lynnâand as for me, Iâm a bit of a crook, always have been. And donât flatter yourself that Iâd go straight for your sake. I might mean toâbut it wouldnât work. No, youâd better marry the plodding Rowley. Heâll never give you a dayâs anxiety as long as you live. I should give you hell.â

She stood there, holding the receiver, saying nothing.

âLynn, are you still there?â

âYes, Iâm here.â

âYou didnât say anything.â

âWhat is there to say?â

âLynn?â

âWellâ¦?â

Strange how clearly she could feel over all that distance, his excitement, the urgency of his moodâ¦.

He cursed softly, said explosively, âOh, to hell with everything!â and rang off.

Mrs. Marchmont, coming out of the drawing room, said, âWas thatâ?â

âA wrong number,â said Lynn and went quickly up the stairs.

Fifteen

It was the custom at the Stag for guests to be called at whatever hour they named by the simple process of a loud bang on the door and the shouted information that it was âEight-thirty, sir,â or âEight oâclockâ whatever the case might be. Early tea was produced if expressly stipulated for, and was deposited with a rattle of crockery on the mat outside the door.

On this particular Wednesday morning, young Gladys went through the usual formula outside No. 5, yelling out, âEight-fifteen, sir,â and crashing down the tray with a bang that slopped the milk out of the jug. She then went on her way, calling more people and proceeding to her other duties.

It was ten oâclock before she took in the fact that No. 5âs tea was still on the mat.

She beat a few heavy raps on the door, got no reply and therupon walked in.

No. 5 was not the kind of gentleman who overslept himself, and she had just remembered that there was a convenient flat roof outside the window. It was just possible, thought Gladys, that No. 5 had done a bunk without paying his bill.

But the man registered as Enoch Arden had not done a bunk. He was lying on his face in the middle of the room and without any knowledge of medicine, Gladys had no doubt whatever that he was dead.

Gladys threw back her head and screamed, then rushed out of the room and down the stairs, still screaming.

âOw, Miss LippincottâMiss Lippincottâowââ

Beatrice Lippincott was in her private room having a cut hand bandaged by Dr. Lionel Cloadeâthe latter dropped the bandage and turned irritably as the girl burst in.

âOw, Miss!â

The doctor snapped:

âWhat is it? What is it?â

âWhatâs the matter, Gladys?â asked Beatrice.

âItâs the gentleman in No. 5, Miss. Heâs lying there on the floor, dead.â

The doctor stared at the girl and then at Miss Lippincott: the latter stared at Gladys and then at the doctor.

Finally, Dr. Cloade said uncertainly:

âNonsense.â

âDead as a doornail,â said Gladys, and added with a certain relish: ââIs âeadâs bashed in!â

The doctor looked towards Miss Lippincott.

âPerhaps Iâd betterââ

âYes, please, Dr. Cloade. But reallyâI hardly thinkâit seems so impossible.â

They trooped upstairs, Gladys leading the way. Dr. Cloade took one look, knelt down and bent over the recumbent figure.

He looked up at Beatrice. His manner had changed. It was abrupt, authoritative.

âYouâd better telephone through to the police station,â he said.

Beatrice Lippincott went out, Gladys followed her.

Gladys said in an awed whisper:

âOw, Miss, do you think itâs murder?â

Beatrice smoothed back her golden pompadour with an agitated hand.

âYou hold your tongue, Gladys,â she said sharply. âSaying a thingâs murder before you know itâs murder is libel and you might be had up in court for it. Itâll do the Stag no good to have a lot of gossip going about.â She added, as a gracious concession: âYou can go and make yourself a nice cup of tea. I dare say you need it.â

âYes, indeed, Miss, I do. My insideâs fair turning over! Iâll bring you along a cup, too!â

To which Beatrice did not say No.

Sixteen

Superintendent Spence looked thoughtfully across his table at Beatrice Lippincott, who was sitting with her lips compressed tightly together.

âThank you, Miss Lippincott,â he said. âThatâs all you can remember? Iâll have it typed out for you to read and then if you wouldnât mind signing itââ

âOh, dearâI shanât have to give evidence in a police court, I do hope.â

Superintendent Spence smiled appeasingly.

âOh, we hope it maynât come to that,â he said mendaciously.

âIt may be suicide,â Beatrice suggested hopefully.

Superintendent Spence forbore to say that a suicide does not usually cave in the back of his skull with a pair of steel fire tongs. Instead, he replied in the same easy manner:

âNever any good jumping to conclusions. Thank you, Miss Lippincott. Very good of you to come forward with this statement so promptly.â

When she had been ushered out, he ran over her statement in his mind. He knew all about Beatrice Lippincott, had a very good idea of how far her accuracy was to be depended upon. So much for a conversation genuinely overhead and remembered. A little extra embroidery for excitementâs sake. A little extra still because murder had been done in bedroom No. 5. But take extras away and what remained was ugly and suggestive.

Superintendent Spence looked at the table in front of him. There was a wristwatch with a smashed glass, a small gold lighter with initials on it, a lipstick in a gilt holder, and a pair of heavy steel fire tongs, the heavy head of which was stained a rusty brown.

Sergeant Graves looked in and said that Mr. Rowley Cloade was waiting. Spence nodded and the Sergeant showed Rowley in.

Just as he knew all about Beatrice Lippincott, so the Superintendent knew all about Rowley Cloade. If Rowley had come to the police station, it was because Rowley had got something to say and that something would be solid, reliable and unimaginative. It would, in fact, be worth hearing. At the same time, Rowley being a deliberate type of person, it would take some time to say. And you couldnât hurry the Rowley Cloade type. If you did, they became rattled, repeated themselves, and generally took twice as longâ¦.

âGood morning, Mr. Cloade. Pleased to see you. Can you throw any light on this problem of ours? The man who was killed at the Stag.â

Rather to Spenceâs surprise, Rowley began with a question. He asked abruptly:

âHave you identified the fellow?â

âNo,â said Spence slowly. âI wouldnât say we had. He signed the register Enoch Arden. Thereâs nothing in his possession to show he was Enoch Arden.â

Rowley frowned.

âIsnât thatârather odd?â

It was exceedingly odd, but Superintendent Spence did not propose to discuss with Rowley Cloade just how odd he thought it was. Instead he said pleasantly: âCome now, Mr. Cloade, Iâm the one who asks the questions. You went to see the dead man last night. Why?â

âYou know Beatrice Lippincott, Superintendent? At the Stag.â

âYes, of course. And,â said the Superintendent, taking what he hoped would be a short cut, âIâve heard her story. She came to me with it.â

Rowley looked relieved.

âGood. I was afraid she mightnât want to be mixed up with a police matter. These people are funny that way sometimes.â The Superintendent nodded. âWell, then, Beatrice told me what sheâd overheard and it seemed to meâI donât know if it does to youâdecidedly fishy. What I mean isâweâre, well, weâre interested parties.â

Again the Superintendent nodded. He had taken a keen local interest in Gordon Cloadeâs death and in common with general local opinion he considered that Gordonâs family had been badly treated. He endorsed the common opinion that Mrs. Gordon Cloade âwasnât a lady,â and that Mrs. Gordon Cloadeâs brother was one of those young firebrand Commandos who, though they had had their uses in time of war, were to be looked at askance in peacetime.

âI donât suppose I need explain to you, Superintendent, that if Mrs. Gordonâs first husband is still alive, it will make a big difference to us as a family. This story of Beatriceâs was the first intimation I had that such a state of affairs might exist. Iâd never dreamed of such a thing. Thought she was definitely a widow. And I may say it shook me up a lot. Took me a bit of time to realize it, as you might say. You know, I had to let it soak in.â

Spence nodded again. He could see Rowley slowly ruminating the matter, turning it over and over in his mind.

âFirst of all I thought Iâd better get my uncle on to itâthe lawyer one.â

âMr. Jeremy Cloade?â

âYes, so I went along there. Must have been some time after eight. They were still at dinner and I sat down in old Jeremyâs study to wait for him, and I went on turning things over in my mind.â

âYes?â

âAnd finally I came to the conclusion that Iâd do a bit more myself before getting my uncle on to it. Lawyers, Superintendent, are all the same, Iâve found. Very slow, very cautious, and have to be absolutely sure of their facts before theyâll move in a matter. The information Iâd got had come to me in a rather hole-and-corner mannerâand I wondered if old Jeremy might hem and haw a bit about acting on it. I decided Iâd go along to the Stag and see this Johnnie for myself.â

âAnd you did so?â

âYes. I went right back to the Stagââ

âAt what time was this?â

Rowley pondered.

âLemme see, I must have got to Jeremyâs about twenty past eight or thereaboutsâfive minutesâwell, I wouldnât like to say exactly, Spenceâafter half-past eightâperhaps about twenty to nine?â

âYes, Mr. Cloade?â

âI knew where the bloke wasâBee had mentioned the number of his roomâso I went right up and knocked at the door and he said, âCome in,â and I went in.â

Rowley paused.

âSomehow I donât think I handled the business very well. I thought when I went in that I was the one who was on top. But the fellow must have been rather a clever fellow. I couldnât pin him down to anything definite. I thought heâd be frightened when I hinted heâd been doing a spot of blackmail, but it just seemed to amuse him. He asked meâdamned cheekâif I was in the market too? âYou canât play your dirty game with me,â I said. âIâve nothing to hide.â And he said rather nastily that that wasnât his meaning. The point was, he said, that heâd got something to sell and was I a buyer? âWhat do you mean?â I said. He said: âHow much will youâor the family generallyâpay me for the definite proof that Robert Underhay, reported dead in Africa, is really alive and kicking?â I asked him why the devil we should pay anything at all? And he laughed and said, âBecause Iâve got a client coming this evening who certainly will pay a very substantial sum for proof positive that Robert Underhay is dead.â Thenâwell, then, Iâm afraid I rather lost my temper and told him that my family werenât used to doing that kind of dirty business. If Underhay was really alive, I said, the fact ought to be quite easy to establish. Upon that I was just stalking out when he laughed and said in what was really rather a queer tone, âI donât think youâll prove it without my cooperation.â Funny sort of way he said that.â

âAnd then?â

âWell, frankly, I went home rather disturbed. Felt, you know, that Iâd messed things up. Rather wished Iâd left it to old Jeremy to tackle after all. I mean, dash it all, a lawyerâs used to dealing with slippery customers.â

âWhat time did you leave the Stag?â

âIâve no idea. Wait a sec. Must have been just before nine because I heard the pips for the news as I was going along the villageâthrough one of the windows.â

âDid Arden say who it was he was expecting? The âclient?ââ

âNo. I took it for granted it was David Hunter. Who else could it be?â

âHe didnât seem in any way alarmed by the prospect?â

âI tell you the fellow was thoroughly pleased with himself and on top of the world!â

Spence indicated with a slight gesture the heavy steel tongs.

âDid you notice these in the grate, Mr. Cloade?â

âThose? NoâI donât think so. The fire wasnât lit.â He frowned, trying to visualize the scene. âThere were fire irons in the grate, Iâm sure, but I canât say I noticed what they were.â He added, âWas that whatââ

Spence nodded.

âSmashed his skull in.â

Rowley frowned.

âFunny. Hunterâs a lightly built chapâArden was a big manâpowerful.â

The Superintendent said in a colourless voice:

âThe medical evidence is that he was struck down from behind and that the blows delivered with the head of the tongs were struck from above.â

Rowley said thoughtfully:

âOf course he was a cocksure sort of a blokeâbut all the same I wouldnât have turned my back with a fellow in the room whom I was trying to bleed white and whoâd done some pretty tough fighting in the war. Arden canât have been a very cautious sort of chap.â

âIf he had been cautious very likely heâd be alive now,â said the Superintendent dryly.

âI wish to God he was,â said Rowley fervently. âAs it is I feel Iâve mucked things up thoroughly. If only I hadnât got on my high horse and stalked off, I might have got something useful out of him. I ought to have pretended that we were in the market, but the thingâs so damned silly. I mean, who are we to bid against Rosaleen and David? Theyâve got the cash. None of us could raise five hundred pounds between us.â

The Superintendent picked up the gold lighter.

âSeen this before?â

A crease appeared between Rowleyâs brows. He said slowly:

âIâve seen it somewhere, yes, but I canât remember where. Not very long ago. NoâI canât remember.â

Spence did not give the lighter into Rowleyâs outstretched hand. He put it down and picked up the lipstick, unsheathing it from its case.

âAnd this?â

Rowley grinned.

âReally, thatâs not in my line, Superintendent.â

Thoughtfully, Spence smeared a little on the back of his hand. He put his head on one side, studying it appreciatively.

âBrunette colouring, I should say,â he remarked.

âFunny things you policemen know,â said Rowley. He got up. âAnd you donâtâdefinitely do notâknow who the dead man was?â

âHave you any idea yourself, Mr. Cloade?â

âI only wondered,â said Rowley slowly. âI meanâthis fellow was our only clue to Underhay. Now that heâs deadâwell, looking for Underhay is going to be like looking for a needle in a haystack.â

âThereâll be publicity, Mr. Cloade,â said Spence. âRemember that in due course a lot of this will appear in the press. If Underhay is alive and comes to read about itâwell, he may come forward.â

âYes,â said Rowley doubtfully. âHe may.â

âBut you donât think so?â

âI think,â said Rowley Cloade, âthat Round One has gone to David Hunter.â

âI wonder,â said Spence. As Rowley went out, Spence picked up the gold lighter and looked at the initials D.H. on it. âExpensive bit of work,â he said to Sergeant Graves. âNot mass produced. Quite easily identified. Greatorex or one of those Bond Street places. Have it seen to!â

âYes, sir.â

Then the Superintendent looked at the wristwatchâthe glass was smashed and the hands pointed to ten minutes past nine.

He looked at the Sergeant.

âGot the report on this, Graves?â

âYes, sir. Mainspringâs broken.â

âAnd the mechanism of the hands?â

âQuite all right, sir.â

âWhat, in your opinion, Graves, does the watch tell us?â

Graves murmured warily, âSeems as though it might give us the time the crime was committed.â

âAh,â said Spence, âwhen youâve been as long in the Force as I have, youâll be a leetle suspicious of anything so convenient as a smashed watch. It can be genuineâbut itâs a well-known hoary old trick. Turn the hands of a watch to a time that suits youâsmash itâand out with some virtuous alibi. But you donât catch an old bird that way. Iâm keeping a very open mind on the subject of the time this crime was committed. Medical evidence is: between 8 p.m. and 11 p.m.â

Sergeant Graves cleared his throat.

âEdwards, second gardener at Furrowbank, says he saw David Hunter coming out of a side door there about 7:30. The maids didnât know he was down here. They thought he was up in London with Mrs. Gordon. Shows he was in the neighbourhood all right.â

âYes,â said Spence. âIâll be interested to hear Hunterâs own account of his doings.â

âSeems like a clear case, sir,â said Graves, looking at the initials on the lighter.

âHâm,â said the Superintendent. âThereâs still this to account for.â

He indicated the lipstick.

âIt had rolled under the chest of drawers, sir. Might have been there some time.â

âIâve checked up,â said Spence. âThe last time a woman occupied that room was three weeks ago. I know service isnât up to much nowadaysâbut I still think they run a mop under the furniture once in three weeks. The Stag is kept pretty clean and tidy on the whole.â

âThereâs been no suggestion of a woman being mixed up with Arden.â

âI know,â said the Superintendent. âThatâs why that lipstick is what I call the unknown quantity.â

Sergeant Graves refrained from saying âCherchez la femme.â He had a very good French accent and he knew better than to irritate Superintendent Spence by drawing attention to it. Sergeant Graves was a tactful young man.

Seventeen

Superintendent Spence looked up at Shepherdâs Court, Mayfair, before stepping inside its agreeable portal. Situated modestly in the vicinity of Shepherd Market, it was discreet, expensive and inconspicuous.

Inside, Spenceâs feet sunk into soft pile carpet, there was a velvet-covered settee and a jardiniÃ¨re full of flowering plants. A small automatic lift faced him, with a flight of stairs at one side of it. On the right of the hall was a door marked Office. Spence pushed it open and went through. He found himself in a small room with a counter, behind which was a table and a typewriter, and two chairs. One was drawn up to the table, the other, a more decorative one, was set at an angle to the window. There was no one visible.

Spying a bell inset on the mahogany counter, Spence pressed it. When nothing happened, he pressed it again. A minute or so later a door in the far wall was opened and a resplendent person in uniform appeared. His appearance was that of a foreign General or possibly Field Marshal, but his speech was of London and uneducated London at that.

âYes, sir?â

âMrs. Gordon Cloade.â

âThird floor, sir. Shall I ring through first?â

âSheâs here, is she?â said Spence. âI had an idea she might be in the country.â

âNo, sir, sheâs been here since Saturday last.â

âAnd Mr. David Hunter?â

âMr. Hunterâs been here, too.â

âHeâs not been away?â

âNo, sir.â

âWas he here last night?â

âNow then,â said the Field Marshal, suddenly becoming aggressive. âWhatâs all this about? Want to know every oneâs life history?â

Silently Spence displayed his warrant card. The Field Marshal was immediately deflated and became cooperative.

âSorry, Iâm sure,â he said. âCouldnât tell, could I?â

âNow then, was Mr. Hunter here last night?â

âYes, sir, he was. At least to the best of my belief he was. That is, he didnât say he was going away.â

âWould you know if he was away?â

âWell, generally speaking, no. I donât suppose I should. Gentlemen and ladies usually say if theyâre not going to be here. Leave word about letters or what they want said if any one rings up.â

âDo telephone calls go through this office?â

âNo, most of the flats have their own lines. One or two prefer not to have a telephone and then we send up word on the house phone and the people come down and speak from the box in the hall.â

âBut Mrs. Cloadeâs flat has its own phone?â

âYes, sir.â

âAnd as far as you know they were both here last night?â

âThatâs right.â

âWhat about meals?â

âThereâs a restaurant, but Mrs. Cloade and Mr. Hunter donât very often use it. They usually go out to dinner.â

âBreakfast?â

âThatâs served in the flats.â

âCan you find out if breakfast was served this morning to them?â

âYes, sir. I can find out from room service.â

Spence nodded. âIâm going up now. Let me know about that when I come down.â

âVery good, sir.â

Spence entered the lift and pressed the button for the third floor. There were only two flats on each landing. Spence pushed the bell of No. 9.

David Hunter opened it. He did not know the Superintendent by sight and he spoke brusquely.

âWell, what is it?â

âMr. Hunter?â

âYes.â

âSuperintendent Spence of the Oastshire County Police. Can I have a word with you?â

âI apologize, Superintendent.â He grinned. âI thought you were a tout. Come in.â

He led the way into a modern and charming room. Rosaleen Cloade was standing by the window and turned at their entrance.

âSuperintendent Spence, Rosaleen,â said Hunter. âSit down, Superintendent. Have a drink?â

âNo, thank you, Mr. Hunter.â

Rosaleen had inclined her head slightly. She sat now, her back to the window, her hands clasped tightly on her lap.

âSmoke?â David proferred cigarettes.

âThanks.â Spence took a cigarette, waitedâ¦watched David slide a hand into a pocket, slide it out, frown, look round and pick up a box of matches. He struck one and lit the Superintendentâs cigarette.

âThank you, sir.â

âWell,â said David, easily, as he lit his own cigarette. âWhatâs wrong at Warmsley Vale? Has our cook been dealing in the black market? She provides us with wonderful food, and Iâve always wondered if there was some sinister story behind it.â

âItâs rather more serious than that,â said the Superintendent. âA man died at the Stag Inn last night. Perhaps you saw it in the papers?â

David shook his head.

âNo, I didnât notice it. What about him?â

âHe didnât only die. He was killed. His head was stove in as a matter of fact.â

A half-choked exclamation came from Rosaleen. David said quickly:

âPlease, Superintendent, donât enlarge on any details. My sister is delicate. She canât help it, but if you mention blood and horrors sheâll probably faint.â

âOh, Iâm sorry,â said the Superintendent. âBut there wasnât any blood to speak of. It was murder right enough, though.â

He paused. Davidâs eyebrows went up. He said gently:

âYou interest me. Where do we come in?â

âWe hoped you might be able to tell us something about this man, Mr. Hunter.â

âI?â

âYou called to see him on Saturday evening last. His nameâor the name he was registered underâwas Enoch Arden.â

âYes, of course. I remember now.â

David spoke quietly, without embarrassment.

âWell, Mr. Hunter?â

âWell, Superintendent, Iâm afraid I canât help you. I know next to nothing about the man.â

âWas his name really Enoch Arden?â

âI should very much doubt it.â

âWhy did you go to see him?â

âJust one of the usual hard-luck stories. He mentioned certain places, war experiences, peopleââ David shrugged his shoulders. âJust a touch, Iâm afraid. The whole thing rather bogus.â

âDid you give him any money, sir?â

There was a fractional pause and then David said:

âJust a fiverâfor luck. Heâd been in the war all right.â

âHe mentioned certain names that youâknew?â

âYes.â

âWas one of those names Captain Robert Underhay?â

Now at last he got his effect. David stiffened. Behind him, Rosaleen gave a little frightened gasp.

âWhat makes you think that, Superintendent?â David asked at last. His eyes were cautious, probing.

âInformation received,â said the Superintendent stolidly.

There was a short silence. The Superintendent was aware of Davidâs eyes, studying him, sizing him up, striving to knowâ¦He himself waited quietly.

âAny idea who Robert Underhay was, Superintendent?â David asked.

âSuppose you tell me, sir.â

âRobert Underhay was my sisterâs first husband. He died in Africa some years ago.â

âQuite sure of that, Mr. Hunter?â Spence asked quickly.

âQuite sure. Thatâs so, isnât it, Rosaleen?â He turned to her.

âOh, yes.â She spoke quickly and breathlessly. âRobert died of feverâblackwater fever. It was very sad.â

âSometimes stories get about that arenât quite true, Mrs. Cloade.â

She said nothing. She was looking not at him, but at her brother. Then, after a moment, she said:

âRobertâs dead.â

âFrom information in my possession,â said the Superintendent, âI understand that this man, Enoch Arden, claimed to be a friend of the late Robert Underhay and at the same time informed you, Mr. Hunter, that Robert Underhay was alive.â

David shook his head.

âNonsense,â he said. âAbsolute nonsense.â

âYou state definitely that the name of Robert Underhay was not mentioned?â

âOh,â David smiled charmingly, âit was mentioned. This poor fellow had known Underhay.â

âThere was no question ofâblackmail, Mr. Hunter?â

âBlackmail? I donât understand you, Superintendent.â

âDonât you really, Mr. Hunter? By the way, just as a matter of form, where were you last nightâbetween, shall we say, seven and eleven?â

âJust as a matter of form, Superintendent, suppose I refuse to answer?â

âArenât you behaving rather childishly, Mr. Hunter?â

âI donât think so. I dislikeâI always have disliked, being bullied.â

The Superintendent thought that was probably true.

Heâd known witnesses of the David Hunter type before. Witnesses who were obstructive for the sake of being obstructive, and not in the least because they had anything to hide. The mere fact of being asked to account for their comings and goings seemed to raise a black pride and sullenness in them. They would make it a point to give the law all the trouble they could.

Superintendent Spence, though he prided himself on being a fair-minded man, had nevertheless come to Shepherdâs Court with a very strong conviction that David Hunter was a murderer.

Now, for the first time, he was not so sure. The very puerility of Davidâs defiance awoke doubts in him.

Spence looked at Rosaleen Cloade. She responded at once.

âDavid, why donât you tell him?â

âThatâs right, Mrs. Cloade. We only want to clear things upââ

David broke in savagely:

âYouâll stop bullying my sister, do you hear? What is it to you where I may have been, here, or at Warmsley Vale or in Timbuctoo?â

Spence said warningly:

âYouâll be subpoenaed for the inquest, Mr. Hunter, and there youâll have to answer questions.â

âIâll wait for the inquest, then! And now, Superintendent, will you get to hell out of here?â

âVery good, sir.â The Superintendent rose, imperturbable. âBut Iâve something to ask Mrs. Cloade first.â

âI donât want my sister worried.â

âQuite so. But I want her to look at the body and tell me if she can identify it. Iâm within my rights there. Itâll have to be done sooner or later. Why not let her come down with me now and get it over? The late Mr. Arden was heard by a witness to say that he knew Robert Underhayâergo he may have known Mrs. Underhayâand therefore Mrs. Underhay may know him. If his name isnât Enoch Arden, we could do with knowing what it really is.â

Rather unexpectedly Rosaleen Cloade got up.

âIâll come, of course,â she said.

Spence expected a fresh outburst from David, but to his surprise the other grinned.

âGood for you, Rosaleen,â he said. âIâll confess, Iâm curious myself. After all, you may be able to put a name to the fellow.â

Spence said to her:

âYou didnât see him yourself in Warmsley Vale?â

She shook her head.

âIâve been in London since Saturday last.â

âAnd Arden arrived on Friday nightâyes.â

Rosaleen asked: âDo you want me to come now?â

She asked the question with something of the submissiveness of a little girl. In spite of himself the Superintendent was favourably impressed. There was a docility, a willingness about her which he had not expected.

âThat would be very nice of you, Mrs. Cloade,â he said. âThe sooner we can get certain facts definitely established the better. I havenât got a police car here, Iâm afraid.â

David crossed to the telephone.

âIâll ring up the Daimler Hire. Itâs beyond the legal limitâbut I expect you can square that, Superintendent.â

âI think that can be arranged, Mr. Hunter.â

He got up. âIâll be waiting for you downstairs.â

He went down in the lift and pushed open the office door once more.

The Field Marshal was awaiting him.

âWell?â

âBoth beds slept in last night, sir. Baths and towels used. Breakfast was served to them in the flat at nine-thirty.â

âAnd you donât know what time Mr. Hunter came in yesterday evening?â

âI canât tell you anything further, Iâm afraid, sir!â

Well, that was that, Spence thought. He wondered if there was anything behind Davidâs refusal to speak except pure childlike defiance. He must realize that a charge of murder was hovering over him. Surely he must see that the sooner he told his story the better. Never a good thing to antagonize the police. But antagonizing the police, he thought ruefully, was just what David Hunter would enjoy doing.

They talked very little on the way down. When they arrived at the mortuary Rosaleen Cloade was very pale. Her hands were shaking. David looked concerned for her. He spoke to her as though she was a small child.

âItâll be only a minute or two, mavourneen. Itâs nothing at all, nothing at all now. Donât get worked up. You go in with the Superintendent and Iâll wait for you. And thereâs nothing at all to mind about. Peaceful heâll look and just as though he were asleep.â

She gave him a little nod of the head and stretched out her hand. He gave it a little squeeze.

âBe a brave girl now, alanna.â

As she followed the Superintendent she said in her soft voice: âYou must think Iâm a terrible coward, Superintendent. But when theyâve been all dead in the houseâall dead but youâthat awful night in Londonââ

He said gently: âI understand, Mrs. Cloade. I know you went through a bad experience in the Blitz when your husband was killed. Really, it will be only a minute or two.â

At a sign from Spence the sheet was turned back. Rosaleen Cloade stood looking down at the man who had called himself Enoch Arden. Spence, unobtrusively standing to one side, was actually watching her closely.

She looked at the dead man curiously and as though wonderingâshe gave no start, no sign of emotion or recognition, just looked long and wonderingly at him. Then, very quietly, in an almost matter-of-fact way, she made the sign of the cross.

âGod rest his soul,â she said. âIâve never seen that man in my life. I donât know who he is.â

Spence thought to himself:

âEither youâre one of the finest actresses Iâve ever known or else youâre speaking the truth.â

Later, Spence rang up Rowley Cloade.

âIâve had the widow down,â he said. âShe says definitely that heâs not Robert Underlay and that sheâs never seen him before. So that settles that!â

There was a pause. Then Rowley said slowly:

âDoes it settle it?â

âI think a jury would believe herâin the absence of evidence to the contrary, of course.â

âYe-es,â said Rowley and rang off.

Then, frowning, he picked up not the local telephone directory, but the London one. His forefingers ran methodically down the letter P. Presently he found what he wanted.

BOOK II

One

I

Hercule Poirot carefully folded the last of the newspapers he had sent George out to purchase. The information they gave was somewhat meagre. Medical evidence was given that the manâs skull was fractured by a series of heavy blows. The inquest had been adjourned for a fortnight. Anybody who could give information about a man named Enoch Arden believed to have lately arrived from Cape Town was asked to communicate with the Chief Constable of Oastshire.

Poirot laid the papers in a neat pile and gave himself up to meditation. He was interested. He might, perhaps, have passed the first small paragraph by without interest if it had not been for the recent visit of Mrs. Lionel Cloade. But that visit had recalled to him very clearly the incidents of that day at the club during that air raid. He remembered, very distinctly, Major Porterâs voice saying, âMaybe a Mr. Enoch Arden will turn up somewhere a thousand miles away and start life anew.â He wanted now, rather badly, to know more about this man called Enoch Arden who had died by violence at Warmsley Vale.

He remembered that he was slightly acquainted with Superintendent Spence of the Oastshire police and he also remembered that young Mellon lived not very far from Warmsley Heath, and that young Mellon knew Jeremy Cloade.

It was while he was meditating a telephone call to young Mellon that George came in and announced that a Mr. Rowland Cloade would like to see him.

âAha,â said Hercule Poirot with satisfaction. âShow him in.â

A good-looking worried young man was shown in, and seemed rather at a loss how to begin.

âWell, Mr. Cloade,â said Poirot helpfully, âand what can I do for you?â

Rowley Cloade was eyeing Poirot rather doubtfully. The flamboyant moustaches, the sartorial elegance, the white spats and the pointed patent-leather shoes all filled this insular young man with distinct misgivings.

Poirot realized this perfectly well, and was somewhat amused.

Rowley Cloade began rather heavily:

âIâm afraid Iâll have to explain who I am and all that. You wonât know my nameââ

Poirot interrupted him:

âBut yes, I know your name perfectly. Your aunt, you see, came to see me last week.â

âMy aunt?â Rowleyâs jaw dropped. He stared at Poirot with the utmost astonishment. This so clearly was news to him, that Poirot put aside his first surmise which was that the two visits were connected. For a moment it seemed to him a remarkable coincidence that two members of the Cloade family should choose to consult him within such a short period of time, but a second later he realized that there was no coincidenceâmerely a natural sequence proceeding from one initial cause.

Aloud he said:

âI assume that Mrs. Lionel Cloade is your aunt.â

If anything Rowley looked rather more astonished than before.

He said with the utmost incredulity:

âAunt Kathie? Surelyâdonât you meanâMrs. Jeremy Cloade?â

Poirot shook his head.

âBut what on earth could Aunt Kathieââ

Poirot murmured discreetly:

âShe was directed to me, I understand, by spirit guidance.â

âOh Lord!â said Rowley. He looked relieved and amused. He said, as though reassuring Poirot, âSheâs quite harmless, you know.â

âI wonder,â said Poirot.

âWhat do you mean?â

âIs anybodyâeverâquite harmless?â

Rowley stared. Poirot sighed.

âYou have come to me to ask me something?âYes?â he prompted gently.

The worried look came back to Rowleyâs face.

âItâs rather a long story, Iâm afraidââ

Poirot was afraid of it, too. He had a very shrewd idea that Rowley Cloade was not the sort of person to come to the point quickly. He leaned back and half-closed his eyes as Rowley began:

âMy uncle, you see, was Gordon Cloadeââ

âI know all about Gordon Cloade,â said Poirot, helpfully.

âGood. Then I neednât explain. He married a few weeks before his deathâa young widow called Underhay. Since his death she has been living at Warmsley Valeâshe and a brother of hers. We all understood that her first husband had died of fever in Africa. But now it seems as though that mightnât be so.â

âAh,â Poirot sat up. âAnd what has led you to that surmise?â

Rowley described the advent of Mr. Enoch Arden in Warmsley Vale. âPerhaps you have seen in the papersââ

âYes, I have seen.â Poirot was again helpful.

Rowley went on. He described his first impression of the man Arden, his visit to the Stag, the letter he had received from Beatrice Lippincott and finally the conversation that Beatrice had overheard.

âOf course,â Rowley said, âone canât be sure just what she did hear. She may have exaggerated it all a bitâor even got it wrong.â

âHas she told her story to the police?â

Rowley nodded. âI told her sheâd better.â

âI donât quite seeâpardon meâwhy you come to me, Mr. Cloade? Do you want me to investigate thisâmurder? For it is murder, I assume.â

âLord, no,â said Rowley. âI donât want anything of that kind. Thatâs a police job. He was bumped off all right. No, what Iâm after is this. I want you to find out who the fellow was.â

Poirotâs eyes narrowed.

âWho do you think he was, Mr. Cloade?â

âWell, I meanâEnoch Arden isnât a name. Dash it all, itâs a quotation. Tennyson. I went and mugged it up. Fellow who comes back and finds out his wife has married another fellow.â

âSo you think,â said Poirot quietly, âthat Enoch Arden was Robert Underhay himself?â

Rowley said slowly:

âWell, he might have beenâI mean, about the right age and appearance and all that. Of course Iâve gone over it all with Beatrice again and again. She canât naturally remember exactly what they both said. The chap said Robert Underhay had come down in the world and was in bad health and needed money. Well, he might have been talking about himself, mightnât he? He seems to have said something about it wouldnât suit David Hunterâs book if Underhay turned up in Warmsley Valeâsounding a bit as though he was there under an assumed name.â

âWhat evidence of identification was there at the inquest?â

Rowley shook his head.

âNothing definite. Only the Stag people saying he was the man whoâd come there and registered as Enoch Arden.â

âWhat about his papers?â

âHe hadnât any.â

âWhat?â Poirot sat up in surprise. âNo papers of any kind?â

âNothing at all. Some spare socks and a shirt and a toothbrush, etc.âbut no papers.â

âNo passport? No letters? Not even a ration card?â

âNothing at all.â

âThat,â said Poirot, âis very interesting. Yes, very interesting.â

Rowley went on: âDavid Hunter, thatâs Rosaleen Cloadeâs brother, had called to see him the evening after he arrived. His story to the police is that heâd had a letter from the chap saying he had been a friend of Robert Underhayâs and was down and out. At his sisterâs request he went to the Stag and saw the fellow and gave him a fiver. Thatâs his story and you bet he means to stick to it! Of course the police are keeping dark about what Beatrice heard.â

âDavid Hunter says he had no previous acquaintance with the man?â

âThatâs what he says. Anyway, I gather Hunter never met Underhay.â

âAnd what about Rosaleen Cloade?â

âThe police asked her to look at the body in case she knew the man. She told them that he was a complete stranger to her.â

âEh bien,â said Poirot. âThen that answers your question!â

âDoes it?â said Rowley bluntly. âI think not. If the dead man is Underhay then Rosaleen was never my uncleâs wife and sheâs not entitled to a penny of his money. Do you think she would recognize him under those circumstances?â

âYou donât trust her?â

âI donât trust either of them.

âSurely there are plenty of people who could say for certain that the dead man is or is not Underhay?â

âIt doesnât seem to be so easy. Thatâs what I want you to do. Find someone who knows Underhay. Apparently he has no living relations in this countryâand he was always an unsociable lonely sort of chap. I suppose there must be old servantsâfriendsâsomeoneâbut the warâs broken up everything and shifted people round. I wouldnât know how to begin to tackle the jobâanyway I havenât the time. Iâm a farmerâand Iâm shorthanded.â

âWhy me?â said Hercule Poirot.

Rowley looked embarrassed.

A faint twinkle came into Poirotâs eye.

âSpirit guidance?â he murmured.

âGood Lord, no,â said Rowley horrified. âMatter of fact,â he hesitated, âI heard a fellow I know talk about youâsaid you were a wizard at these sort of things. I donât know about your feesâexpensive, I expectâweâre rather a stony-broke lot, but I dare say we could cough it up amongst the lot of us. That is, if youâll take it on.â

Hercule Poirot said slowly:

âYes, I think perhaps I can help you.â

His memory, a very precise and definite memory, went back. The club bore, the rustling newspapers, the monotonous voice.

The nameâhe had heard the nameâit would come back to him presently. If not, he could always ask Mellonâ¦No, he had got it. Porter. Major Porter.

Hercule Poirot rose to his feet.

âWill you come back here this afternoon, Mr. Cloade?â

âWellâI donât know. Yes, I suppose I could. But surely you canât do anything in that short time?â

He looked at Poirot with awe and incredulity. Poirot would have been less than human if he could have resisted the temptation to show off. With memories of a brilliant predecessor in his mind, he said solemnly:

âI have my methods, Mr. Cloade.â

It was clearly the right thing to say. Rowleyâs expression became respectful in the extreme.

âYesâof courseâreallyâI donât know how you people do these things.â

Poirot did not enlighten him. When Rowley had gone, he sat down and wrote a short note. Giving it to George he instructed him to take it to the Coronation Club and wait for an answer.

The answer was highly satisfactory. Major Porter presented his compliments to M. Hercule Poirot and would be happy to see him and his friend at 79 Edgeway Street, Campden Hill, that afternoon at five oâclock.

II

At four-thirty Rowley Cloade reappeared.

âAny luck, M. Poirot?â

âBut yes, Mr. Cloade, we go now to see an old friend of Captain Robert Underhayâs.â

âWhat?â Rowleyâs mouth fell open. He stared at Poirot with the amazement a small boy shows when a conjurer produces rabbits out of a hat. âBut itâs incredible! I donât understand how you can do these thingsâwhy, itâs only a few hours.â

Poirot waved a deprecating hand and tried to look modest. He had no intention of revealing the simplicity with which his conjuring trick had been done. His vanity was pleased to impress this simple Rowley.

The two men went out together, and hailing a taxi they drove to Campden Hill.

III

Major Porter had the first floor of a small shabby house. They were admitted by a cheerful blowsy-looking woman who took them up. It was a square room with bookshelves round it and some rather bad sporting prints. There were two rugs on the floorâgood rugs with lovely dim colour but very worn. Poirot noticed that the centre of the floor was covered with a new heavy varnish whereas the varnish round the edge was old and rubbed. He realized then that there had been other better rugs until recentlyârugs that were worth good money in these days. He looked up at the man standing erect by the fireplace in his well-cut shabby suit. Poirot guessed that for Major Porter, retired Army officer, life was lived very near the bone. Taxation and increased cost of living struck hardest at the old war-horses. Some things, he guessed, Major Porter would cling to until the end. His club subscription, for instance.

Major Porter was speaking jerkily.

ââFraid I donât remember meeting you, M. Poirot. At the club, you say? Couple of years ago? Know your name of course.â

âThis,â said Poirot, âis Mr. Rowland Cloade.â

Major Porter jerked his head in honour of the introduction.

âHow dâye do?â he said. ââFraid I canât ask you to have a glass of sherry. Matter of fact my wine merchant has lost his stock in the Blitz. Got some gin. Filthy stuff, I always think. Or what about some beer?â

They accepted beer. Major Porter produced a cigarette case. âSmoke?â Poirot accepted a cigarette. The Major struck a match and lighted Poirotâs cigarette.

âYou donât, I know,â said the Major to Rowley: âMind if I light my pipe?â He did so with a good deal of sucking and blowing.

âNow then,â he said when all these preliminaries had been accomplished. âWhatâs all this about?â

He looked from one to the other of them.

Poirot said: âYou may have read in the paper of the death of a man at Warmsley Vale?â

Porter shook his head.

âMay have. Donât think so.â

âHis name was Arden. Enoch Arden?â

Porter still shook his head.

âHe was found at the Stag Inn with the back of his head smashed in.â

Porter frowned.

âLet me seeâyes, did see something about it, I believeâsome days ago.â

âYes. I have here a photographâit is a press photograph and not very clear, Iâm afraid! What we should like to know, Major Porter, is whether you have ever seen this man before?â

He handed over the best reproduction of the dead manâs face he had been able to find.

Major Porter took it and frowned at it.

âWait a sec.â The Major took out his spectacles, adjusted them on his nose and studied the photograph more closelyâthen he gave a sudden start.

âGod bless my soul!â he said. âWell, Iâm damned!â

âYou know the man, Major?â

âOf course I know him. Itâs UnderhayâRobert Underhay.â

âYouâre sure of that?â There was triumph in Rowleyâs voice.

âOf course Iâm sure. Robert Underhay! Iâd swear to it anywhere.â

Two

The telephone rang and Lynn went to answer it.

Rowleyâs voice spoke.

âLynn?â

âRowley?â

Her voice sounded depressed. He said:

âWhat are you up to? I never see you these days.â

âOh, wellâitâs all choresâyou know. Running round with a basket, waiting for fish and queueing up for a bit of quite disgusting cake. All that sort of thing. Home life.â

âI want to see you. Iâve got something to tell you.â

âWhat sort of thing?â

He gave a chuckle.

âGood news. Meet me by Rolland Copse. Weâre ploughing up there.â

Good news? Lynn put the receiver down. What to Rowley Cloade would be good news? Finance? Had he sold that young bull at a better price than he had hoped to get?

No, she thought, it must be more than that. As she walked up the field to Rolland Copse, Rowley left the tractor and came to meet her.

âHallo, Lynn.â

âWhy, Rowleyâyou lookâdifferent, somehow?â

He laughed.

âI should think I do. Our luckâs turned, Lynn!â

âWhat do you mean?â

âDo you remember old Jeremy mentioning a chap called Hercule Poirot?â

âHercule Poirot?â Lynn frowned. âYes, I do remember somethingââ

âQuite a long time ago. When the war was on. They were in that mausoleum of a club of his and there was an air raid.â

âWell?â Lynn demanded impatiently.

âFellow has the wrong clothes and all that. French chapâor Belgian. Queer fellow but heâs the goods all right.â

Lynn knit her brows.

âWasnât heâa detective?â

âThatâs right. Well, you know, this fellow who was done in at the Stag. I didnât tell you but an idea was getting around that he might just possibly be Rosaleen Cloadeâs first husband.â

Lynn laughed.

âSimply because he called himself Enoch Arden? What an absurd idea!â

âNot so absurd, my girl. Old Spence got Rosaleen down to have a look at him. And she swore quite firmly that he wasnât her husband.â

âSo that finished it?â

âIt might have,â said Rowley. âBut for me!â

âFor you? What did you do?â

âI went to this fellow Hercule Poirot. I told him we wanted another opinion. Could he rustle up someone who had actually known Robert Underhay? My word, but heâs absolutely wizard that chap! Just like rabbits out of a hat. He produced a fellow who was Underhayâs best friend in a few hours. Old boy called Porter.â Rowley stopped. Then he chuckled again with that note of excitement that had surprised and startled Lynn. âNow keep this under your hat, Lynn. The Super swore me to secrecyâbut Iâd like you to know. The dead man is Robert Underhay.â

âWhat?â Lynn took a step back. She stared at Rowley blankly.

âRobert Underhay himself. Porter hadnât the least doubt. So you see, LynnââRowleyâs voice rose excitedlyââweâve won! After all, weâve won! Weâve beaten those damned crooks!â

âWhat damned crooks?â

âHunter and his sister. Theyâre lickedâout of it. Rosaleen doesnât get Gordonâs money. We get it. Itâs ours! Gordonâs will that he made before he married Rosaleen holds good and that divides it amongst us. I get a fourth share. See? If her first husband was alive when she married Gordon, she was never married to Gordon at all!â

âAre youâare you sure of what youâre saying?â

He stared at her, for the first time he looked faintly puzzled.

âOf course Iâm sure! Itâs elementary. Everythingâs all right now. Itâs the same as Gordon meant it to be. Everythingâs the same as if that precious pair had never butted in.â

Everythingâs the sameâ¦But you couldnât, Lynn thought, wash out like that something that had happened. You couldnât pretend that it had never been. She said slowly:

âWhat will they do?â

âEh?â She saw that until that moment Rowley had hardly considered that question. âI donât know. Go back where they came from, I suppose. I think, you knowââ She could see him slowly following it out. âYes, I think we ought to do something for her. I mean, she married Gordon in all good faith. I gather she really believed her first husband was dead. Itâs not her fault. Yes, we must do something about herâgive her a decent allowance. Make it up between us all.â

âYou like her, donât you?â said Lynn.

âWell, yes.â He considered. âI do in a way. Sheâs a nice kid. She knows a cow when she sees it.â

âI donât,â said Lynn.

âOh, youâll learn,â said Rowley kindly.

âAnd what aboutâDavid?â asked Lynn.

Rowley scowled.

âTo hell with David! It was never his money anyway. He just came along and sponged on his sister.â

âNo, Rowley, it wasnât like thatâit wasnât. Heâs not a sponger. Heâsâan adventurer, perhapsââ

âAnd a ruddy murderer!â

She said breathlessly:

âWhat do you mean?â

âWell, who do you think killed Underhay?â

She cried:

âI donât believe it! I donât believe it!â

âOf course he killed Underhay! Who else could have done it? He was down here that day. Came down by the five thirty. I was meeting some stuff at the station and caught sight of him in the distance.â

Lynn said sharply:

âHe went back to London that evening.â

âAfter having killed Underhay,â said Rowley triumphantly.

âYou oughtnât to say things like that, Rowley. What time was Underhay killed?â

âWellâI donât know exactly.â Rowley slowed upâconsidered. âDonât suppose we shall know until the inquest tomorrow. Some time between nine and ten, I imagine.â

âDavid caught the nine-twenty train back to London.â

âLook here, Lynn, how do you know?â

âIâI met himâhe was running for it.â

âHow do you know he ever caught it?â

âBecause he telephoned me from London later.â

Rowley scowled angrily.

âWhat the hell should he telephone you for? Look here, Lynn, Iâm damned if Iââ

âOh, what does it matter, Rowley? Anyway, it shows he caught that train.â

âPlenty of time to have killed Underhay and then run for the train.â

âNot if he was killed after nine oâclock.â

âWell, he may have been killed just before nine.â

But his voice was a little doubtful.

Lynn half-closed her eyes. Was that the truth of it? When, breathless, swearing, David had emerged from the copse, had it been a murderer fresh from his crime who had taken her in his arms? She remembered his curious excitementâthe recklessness of his mood. Was that the way that murder would affect him? It might. She had to admit it. Were David and murder so far removed from each other? Would he kill a man who had never done him any harmâa ghost from the past? A man whose only crime was to stand between Rosaleen and a big inheritanceâbetween David and the enjoyment of Rosaleenâs money.

She murmured:

âWhy should he kill Underhay?â

âMy God, Lynn, can you ask? Iâve just told you! Underhayâs being alive means that we get Gordonâs money! Anyway, Underhay was blackmailing him.â

Ah, that fell more into the pattern. David might kill a blackmailerâin fact, wasnât it just the way he would deal with a blackmailer? Yes, it all fell into pattern. Davidâs haste, his excitementâhis fierce, almost angry, lovemaking. And, later, his renouncement of her. âIâd better clear outâ¦â Yes, it fitted.

From a long way away, she heard Rowleyâs voice asking:

âWhatâs the matter, Lynn? Are you feeling all right?â

âYes, of course.â

âWell, for heavenâs sake, donât look so glum.â He turned, looking down the hillside to Long Willows. âThank goodness, we can have the place smartened up a bit nowâget some labour-saving gadgets put inâmake it right for you. I donât want you to pig it, Lynn.â

That was to be her homeâthat house. Her home with Rowleyâ¦.

And one morning at eight oâclock, David would swing by the neck until he was deadâ¦.

Three

With a pale determined face and watchful eyes, David had his hands on Rosaleenâs shoulders.

âIt will be all right, Iâm telling you, it will be all right. But you must keep your head and do exactly as I tell you.â

âAnd if they take you away? You said that! You did say that they might take you away.â

âItâs a possibility, yes. But it wonât be for long. Not if you keep your head.â

âIâll do what you tell me, David.â

âThereâs the girl! All you have to do, Rosaleen, is to stick to your story. Hold to it that the dead man is not your husband, Robert Underhay.â

âTheyâll trap me into saying things I donât mean.â

âNoâthey wonât. Itâs all right, I tell you.â

âNo, itâs wrongâitâs been wrong all along. Taking money that doesnât belong to us. I lie awake nights thinking of it, David. Taking what doesnât belong to us. God is punishing us for our wickedness.â

He looked at her, frowning. She was crackingâyes, definitely she was cracking. There had always been that religious streak. Her conscience had never been quite stilled. Now, unless he was extremely lucky, sheâd break down completely. Well, there was only one thing to be done.

âListen, Rosaleen,â he said gently. âDo you want me to be hanged?â

Her eyes widened in horror.

âOh, David, you wouldnâtâthey couldnâtââ

âThereâs only one person who can hang meâthatâs you. If you once admit, by look or sign or word, that the dead man might be Underhay, you put the rope round my neck! Do you understand that?â

Yes, that had got home. She gazed at him with wide, horrified eyes.

âIâm so stupid, David.â

âNo, youâre not. In any case you havenât got to be clever. Youâll have to swear solemnly that the dead man is not your husband. You can do that?â

She nodded.

âLook stupid if you like. Look as if you donât understand quite what theyâre asking you. That will do no harm. But stand firm on the points Iâve gone over with you. Gaythorne will look after you. Heâs a very able criminal lawyerâthatâs why Iâve got him. Heâll be at the inquest and heâll protect you from any heckling. But even to him stick to your story. For Godâs sake donât try to be clever or think you can help me by some line of your own.â

âIâll do it, David. Iâll do exactly what you tell me.â

âGood girl. When itâs all over weâll go awayâto the South of Franceâto America. In the meantime, take care of your health. Donât lie awake at nights fretting and working yourself up. Take those sleepings things Dr. Cloade prescribed for youâbromide or something. Take one every night, cheer up, and remember thereâs a good time coming!

âNowââ he looked at his watch. âItâs time to go to the inquest. Itâs called for eleven.â

He looked round the long beautiful drawing room. Beauty, comfort, wealthâ¦Heâd enjoyed it all. A fine house, Furrowbank. Perhaps this was Goodbyeâ¦.

Heâd got himself into a jamâthat was certain. But even now he didnât regret. And for the futureâwell, heâd go on taking chances. âAnd we must take the current when it serves or lose our ventures.â

He looked at Rosaleen. She was watching him with large appealing eyes and intuitively he knew what she wanted.

âI didnât kill him, Rosaleen,â he said gently. âI swear it to you by every saint in your calendar!â

Four

The Inquest was held in the Cornmarket.

The coroner, Mr. Pebmarsh, was a small fussy man with glasses and a considerable sense of his own importance.

Beside him sat the large bulk of Superintendent Spence. In an unobtrusive seat was a small foreign-looking man with a large black moustache. The Cloade family: the Jeremy Cloades, the Lionel Cloades, Rowley Cloade, Mrs. Marchmont and Lynnâthey were all there. Major Porter sat by himself, fidgeting and ill at ease. David and Rosaleen arrived last. They sat by themselves.

The coroner cleared his throat and glancing round the jury of nine local worthies, started proceedings.

Constable Peacockâ

Sergeant Vaneâ¦.

Dr. Lionel Cloadeâ¦.

âYou were attending a patient professionally at the Stag, when Gladys Aitkin came to you. What did she say?â

âShe informed me that the occupant of No. 5 was lying on the floor dead.â

âIn consequence you went up to No. 5?â

âI did.â

âWill you describe what you found there?â

Dr. Cloade described. Body of a manâ¦face downwardsâ¦head injuriesâ¦back of skullâ¦fire tongs.

âYou were of opinion, that the injuries were inflicted with the tongs in question?â

âSome of them unquestionably were.â

âAnd that several blows had been struck?â

âYes. I did not make a detailed examination as I considered that the police should be called before the body was touched or its position altered.â

âVery proper. The man was dead?â

âYes. He had been dead for some hours.â

âHow long in your opinion had he been dead?â

âI should hesitate to be very definite about that. At least eleven hoursâquite possibly thirteen or fourteenâlet us say between 7:30 and 10:30 p.m. the preceding evening.â

âThank you, Dr. Cloade.â

Then came the police surgeonâgiving a full and technical description of the wounds. There was an abrasion and swelling on the lower jaw and five or six blows had been struck on the base of the skull, some of which had been delivered after death.

âIt was an assault of great savagery?â

âExactly.â

âWould great strength have been needed to inflict these blows?â

âN-no, not exactly strength. The tongs, grasped by the pincers end, could be easily swung without much exertion. The heavy steel ball which forms the head of the tongs makes them a formidable weapon. Quite a delicate person could have inflicted the injuries if, that is to say, they were struck in a frenzy of excitement.â

âThank you, Doctor.â

Details as to the condition of the body followedâwell nourished, healthy, age about forty-five. No signs of illness or diseaseâheart, lungs, etc., all good.

Beatrice Lippincott gave evidence of the arrival of the deceased. He had registered as Enoch Arden, Cape Town.

âDid deceased produce a ration book?â

âNo, sir.â

âDid you ask him for one?â

âNot at first. I did not know how long he was staying.â

âBut you did eventually ask him?â

âYes, sir. He arrived on the Friday and on Saturday I said if he was staying more than five days would he please let me have his ration book.â

âWhat did he say to that?â

âHe said he would give it to me.â

âBut he did not actually do so?â

âNo.â

âHe did not say that he had lost it? Or had not got one?â

âOh, no. He just said, âIâll look it out and bring it along.ââ

âMiss Lippincott, did you, on the night of Saturday, overhear a certain conversation?â

With a good deal of elaborate explanation as to the necessity she was under of visiting No. 4, Beatrice Lippincott told her tale. The coroner guided her astutely.

âThank you. Did you mention this conversation you had overheard to anybody?â

âYes, I told Mr. Rowley Cloade.â

âWhy did you tell Mr. Cloade?â

âI thought he ought to know.â Beatrice flushed.

A tall thin man (Mr. Gaythorne) rose and asked permission to put a question.

âIn the course of the conversation between the deceased and Mr. David Hunter did the deceased at any time mention definitely that he himself was Robert Underhay?â

âNoânoâhe didnât.â

âIn fact he spoke of âRobert Underhayâ as though Robert Underhay was quite another person?â

âYesâyes, he did.â

âThank you, Mr. Coroner, that was all I wanted to get clear.â

Beatrice Lippincott stood down and Rowley Cloade was called.

He confirmed that Beatrice had repeated the story to him and then gave his account of his interview with the deceased.

âHis last words to you were, âI donât think youâll prove that without my cooperation?â âThatââbeing the fact that Robert Underhay was still alive.â

âThatâs what he said, yes. And he laughed.â

âHe laughed, did he? What did you take those words to mean?â

âWellâI just thought he was trying to get me to make him an offer, but afterwards I got thinkingââ

âYes, Mr. Cloadeâbut what you thought afterwards is hardly relevant. Shall we put it that as a result of that interview you set about trying to find some person who was acquainted with the late Robert Underhay? And that, with certain help, you were successful.â

Rowley nodded.

âThatâs right.â

âWhat time was it when you left the deceased?â

âAs nearly as I can tell it was five minutes to nine.â

âWhat made you fix on that time?â

âAs I went along the street I heard the nine oâclock chimes through an open window.â

âDid the deceased mention at what time he was expecting this client?â

âHe said âAt any minute.ââ

âHe did not mention any name?â

âNo.â

âDavid Hunter!â

There was just a faint soft buzz as the inhabitants of Warmsley Vale craned their necks to look at the tall thin bitter-looking young man who stood defiantly facing the coroner.

The preliminaries went rapidly. The coroner continued:

âYou went to see the deceased on Saturday evening?â

âYes. I received a letter from him asking for assistance and stating he had known my sisterâs first husband in Africa.â

âYou have got that letter?â

âNo, I donât keep letters.â

âYou have heard the account given by Beatrice Lippincott of your conversation with the deceased. Is that a true account?â

âQuite untrue. The deceased spoke of knowing my late brother-in-law, complained of his own bad luck and of having come down in the world, and begged for some financial assistance which, as is usual, he was quite confident of being able to repay.â

âDid he tell you that Robert Underhay was still alive?â

David smiled:

âCertainly not. He said, âIf Robert were still alive I know he would help me.ââ

âThat is quite different from what Beatrice Lippincott tells us.â

âEavesdroppers,â said David, âusually hear only a portion of what goes on and frequently get the whole thing wrong owing to supplying the missing details from their own fertile imaginations.â

Beatrice flounced angrily and exclaimed, âWell, I neverââ The coroner said repressively, âSilence, please.â

âNow, Mr. Hunter, did you visit the deceased again on the night of Tuesdayââ

âNo, I did not.â

âYou have heard Mr. Rowley Cloade say that the deceased expected a visitor?â

âHe may have expected a visitor. If so, I was not that visitor. Iâd given him a fiver before. I thought that was quite enough for him. There was no proof that heâd ever known Robert Underhay. My sister, since she inherited a large income from her husband, has been the target of every begging letter writer and every sponger in the neighbourhood.â

Quietly he let his eyes pass over the assembled Cloades.

âMr. Hunter, will you tell us where you were on the evening of Tuesday?â

âFind out!â said David.

âMr. Hunter!â The coroner rapped the table. âThat is a most foolish and ill-advised thing to say.â

âWhy should I tell you where I was, and what I was doing? Time enough for that when you accuse me of murdering the man.â

âIf you persist in that attitude it may come to that sooner than you think. Do you recognize this, Mr. Hunter?â

Leaning forward, David took the gold cigarette lighter into his hand. His face was puzzled. Handing it back, he said slowly: âYes, itâs mine.â

âWhen did you have it last?â

âI missed itââ He paused.

âYes, Mr. Hunter?â The coronerâs voice was suave.

Gaythorne fidgeted, seemed about to speak. But David was too quick for him.

âI had it last FridayâFriday morning. I donât remember seeing it since.â

Mr. Gaythorne rose.

âWith your permission, Mr. Coroner. You visited the deceased Saturday evening. Might you not have left the lighter there then?â

âI might have, I suppose,â David said slowly. âI certainly donât remember seeing it after Fridayââ He added: âWhere was it found?â

The coroner said:

âWe shall go into that later. You can stand down now, Mr. Hunter.â

David moved slowly back to his seat. He bent his head and whispered to Rosaleen Cloade.

âMajor Porter.â

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.

âYou are George Douglas Porter, late Major of the Royal African Rifles?â

âYes.â

âHow well did you know Robert Underhay?â

In a parade-ground voice Major Porter barked out places and dates.

âYou have viewed the body of the deceased?â

âYes.â

âCan you identify that body?â

âYes. It is the body of Robert Underhay.â

A buzz of excitement went round the court.

âYou state that positively and without the least doubt?â

âI do.â

âThere is no possibility of your being mistaken?â

âNone.â

âThank you, Major Porter. Mrs. Gordon Cloade.â

Rosaleen rose. She passed Major Porter. He looked at her with some curiosity. She did not even glance at him.

âMrs. Cloade, you were taken by the police to see the body of the deceased?â

She shivered.

âYes.â

âYou stated definitely that it was the body of a man completely unknown to you?â

âYes.â

âIn view of the statement just made by Major Porter would you like to withdraw or amend your own statement?â

âNo.â

âYou still assert definitely that the body was not that of your husband, Robert Underhay?â

âIt was not my husbandâs body. It was a man I had never seen in my life.â

âCome now, Mrs. Cloade, Major Porter has definitely recognized it as the body of his friend Robert Underhay.â

Rosaleen said expressionlessly:

âMajor Porter is mistaken.â

âYou 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?â

âI am prepared to swear that it is not the body of my husband but of a man quite unknown to me.â

Her voice was clear and unfaltering. Her eyes met the coroner unshrinkingly.

He murmured: âYou can stand down.â

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 verdictâwilful 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 Underhayâs 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 Porterâs statement, Robert Underhayâs 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 outâevidence 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.

Five

âI was afraid theyâd do it,â said the coroner apologetically. âLocal prejudice! Feeling rather than logic.â

The coroner, the Chief Constable, Superintendent Spence and Hercule Poirot were all in consultation together after the inquest.

âYou did your best,â said the Chief Constable.

âItâs premature, to say the least of it,â said Spence frowning. âAnd it hampers us. Do you know M. Hercule Poirot? He was instrumental in bringing Porter forward.â

The coroner said graciously:

âI have heard of you, M. Poirot,â and Poirot made an unsuccessful attempt to look modest.

âM. Poirotâs interested in the case,â said Spence with a grin.

âTruly, that is so,â said Poirot. âI was in it, as you might say, before there was a case.â

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 Underhayâs name.

âThatâs an additional point in Porterâs evidence when the case comes to trial,â said the Chief Constable thoughtfully. âUnderhay actually planned a pretended deathâand spoke of using the name of Enoch Arden.â

The Chief Constable murmured: âAh, but will that be admissible as evidence? Words spoken by a man who is now dead?â

âIt may not be admissible as evidence,â said Poirot thoughtfully. âBut it raises a very interesting and suggestive line of thought.â

âWhat we want,â said Spence, âis not suggestion, but a few concrete facts. Someone who actually saw David Hunter at the Stag or near it on Tuesday evening.â

âIt ought to be easy,â said the Chief Constable, frowning.

âIf it was abroad in my country it would be easy enough,â said Poirot. âThere would be a little cafÃ© where someone takes the evening coffeeâbut in provincial England!â He threw up his hands.

The Superintendent nodded.

âSome 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 oâclock news. If you ever go along the main street here between eight thirty and ten itâs completely deserted. Not a soul.â

âHe counted on that?â suggested the Chief Constable.

âMaybe,â said Spence. His expression was not a happy one.

Presently the Chief Constable and the coroner departed. Spence and Poirot were left together.

âYou do not like the case, no?â asked Poirot sympathetically.

âThat young man worries me,â said Spence. âHeâs the kind that you never know where you are with them. When theyâre most innocent of a business, they act as though they were guilty. And when theyâre guiltyâwhy, youâd take your oath they were angels of light!â

âYou think he is guilty?â asked Poirot.

âDonât you?â Spence countered.

Poirot spread out his hands.

âI should be interested to know,â he said, âjust exactly how much you have against him?â

âYou donât mean legally? You mean in the way of probability?â

Poirot nodded.

âThereâs the lighter,â said Spence.

âWhere did you find it?â

âUnder the body.â

âFingerprints on it?â

âNone.â

âAh,â said Poirot.

âYes,â said Spence. âI donât like that too much myself. Then the dead manâs watch has stopped at 9:10. That fits in with the medical evidence quite nicelyâand with Rowley Cloadeâs evidence that Underhay was expecting his client at any minuteâpresumably that client was almost due.â

Poirot nodded.

âYesâit is all very neat.â

âAnd the thing you canât get away from, to my mind, M. Poirot, is that heâs the only person (he and his sister, that is to say) who has the ghost or shadow of a motive. Either David Hunter killed Underhayâor else Underhay was killed by some outsider who followed him here for some reason that we know nothing aboutâand that seems wildly improbable.â

âOh, I agree, I agree.â

âYou see, thereâs no one in Warmsley Vale who could possibly have a motiveâunless 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 hasnât been a hint or suggestion of anything of the kind. The man was a stranger to every one but that brother and sister.â

Poirot nodded.

âTo 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.â

âAgain, mon ami, I agree with you enthusiastically. Robert Underhay, alive and kicking, is what the Cloade family needs.â

âSo back we comeâRosaleen 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.â

âSo 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.â

âExactly. Now take Beatrice Lippincottâs 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.â

âOnly human as you say.â

âApart from knowing the girl, I believe her because she couldnât have invented some of the things. Sheâd never heard of Robert Underhay before, for instance. So I believe her story of what passed between the two men and not David Hunterâs.â

âI, too,â said Poirot. âShe strikes me as a singularly truthful witness.â

âWeâve confirmation that her story is true. What do you suppose the brother and sister went off to London for?â

âThat is one of the things that has interested me most.â

âWell, the money positionâs like this. Rosaleen Cloade has only a life interest in Gordon Cloadeâs estate. She canât touch the capitalâexcept, 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 quicklyâin other words she had to pay a blackmailer.â

âYou call that evidence against David Hunter?â

âDonât you?â

Poirot shook his head.

âEvidence 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.â

âYesâyes, perhaps that is so. But he may have changed his mind.â

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

âI know his type,â said the Superintendent thoughtfully. âItâs a type thatâs 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. Itâs the kind that is likely to win the V.C.âthough, mind you, itâs often a posthumous one. Yes, in wartime, a man like that is a hero. But in peaceâwell, in peace such men usually end up in prison. They like excitement and they canât run straight, and they donât give a damn for societyâand finally theyâve no regard for human life.â

Poirot nodded.

âI tell you,â the Superintendent repeated, âI know the type.â

There was some few minutes of silence.

âEh bien,â said Poirot at last. âWe agree that we have here the type of a killer. But that is all. It takes us no further.â

Spence looked at him with curiosity.

âYouâre taking a great interest in this business, M. Poirot?â

âYes.â

âWhy, if I may ask?â

âFrankly,â Poirot spread out his hands, âI 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,â Poirot clasped his stomach expressively, âin the smoking room of my friendâs 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.â

âThe unexpected has happened, eh?â

âOn the contrary,â Poirot corrected him. âIt is the expected that has happenedâwhich in itself is sufficiently remarkable.â

âYou expected murder?â Spence asked sceptically.

âNo, 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 blackmailer may be silenced? Ma foi, he is silenced!â

âWell,â said Spence, eyeing Poirot rather doubtfully. âI suppose these things run pretty close to type. Itâs a common sort of crimeâblackmail resulting in murder.â

âNot interesting, you would say? Usually, no. But this case is interesting, because, you see,â said Poirot placidly, âit is all wrong.â

âAll wrong? What do you mean by all wrong?â

âNone of it is, how shall I put it, the right shape?â

Spence stared. âChief Inspector Japp,â he remarked, âalways said you have a tortuous mind. Give me an instance of what you call wrong?â

âWell, the dead man, for instance, he is all wrong.â

Spence shook his head.

âYou do not feel that?â Poirot asked. âOh, 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 morningâat breakfast time?â

âYes, thatâs so. He admits receiving a letter from Arden then.â

âThat was the first intimation, was it not, of the arrival of Underhay in Warmsley Vale? What is the first thing he doesâbundles his sister off to London!â

âThatâs quite understandable,â said Spence. âHe wants a clear hand to deal with things his own way. He may have been afraid the woman would have been weak. Heâs the leading spirit, remember. Mrs. Cloade is entirely under his thumb.â

âOh, 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 didnât know.â

âBut thereâs 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 couldnât know it for a factâbecause he had never met the man.â

Poirot looked at Superintendent Spence thoughtfully.

âSo there is nothing there that strikes you asâpeculiar?â he asked.

âI know what youâre driving at. Why didnât Underhay say straight out that he was Underhay? Well, I think thatâs 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 clearâif you know what I mean. NoâI donât think that that is so very remarkable. Youâve got to allow for human nature.â

âYes,â said Poirot. âHuman nature. That, I think, is perhaps the real answer as to why I am interested in this case. I was looking round the Coronerâs Court, looking at all the people, looking particularly at the Cloadesâso 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 had all their independent means of existence. But they had come, they must have come, consciously or unconsciously, to lean on him. And what happensâI will ask you this, SuperintendentâWhat happens to the ivy when the oak round which it clings is struck down?â

âThatâs hardly a question in my line,â said Spence.

âYou 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 comesâthat is, the moment when you stand or fall on your own feet.â

âI donât really know what you are getting at, M. Poirot.â Spence looked bewildered. âAnyway, the Cloades are all right now. Or will be, once the legal formalities are through.â

That, Poirot reminded him, might take some time. âThere is still Mrs. Gordon Cloadeâs evidence to shake. After all, a woman should know her own husband when she sees him?â

He put his head a little on one side and gazed inquiringly at the big Superintendent.

âIsnât it worth while to a woman not to recognize her husband if the income of a couple of million pounds depends on it?â asked the Superintendent cynically. âBesides, if he wasnât Robert Underhay, why was he killed?â

âThat,â murmured Poirot, âis indeed the question.â

Six

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. Cloadeâs house with its worn brass plate, and a little way along was the post office. On the other side was Jeremy Cloadeâs 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. Maryâs 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 recognized Rosaleen Cloade.

She stood in the porch, fighting for control, and there Poirot spoke to her, very gently:

âMadame, can I help you?â

She showed no signs of surprise, but answered with the simplicity of an unhappy child.

âNo,â she said. âNo one can help me.â

âYou are in very bad trouble. That is it, is it not?â

She said: âTheyâve taken David awayâ¦Iâm all alone. They say he killedâBut he didnât! He didnât!â

She looked at Poirot and said: âYou were there today? At the inquest. I saw you!â

âYes. If I can help you, Madame, I shall be very glad to do so.â

âIâm frightened. David said Iâd be safe as long as he was there to look after me. But now theyâve taken him awayâIâm afraid. He saidâthey all wanted me dead. Thatâs a dreadful thing to say. But perhaps itâs true.â

âLet me help you, Madame.â

She shook her head.

âNo,â she said. âNo one can help me. I canât go to confession, even. Iâve got to bear the weight of my wickedness all alone. Iâm cut off from the mercy of God.â

âNobody,â said Hercule Poirot, âis cut off from the mercy of God. You know that well, my child.â

Again she looked at himâa wild unhappy look.

âIâd have to confess my sinsâto confess. If I could confessââ

âCanât you confess? You came to the church for that, did you not?â

âI came to get comfortâcomfort. But what comfort is there for me? Iâm a sinner.â

âWe are all sinners.â

âBut youâd have to repentâIâd have to sayâto tellââ Her hands went up to her face. âOh, the lies Iâve toldâthe lies Iâve told.â

âYou told a lie about your husband? About Robert Underhay? It was Robert Underhay who was killed here, wasnât it?â

She turned sharply on him. Her eyes were suspicious, wary. She cried out sharply:

âI tell you it was not my husband. It wasnât the least like him!â

âThe dead man was not in the least like your husband?â

âNo,â she said defiantly.

âTell me,â said Poirot, âwhat was your husband like?â

Her eyes stared at him. Then her face hardened into alarm. Her eyes grew dark with fear.

She cried out:

âIâll not talk to you any more!â

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.

âAh,â he said. âSo that is that!â

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 typeâthough 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.

âWeâre very grateful to you, M. Poirot,â said Rowley. âBy Jove, it really was quite like a conjuring trick.â

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 breathtaking as any number of rabbits produced from the conjurerâs hat.

âHow you go about these things beats me,â 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.

âAnyway, Lynn and I are no end grateful,â 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.

âItâs going to make a lot of difference to our future married life,â said Rowley.

Lynn said sharply:

âHow do you know? There are all sorts of formalities and things, Iâm sure.â

âYou are getting married, when?â asked Poirot politely.

âJune.â

âAnd you have been engaged since when?â

âNearly six years,â said Rowley. âLynnâs just come out of the Wrens.â

âAnd is it forbidden to marry in the Wrens, yes?â

Lynn said briefly:

âIâve been overseas.â

Poirot noticed Rowleyâs swift frown. He said shortly:

âCome on, Lynn. We must get going. I expect M. Poirot wants to get back to town.â

Poirot said smilingly:

âBut Iâm not going back to town.â

âWhat?â

Rowley stopped dead, giving a queer wooden effect.

âI am staying here, at the Stag, for a short while.â

âButâbut why?â

âCâest un beau paysage,â Poirot said placidly.

Rowley said uncertainly:

âYes, of courseâ¦But arenât youâwell, I mean, busy?â

âI have made my economies,â said Poirot, smiling. âI 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.â

He saw Lynn Marchmont raise her head and gaze at him intently. Rowley, he thought, was slightly annoyed.

âI suppose you play golf?â he said. âThereâs a much better hotel at Warmsley Heath. This is a very one-horse sort of place.â

âMy interests,â said Poirot, âlie entirely in Warmsley Vale.â

Lynn said:

âCome along, Rowley.â

Half reluctantly, Rowley followed her. At the door, Lynn paused and then came swiftly back. She spoke to Poirot in a quiet low voice.

âThey arrested David Hunter after the inquest. Do youâdo you think they were right?â

âThey had no alternative, Mademoiselle, after the verdict.â

âI meanâdo you think he did it?â

âDo you?â said Poirot.

But Rowley was back at her side. Her face hardened to a poker smoothness. She said:

âGoodbye, M. Poirot. IâI hope we meet again.â

âNow, I wonder,â said Poirot to himself.

Presently, after arranging with Beatrice Lippincott about a room, he went out again. His steps led him to Dr. Lionel Cloadeâs house.

âOh!â said Aunt Kathie, who opened the door, taking a step or two backwards. âM. Poirot!â

âAt your service, Madame.â Poirot bowed. âI came to pay my respects.â

âWell, thatâs very nice of you, Iâm sure. YesâwellâI suppose youâd better come in. Sit downâIâll move Madame Blavatskyâand perhaps a cup of teaâonly the cake is terribly stale. I meant to go to Peacocks for some, they do have Swiss roll sometimes on a Wednesdayâbut an inquest puts oneâs household routine out, donât you think so?â

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 Kathieâs 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:

âYou wonât tell my husband, will you, that I came and consulted you aboutâwell, about we know what?â

âMy lips are sealed.â

âI meanâof course Iâd no idea at the timeâthat Robert Underhay, poor man, so tragicâwas actually in Warmsley Vale. That seems to me still a most extraordinary coincidence!â

âIt would have been simpler,â agreed Poirot, âif the Ouija board had directed you straight to the Stag.â

Aunt Kathie cheered up a little at the mention of the Ouija board.

âThe way things come about in the spirit world seem quite incalculable,â she said. âBut I do feel, M. Poirot, that there is a purpose in it all. Donât you feel that in life? That there is always a purpose?â

âYes, indeed, Madame. Even that I should sit here, now, in your drawing room, there is a purpose in that.â

âOh, is there?â Mrs. Cloade looked rather taken aback. âIs there, really? Yes, I suppose soâ¦Youâre on your way back to London, of course?â

âNot at present. I stay for a few days at the Stag.â

âAt the Stag? Ohâat the Stag! But thatâs whereâoh, M. Poirot, do you think you are wise?â

âI have been guided to the Stag,â said Poirot solemnly.

âGuided? What do you mean?â

âGuided by you.â

âOh, but I never meantâI mean, I had no idea. Itâs all so dreadful, donât you think so?â

Poirot shook his head sadly, and said:

âI have been talking to Mr. Rowley Cloade and Miss Marchmont. They are getting married, I hear, quite soon?â

Aunt Kathie was immediately diverted.

âDear Lynn, she is such a sweet girlâand so very good at figures. Now, I have no head for figuresâno head at all. Having Lynn home is an absolute blessing. If I get in a terrible muddle she always straightens things out for me. Dear girl, I do hope she will be happy. Rowley, of course, is a splendid person, but possiblyâwell, a little dull. I mean dull to a girl who has seen as much of the world as Lynn has. Rowley, you see, has been here on his farm all through the warâoh, quite rightly, of courseâI mean the Government wanted him toâthat side of it is quite all rightânot white feathers or things like that as they did in the Boer Warâbut what I mean is, itâs made him rather limited in his ideas.â

âSix yearsâ engagement is a good test of affection.â

âOh, it is! But I think these girls, when they come home, they get rather restlessâand if there is someone else aboutâsomeone, perhaps, who has led an adventurous lifeââ

âSuch as David Hunter?â

âThere isnât anything between them,â Aunt Kathie said anxiously. âNothing at all. Iâm quite sure of that! It would have been dreadful if there had been, wouldnât there, with his turning out a murderer? His own brother-in-law, too! Oh, no, M. Poirot, please donât run away with the idea that thereâs any kind of an understanding between Lynn and David. Really, they seemed to quarrel more than anything else every time they met. What I felt is thatâoh, dear, I think thatâs my husband coming. You will remember, wonât you, M. Poirot, not a word about our first meeting? My poor dear husband gets so annoyed if he thinks thatâoh, Lionel dear, here is M. Poirot who so cleverly brought that Major Porter down to see the body.â

Dr. Cloade looked tired and haggard. His eyes, pale blue, with pin-point pupils, wandered vaguely round the room.

âHow do you do, M. Poirot; on your way back to town?â

âMon Dieu, another who packs me back to London!â thought Poirot.

Aloud he said patiently:

âNo, I remain at the Stag for a day or so.â

âThe Stag?â Lionel Cloade frowned. âOh? Police want to keep you here for a bit?â

âNo. It is my own choice.â

âIndeed?â The doctor suddenly flashed a quick intelligent look. âSo youâre not satisfied?â

âWhy should you think that, Dr. Cloade?â

âCome, man, itâs true, isnât it?â Twittering about tea, Mrs. Cloade left the room. The doctor went on: âYouâve a feeling, havenât you, that somethingâs wrong?â

Poirot was startled.

âIt is odd that you should say that. Do you, then, feel that yourself?â

Cloade hesitated.

âN-n-o. Hardly thatâ¦perhaps itâs just a feeling of unreality. In books the blackmailer gets slugged. Does he in real life? Apparently the answer is Yes. But it seems unnatural.â

âWas there anything unsatisfactory about the medical aspect of the case? I ask unofficially, of course.â

Dr. Cloade said thoughtfully:

âNo, I donât think so.â

âYesâthere is something. I can see there is something.â

When he wished, Poirotâs voice could assume an almost hypnotic quality. Dr. Cloade frowned a little, then he said hesitatingly:

âIâve no experience, of course, of police cases. And anyway medical evidence isnât the hard-and-fast, cast-iron business that laymen or novelists seem to think. Weâre fallibleâmedical science is fallible. Whatâs diagnosis? A guess, based on a very little knowledge, and some indefinite clues which point in more than one direction. Iâm pretty sound, perhaps, at diagnosing measles because, at my time of life, Iâve seen hundreds of cases of measles and I know an extraordinary wide variation of signs and symptoms. You hardly ever get what a text book tells you is a âtypical caseâ of measles. But Iâve known some queer things in my timeâIâve seen a woman practically on the operating table ready for her appendix to be whipped outâand paratyphoid diagnosed just in time! Iâve seen a child with skin trouble pronounced as a case of serious vitamin deficiency by an earnest and conscientious young doctorâand the local vet, comes along and mentions to the mother that the cat the child is hugging has got ringworm and that the child has caught it!

âDoctors, like every one else, are victims of the preconceived idea. Hereâs a man, obviously murdered, lying with a bloodstained pair of fire tongs beside him. It would be nonsense to say he was hit with anything else, and yet, speaking out of complete inexperience of people with their heads smashed in, Iâd have suspected something rather differentâsomething not so smooth and roundâsomethingâoh, I donât know, something with a more cutting edgeâa brick, something like that.â

âYou did not say so at the inquest?â

âNoâbecause I donât really know. Jenkins, the police surgeon, was satisfied, and heâs the fellow who counts. But thereâs the preconceived ideaâweapon lying beside the body. Could the wound have been inflicted with that? Yes, it could. But if you were shown the wound and asked what made itâwell, I donât know whether youâd say it, because it really doesnât make senseâI mean if you had two fellows, one hitting him with a brick and one with the tongsââ The doctor stopped, shook his head in a dissatisfied way. âDoesnât make sense, does it?â he said to Poirot.

âCould he have fallen on some sharp object?â

Dr. Cloade shook his head.

âHe was lying face down in the middle of the floorâon a good thick old-fashioned Axminster carpet.â

He broke off as his wife entered the room.

âHereâs Kathie with the catlap,â he remarked.

Aunt Kathie was balancing a tray covered with crockery, half a loaf of bread and some depressing-looking jam in the bottom of a 2-lb. pot.

âI think the kettle was boiling,â she remarked doubtfully as she raised the lid of the teapot and peered inside.

Dr. Cloade snorted again and muttered: âCatlap,â with which explosive word he left the room.

âPoor Lionel, his nerves are in a terrible state since the war. He worked much too hard. So many doctors away. He gave himself no rest. Out morning, noon, and night. I wonder he didnât break down completely. Of course he looked forward to retiring as soon as peace came. That was all fixed up with Gordon. His hobby, you know, is botany with special reference to medicinal herbs in the Middle Ages. Heâs writing a book on it. He was looking forward to a quiet life and doing the necessary research. But then, when Gordon died like thatâwell, you know what things are, M. Poirot, nowadays. Taxation and everything. He canât afford to retire and itâs made him very bitter. And really it does seem unfair. Gordonâs dying like that, without a willâwell, it really quite shook my faith. I mean, I really couldnât see the purpose in that. It seemed, I couldnât help feeling, a mistake.â

She sighed, then cheered up a little.

âBut I get some lovely reassurances from the other side. âCourage and patience and a way will be found.â And really, when that nice Major Porter stood up today and said in such a firm manly way that the poor murdered man was Robert Underhayâwell, I saw that a way had been found! Itâs wonderful, isnât it, M. Poirot, how things do turn out for the best?â

âEven murder,â said Hercule Poirot.

Seven

Poirot entered the Stag in a thoughtful mood, and shivering slightly for there was a sharp east wind. The hall was deserted. He pushed open the door of the lounge on the right. It smelt of stale smoke and the fire was nearly out. Poirot tiptoed along to the door at the end of the hall labelled âResidents Only.â Here there was a good fire, but in a large armchair, comfortably toasting her toes, was a monumental old lady who glared at Poirot with such ferocity that he beat an apologetic retreat.

He stood for a moment in the hall looking from the glass-enclosed empty office to the door labelled in firm old-fashioned style COFFEE ROOM. By experience of country hotels Poirot knew well that the only time coffee was served there was somewhat grudgingly for breakfast and that even then a good deal of watery hot milk was its principal component. Small cups of a treacly and muddy liquid called Black Coffee were served not in the COFFEE ROOM but in the Lounge. The Windsor Soup, Vienna Steak and Potatoes, and Steamed Pudding which comprised Dinner would be obtainable in the COFFEE ROOM at seven sharp. Until then a deep peace brooded over the residential area of the Stag.

Poirot went thoughtfully up the staircase. Instead of turning to the left where his own room, No. 11, was situated, he turned to the right and stopped before the door of No. 5. He looked round him. Silence and emptiness. He opened the door and went in.

The police had done with the room. It had clearly been freshly cleaned and scrubbed. There was no carpet on the floor. Presumably the âold-fashioned Axminsterâ had gone to the cleaners. The blankets were folded on the bed in a neat pile.

Closing the door behind him, Poirot wandered round the room. It was clean and strangely barren of human interest. Poirot took in its furnishingsâa writing table, a chest of drawers of good old-fashioned mahogany, an upright wardrobe of the same (the one presumably that masked the door into No. 4), a large brass double bed, a basin with hot and cold waterâtribute to modernity and the servant shortageâa large but rather uncomfortable armchair, two small chairs, an old-fashioned Victorian grate with a poker and a pierced shovel belonging to the same set as the fire tongs; a heavy marble mantelpiece and a solid marble fire curb with squared corners.

It was at these last that Poirot bent and looked. Moistening his finger he rubbed it along the right-hand corner and then inspected the result. His finger was slightly black. He repeated the performance with another finger on the left-hand corner of the curb. This time his finger was quite clean.

âYes,â said Poirot thoughtfully to himself. âYes.â

He looked at the fitted washbasin. Then he strolled to the window. It looked out over some leadsâthe roof of a garage, he fancied, and then to a small back alley. An easy way to come and go unseen from room No. 5. But then it was equally easy to walk upstairs to No. 5 unseen. He had just done it himself.

Quietly, Poirot withdrew, shutting the door noiselessly behind him. He went along to his own room. It was decidedly chilly. He went downstairs again, hesitated, and then, driven by the chill of the evening, boldly entered the Residents Only, drew up a second armchair to the fire and sat down.

The monumental old lady was even more formidable seen close at hand. She had iron-grey hair, a flourishing moustache and, when presently she spoke, a deep and awe-inspiring voice.

âThis Lounge,â she said, âis Reserved for Persons staying in the hotel.â

âI am staying in the hotel,â replied Hercule Poirot.

The old lady meditated for a moment or two before returning to the attack. Then she said accusingly:

âYouâre a foreigner.â

âYes,â replied Hercule Poirot.

âIn my opinion,â said the old lady, âyou should all Go Back.â

âGo back where?â inquired Poirot.

âTo where you came from,â said the old lady firmly.

She added as a kind of rider, sotto voce: âForeigners!â and snorted.

âThat,â said Poirot mildly, âwould be difficult.â

âNonsense,â said the old lady. âThatâs what we fought the war for, isnât it? So that people could go back to their proper places and stay there.â

Poirot did not enter into a controversy. He had already learnt that every single individual had a different version of the theme, âWhat did we fight the war for?â

A somewhat hostile silence reigned.

âI donât know what things are coming to,â said the old lady. âI really donât. Every year I come and stay in this place. My husband died here sixteen years ago. Heâs buried here. I come every year for a month.â

âA pious pilgrimage,â said Poirot politely.

âAnd every year things get worse and worse. No service! Food uneatable! Vienna steaks indeed! A steakâs either rump or fillet steakânot chopped-up horse!â

Poirot shook his head sadly.

âOne good thingâtheyâve shut down the aerodrome,â said the old lady. âDisgraceful it was, all those young airmen coming in here with those dreadful girls. Girls, indeed! I donât know what their mothers are thinking of nowadays. Letting them gad about as they do. I blame the Government. Sending the mothers to work in factories. Only let âem off if theyâve got young children. Young children, stuff and nonsense! Any one can look after a baby! A baby doesnât go running round after soldiers. Girls from fourteen to eighteen, theyâre the ones that need looking after! Need their mothers. It takes a mother to know just what a girl is up to. Soldiers! Airmen! Thatâs all they think about. Americans! Niggers! Polish riffraff!â

Indignation at this point made the old lady cough. When she had recovered, she went on, working herself into a pleasurable frenzy and using Poirot as a target for her spleen.

âWhy do they have barbed wire round their camps? To keep the soldiers from getting at the girls? No, to keep the girls from getting at the soldiers! Man-mad, thatâs what they are! Look at the way they dress. Trousers! Some poor fools wear shortsâthey wouldnât if they knew what they looked like from behind!â

âI agree with you, Madame, indeed I agree with you.â

âWhat do they wear on their heads? Proper hats? No, a twisted-up bit of stuff, and faces covered with paint and powder. Filthy stuff, all over their mouths. Not only red nailsâbut red toe-nails!â

The old lady paused explosively and looked at Poirot expectantly. He sighed and shook his head.

âEven in church,â said the old lady. âNo hats. Sometimes not even those silly scarves. Just that ugly crimped, permanently waved hair. Hair? Nobody knows what hair is nowadays. I could sit on my hair when I was young.â

Poirot stole a glance at the iron-grey bands. It seemed impossible that this fierce old woman could ever have been young!

âPut her head in here the other night, one of them did,â the old lady went on. âTied up in an orange scarf and painted and powdered. I looked at her. I just LOOKED at her! She soon went away!

âShe wasnât a Resident,â went on the old lady. âNo one of her type staying here, Iâm glad to say! So what was she doing coming out of a manâs bedroom? Disgusting, I call it. I spoke about it to that Lippincott girlâbut sheâs just as bad as any of themâgo a mile for anything that wears trousers.â

Some faint interest stirred in Poirotâs mind.

âComing out of a manâs bedroom?â he queried.

The old lady fell upon the topic with zest.

âThatâs what I said. Saw her with my own eyes. No. 5.â

âWhat day was that, Madame?â

âThe day before there was all that fuss about a man being murdered. Disgraceful that such a thing could happen here! This used to be a very decent old-fashioned type of place. But nowââ

âAnd what hour of the day was this?â

âDay? It wasnât day at all. Evening. Late evening, too. Perfectly disgraceful. Past ten oâclock. I go up to bed at a quarter-past ten. Out she comes from No. 5 as bold as brass, stares at me, then dodges back inside again, laughing and talking with the man there.â

âYou heard him speak?â

âArenât I telling you so? She dodges back inside and he calls out, âOh, go on, get out of here. Iâm fed up.â Thatâs nice way for a man to talk to a girl. But they ask for it! Hussies!â

Poirot said, âYou did not report this to the police?â

She fixed him with a basilisk stare and totteringly rose out of her chair. Standing over him and glaring down on him, she said:

âI have never had anything to do with the police. The police indeed! I, in a police court?â

Quiverering with rage and with one last malevolent glance at Poirot she left the room.

Poirot sat for a few minutes thoughtfully caressing his moustache, then he went in search of Beatrice Lippincott.

âOh, yes, M. Poirot, you mean old Mrs. Leadbetter? Canon Leadbetterâs widow. She comes here every year, but of course between ourselves she is rather a trial. Sheâs really frightfully rude to people sometimes, and she doesnât seem to understand that things are different nowadays. Sheâs nearly eighty, of course.â

âBut she is clear in her mind? She knows what she is saying?â

âOh, yes. Sheâs quite a sharp old ladyârather too much so sometimes.â

âDo you know who a young woman was who visited the murdered man on Tuesday night?â

Beatrice looked astonished.

âI donât remember a young woman coming to visit him at any time. What was she like?â

âShe was wearing an orange scarf round her head and I should fancy a good deal of makeup. She was in No. 5 talking to Arden at a quarter past ten on Tuesday night.â

âReally, M. Poirot, Iâve no idea whatsoever.â

Thoughtfully Poirot went along in search of Superintendent Spence.

Spence listened to Poirotâs story in silence. Then he leaned back in his chair and nodded his head slowly.

âFunny, isnât it?â he said. âHow often you come back to the same old formula. Cherchez la femme.â

The Superintendentâs French accent was not as good as Sergeant Gravesâ, but he was proud of it. He got up and went across the room. He came back holding something in his hand. It was a lipstick in a gilt cardboard case.

âWe had this indication all along that there might be a woman mixed up in it,â he said.

Poirot took the lipstick and smeared a little delicately on the back of his hand. âGood quality,â he said. âA dark cherry redâworn by a brunette probably.â

âYes. It was found on the floor of No. 5. It had rolled under the chest of drawers and of course just possibly it might have been there some time. No fingerprints on it. Nowadays, of course, there isnât the range of lipsticks there used to beâjust a few standard makes.â

âAnd you have no doubt made your inquiries?â

Spence smiled.

âYes,â he said; âas you put it, we have made our inquiries. Rosaleen Cloade uses this type of lipstick. So does Lynn Marchmont. Frances Cloade uses a more subdued colour. Mrs. Lionel Cloade doesnât use lipstick at all. Mrs. Marchmont uses a pale mauve shade. Beatrice Lippincott doesnât appear to use anything as expensive as thisânor does the chambermaid, Gladys.â

He paused.

âYou have been thorough,â said Poirot.

âNot thorough enough. It looks now as though an outsider is mixed up in itâsome woman, perhaps, that Underhay knew in Warmsley Vale.â

âAnd who was with him at a quarter past ten on Tuesday evening?â

âYes,â said Spence. He added with a sigh, âThis lets David Hunter out.â

âIt does?â

âYes. His lordship has consented to make a statement at last. After his solicitor had been along to make him see reason. Hereâs his account of his own movements.â

Poirot read a neat typed memorandum.

Left London 4:16 train for Warmsley Heath. Arrived there 5:30. Walked to Furrowbank by footpath.

âHis reason for coming down,â the Superintendent broke in, âwas, according to him, to get certain things heâd left behind, letters and papers, a chequebook, and to see if some shirts had come back from the laundryâwhich, of course, they hadnât! My word, laundryâs a problem nowadays. Four ruddy weeks since theyâve been to our placeânot a clean towel left in our house, and the wife washes all my things herself now.â

After this very human interpolation the Superintendent returned to the itinerary of Davidâs movements.

âLeft Furrowbank at 7:25 and states he went for a walk as he had missed the 7:20 train and there would be no train until the 9:20.â

âIn what direction did he go for a walk?â asked Poirot.

The Superintendent consulted his notes.

âSays by Downe Copse, Bats Hill and Long Ridge.â

âIn fact, a complete circular tour round the White House!â

âMy word, you pick up local geography quickly, M. Poirot!â

Poirot smiled and shook his head.

âNo, I did not know the places you named. I was making a guess.â

âOh, you were, were you?â The Superintendent cocked his head on one side.

âThen, according to him, when he was up on Long Ridge, he realized he was cutting it rather fine and fairly hared it for Warmsley Heath station, going across country. He caught the train by the skin of his teeth, arrived at Victoria 10:45, walked to Shepherdâs Court, arriving there at eleven oâclock, which latter statement is confirmed by Mrs. Gordon Cloade.â

âAnd what confirmation have you of the rest of it?â

âRemarkably littleâbut there is some. Rowley Cloade and others saw him arrive at Warmsley Heath. The maids at Furrowbank were out (he had his own key of course) so they didnât see him, but they found a cigarette stump in the library which I gather intrigued them and also found a good deal of confusion in the linen cupboard. Then one of the gardeners was there working lateâshutting up greenhouses or something and he caught sight of him. Miss Marchmont met him up by Mardon Woodâwhen he was running for the train.â

âDid any one see him catch the train?â

âNoâbut he telephoned from London to Miss Marchmont as soon as he got backâat 11:05.â

âThat is checked?â

âYes, weâd already put through an inquiry about calls from that number. There was a Toll call out at 11:04 to Warmsley Vale 34. Thatâs the Marchmontsâ number.â

âVery, very interesting,â murmured Poirot.

But Spence was going on painstakingly and methodically.

âRowley Cloade left Arden at five minutes to nine. Heâs quite definite it wasnât earlier. About 9:10 Lynn Marchmont sees Hunter up at Mardon Wood. Granted heâs run all the way from the Stag, would he have had time to meet Arden, quarrel with him, kill him and get to Mardon Wood? Weâre going into it and I donât think it can be done. However, now weâre starting again. Far from Arden being killed at nine oâclock, he was alive at ten minutes past tenâthat is unless your old lady is dreaming. He was either killed by the woman who dropped the lipstick, the woman in the orange scarfâor by somebody who came in after that woman left. And whoever did it, deliberately put the hands of the watch back to nine-ten.â

âWhich if David Hunter had not happened to meet Lynn Marchmont in a very unlikely place would have been remarkably awkward for him?â said Poirot.

âYes, it would. The 9:20 is the last train up from Warmsley Heath. It was growing dark. There are always golfers going back by it. Nobody would have noticed Hunterâindeed the station people donât know him by sight. And he didnât take a taxi at the other end. So weâd only have his sisterâs word for it that he arrived back at Shepherdâs Court when he said he did.â

Poirot was silent and Spence asked:

âWhat are you thinking about, M. Poirot?â

Poirot said, âA long walk round the White House. A meeting in Mardon Woods. A telephone call laterâ¦And Lynn Marchmont is engaged to Rowley Cloadeâ¦I should like very much to know what was said over that telephone call.â

âItâs the human interest thatâs getting you?â

âYes,â said Poirot. âIt is always the human interest.â

Eight

It was getting late, but there was still one more call that Poirot wanted to make. He went along to Jeremy Cloadeâs house.

There he was shown into Jeremy Cloadeâs study by a small, intelligent-looking maid.

Left alone, Poirot gazed interestedly round him. All very legal and dry as dust, he thought, even in his home. There was a large portrait of Gordon Cloade on the desk. Another faded one of Lord Edward Trenton on a horse, and Poirot was examining the latter when Jeremy Cloade came in.

âAh, pardon.â Poirot put the photo frame down in some confusion.

âMy wifeâs father,â said Jeremy, a faint self-congratulatory note in his voice. âAnd one of his best horses, Chestnut Trenton. Ran second in the Derby in 1924. Are you interested in racing?â

âAlas, no.â

âRuns away with a lot of money,â said Jeremy dryly. âLord Edward came a crash over itâhad to go and live abroad. Yes, an expensive sport.â

But there was still the note of pride in his voice.

He himself, Poirot judged, would as soon throw his money in the street as invest it in horseflesh, but he had a secret admiration and respect for those who did.

Cloade went on:

âWhat can I do for you, M. Poirot? As a family, I feel we owe you a debt of gratitudeâfor finding Major Porter to give evidence of identification.â

âThe family seems very jubilant about it,â said Poirot.

âAh,â said Jeremy dryly. âRather premature to rejoice. Lot of waterâs got to pass under the bridge yet. After all, Underhayâs death was accepted in Africa. Takes years to upset a thing of this kindâand Rosaleenâs evidence was very positiveâvery positive indeed. She made a good impression you know.â

It seemed almost as though Jeremy Cloade was unwilling to bank upon any improvement in his prospects.

âI wouldnât like to give a ruling one way or the other,â he said. âCouldnât say how a case would go.â

Then, pushing aside some papers with a fretful, almost weary gesture, he said:

âBut you wanted to see me?â

âI was going to ask you, Mr. Cloade, if you are really quite certain your brother did not leave a will? A will made subsequent to his marriage, I mean?â

Jeremy looked surprised.

âI donât think thereâs ever been any idea of such a thing. He certainly didnât make one before leaving New York.â

âHe might have made one during the two days he was in London.â

âGone to a lawyer there?â

âOr written one out himself.â

âAnd got it witnessed? Witnessed by whom?â

âThere were three servants in the house,â Poirot reminded him. âThree servants who died the same night he did.â

âHâmâyesâbut if by any chance he did do what you suggest, well, the will was destroyed too.â

âThat is just the point. Lately a great many documents believed to have perished completely have actually been deciphered by a new process. Incinerated inside home safes, for instance, but not so destroyed that they cannot be read.â

âWell, really, M. Poirot, that is a most remarkable idea of yoursâ¦Most remarkable. But I donât thinkâno, I really donât believe there is anything in itâ¦So far as I know there was no safe in the house in Sheffield Terrace. Gordon kept all valuable papers, etc., at his officeâand there was certainly no will there.â

âBut one might make inquiries?â Poirot was persistent. âFrom the A.R.P. officials, for instance? You would authorize me to do that?â

âOh, certainlyâcertainly. Very kind of you to offer to undertake such a thing. But I havenât any belief whatever, Iâm afraid, in your success. Stillâwell, it is an offchance, I suppose. Youâyouâll be going back to London at once, then?â

Poirotâs eyes narrowed. Jeremyâs tone had been unmistakably eager. Going back to Londonâ¦Did they all want him out of the way?

Before he could answer, the door opened and Frances Cloade came in.

Poirot was struck by two things. First, by the fact that she looked shockingly ill. Secondly, by her very strong resemblance to the photograph of her father.

âM. Hercule Poirot has come to see us, my dear,â said Jeremy rather unnecessarily.

She shook hands with him and Jeremy Cloade immediately outlined to her Poirotâs suggestion about a will.

Frances looked doubtful.

âIt seems a very outside chance.â

âM. Poirot is going up to London and will very kindly make inquiries.â

âMajor Porter, I understand, was an Air Raid Warden in that district,â said Poirot.

A curious expression passed over Mrs. Cloadeâs face. She said:

âWho is Major Porter?â

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

âA retired Army officer, living on his pension.â

âHe really was in Africa?â

Poirot looked at her curiously.

âCertainly, Madame. Why not?â

She said almost absently, âI donât know. He puzzled me.â

âYes, Mrs. Cloade,â said Poirot. âI can understand that.â

She looked sharply at him. An expression almost of fear came into her eyes.

Turning to her husband she said:

âJeremy, I feel very much distressed about Rosaleen. She is all alone at Furrowbank and she must be frightfully upset over Davidâs arrest. Would you object if I asked her to come here and stay?â

âDo you really think that is advisable, my dear?â Jeremy sounded doubtful.

âOhâadvisable? I donât know! But one is human. She is such a helpless creature.â

âI rather doubt if she will accept.â

âI can at any rate make the offer.â

The lawyer said quietly: âDo so if it will make you feel happier.â

âHappier!â

The word came out with a strange bitterness. Then she gave a quick doubtful glance at Poirot.

Poirot murmured formally:

âI will take my leave now.â

She followed him out into the hall.

âYou are going up to London?â

âI shall go up tomorrow, but for twenty-four hours at most. And then I return to the Stagâwhere you will find me, Madame, if you want me.â

She demanded sharply:

âWhy should I want you?â

Poirot did not reply to the question, merely said:

âI shall be at the Stag.â

Later that night out of the darkness Frances Cloade spoke to her husband.

âI donât believe that man is going to London for the reason he said. I donât believe all that about Gordonâs having made a will. Do you believe it, Jeremy?â

A hopeless, rather tired voice answered her:

âNo, Frances. Noâheâs going for some other reason.â

âWhat reason?â

âIâve no idea.â

Frances said, âWhat are we going to do, Jeremy? What are we going to do?â

Presently he answered:

âI think, Frances, thereâs only one thing to be doneââ

Nine

Armed with the necessary credentials from Jeremy Cloade, Poirot had got the answers to his questions. They were very definite. The house was a total wreck. The site had been cleared only quite recently in preparation for rebuilding. There had been no survivors except for David Hunter and Mrs. Cloade. There had been three servants in the house: Frederick Game, Elizabeth Game and Eileen Corrigan. All three had been killed instantly. Gordon Cloade had been brought out alive, but had died on the way to hospital without recovering consciousness. Poirot took the names and addresses of the three servantsâ next of kin. âIt is possible,â he said, âthat they may have spoken to their friends something in the way of gossip or comment that might give me a pointer to some information I badly need.â

The official to whom he was speaking looked sceptical. The Games had come from Dorset, Eileen Corrigan from County Cork.

Poirot next bent his steps towards Major Porterâs rooms. He remembered Porterâs statement that he himself was a Warden and he wondered whether he had happened to be on duty on that particular night and whether he had seen anything of the incident in Sheffield Terrace.

He had, besides, other reasons for wanting a word with Major Porter.

As he turned the corner of Edgeway Street he was startled to see a policeman in uniform standing outside the particular house for which he was making. There was a ring of small boys and other people standing staring at the house. Poirotâs heart sank as he interpreted the signs.

The constable intercepted Poirotâs advance.

âCanât go in here, sir,â he said.

âWhat has happened?â

âYou donât live in the house, do you, sir?â Poirot shook his head. âWho was it you were wishing to see?â

âI wished to see a Major Porter.â

âYou a friend of his, sir?â

âNo, I should not describe myself as a friend. What has happened?â

âGentleman has shot himself, I understand. Ah, hereâs the Inspector.â

The door had opened and two figures came out. One was the local Inspector, the other Poirot recognized as Sergeant Graves from Warmsley Vale. The latter recognized him and promptly made himself known to the Inspector.

âBetter come inside,â said the latter.

The three men reentered the house.

âThey telephoned through to Warmsley Vale,â Graves explained. âAnd Superintendent Spence sent me up.â

âSuicide?â

The Inspector answered:

âYes. Seems a clear case. Donât know whether having to give evidence at the inquest preyed upon his mind. People are funny that way sometimes, but I gather heâs been depressed lately. Financial difficulties and one thing and another. Shot himself with his own revolver.â

Poirot asked: âIs it permitted that I go up?â

âIf you like, M. Poirot. Take M. Poirot up, Sergeant.â

âYes, sir.â

Graves led the way up to the first-floor room. It was much as Poirot remembered it: the dim colours of the old rugs, the books. Major Porter was in the big armchair. His attitude was almost natural, just the head slumped forward. His right arm hung down at his sideâbelow it, on the rug, lay the revolver. There was still a very faint smell of acrid gunpowder in the air.

âAbout a couple of hours ago, they think,â said Graves. âNobody heard the shot. The woman of the house was out shopping.â

Poirot was frowning, looking down on the quiet figure with the small scorched wound in the right temple.

âAny idea why he should do it, M. Poirot?â asked Graves.

He was respectful to Poirot because he had seen the Superintendent being respectfulâthough his private opinion was that Poirot was one of these frightful old dugouts.

Poirot replied absently:

âYesâyes, there was a very good reason. That is not the difficulty.â

His glance shifted to a small table at Major Porterâs left hand. There was a big solid glass ashtray on it, with a pipe and a box of matches. Nothing there. His eye roamed round the room. Then he crossed to an open rolltop desk.

It was very tidy. Papers neatly pigeon-holed. A small leather blotter in the centre, a pen tray with a pen and two pencils, a box of paper clips and a book of stamps. All very neat and orderly. An ordinary life and an orderly deathâof courseâthat was itâthat was what was missing!

He said to Graves:

âDidnât he leave any noteâany letter for the coroner?â

Graves shook his head.

âNo, he didnâtâsort of thing one would have expected an ex-Army man to do.â

âYes, that is very curious.â

Punctilious in life, Major Porter had not been punctilious in death. It was all wrong, Poirot thought, that Porter had left no note.

âBit of a blow for the Cloades this,â said Graves. âIt will set them back. Theyâll have to hunt about for someone else who knew Underhay intimately.â

He fidgeted slightly. âAnything more you want to see, M. Poirot?â

Poirot shook his head and followed Graves from the room.

On the stairs they met the landlady. She was clearly enjoying her own state of agitation and started a voluble discourse at once. Graves adroitly detached himself and left Poirot to receive the full spate.

âCanât seem to catch my breath properly. âEart, thatâs what it is. Angina Pectoria, my mother died ofâfell down dead as she was crossing the Caledonian Market. Nearly dropped down myself when I found himâoh, it did give me a turn! Never suspected anything of the kind, though âe âad been low in âis spirits for a long time. Worried over money, I think, and didnât eat enough to keep himself alive. Not that heâd ever accept a bite from us. And then yesterday he âad to go down to a place in OastshireâWarmsley Valeâto give evidence in an inquest. Preyed on his mind, that did. He come back looking awful. Tramped about all last night. Up and downâup and down. A murdered gentleman it was and a friend of his, by all accounts. Poor dear, it did upset him. Up and downâup and down. And when I was out doing my bit of shoppingâand âaving to queue ever so long for the fish, I went up to see if heâd like a nice cuppa teaâand there he was, poor gentleman, the revolver dropped out of his hand, leaning back in his chair. Gave me an awful turn it did. âAd to âave the police in and everything. Whatâs the world coming to, thatâs what I say?â

Poirot said slowly:

âThe world is becoming a difficult place to live inâexcept for the strong.â

Ten

It was past eight oâclock when Poirot got back to the Stag. He found a note from Frances Cloade asking him to come and see her. He went out at once.

She was waiting for him in the drawing room. He had not seen that room before. The open windows gave on a walled garden with pear trees in bloom. There were bowls of tulips on the tables. The old furniture shone with beeswax and elbow grease and the brass of the fender and coal scuttle were brightly gleaming.

It was, Poirot thought, a very beautiful room.

âYou said I should want you, M. Poirot. You were quite right. There is something that must be toldâand I think you are the best person to tell it to.â

âIt is always easier, Madame, to tell a thing to someone who already has a very good idea of what it is.â

âYou think you know what I am going to say?â

Poirot nodded.

âSince whenââ

She left the question unfinished, but he replied promptly:

âSince the moment when I saw the photograph of your father. The features of your family are very strongly marked. One could not doubt that you and he were of the same family. The resemblance was equally strong in the man who came here calling himself Enoch Arden.â

She sighedâa deep unhappy sigh.

âYesâyes, youâre rightâalthough poor Charles had a beard. He was my second cousin, M. Poirot, somewhat the black sheep of the family. I never knew him very well but we played together as childrenâand now Iâve brought him to his deathâan ugly sordid deathââ

She was silent for a moment or two. Poirot said gently:

âYou will tell meââ

She roused herself.

âYes, the story has got to be told. We were desperate for moneyâthatâs where it begins. My husbandâmy husband was in serious troubleâthe worst kind of trouble. Disgrace, perhaps imprisonment lay ahead of himâstill lies ahead of him for that matter. Now understand this, M. Poirot, the plan I made and carried out was my plan; my husband had nothing to do with it. It wasnât his sort of plan in any caseâit would have been far too risky. But Iâve never minded taking risks. And Iâve always been, I suppose, rather unscrupulous. First of all, let me say, I applied to Rosaleen Cloade for a loan. I donât know whether, left to herself, she would have given it to me or not. But her brother stepped in. He was in an ugly mood and he was, or so I thought, unnecessarily insulting. When I thought of this scheme I had no scruples at all about putting it into operation.

âTo explain matters, I must tell you that my husband had repeated to me last year a rather interesting piece of information which he had heard at his club. You were there, I believe, so I neednât repeat it in detail. But it opened up the possibility that Rosaleenâs first husband might not be deadâand of course in that case she would have no right at all to any of Gordonâs money. It was, of course, only a vague possibility, but it was there at the back of our minds, a sort of outside chance that might possibly come true. And it flashed into my mind that something could be done by using that possibility. Charles, my cousin, was in this country, down on his luck. Heâs been in prison, Iâm afraid, and he wasnât a scrupulous person, but he did well in the war. I put the proposition before him. It was, of course, blackmail, neither more nor less. But we thought that we had a good chance of getting away with it. At worst, I thought, David Hunter would refuse to play. I didnât think that he would go to the police about itâpeople like him arenât fond of the police.â

Her voice hardened.

âOur scheme went well. David fell for it better than we hoped. Charles, of course, could not definitely pose as âRobert Underhay.â Rosaleen could give that away in a moment. But fortunately she went up to London and that left Charles a chance of at least suggesting that he might be Robert Underhay. Well, as I say, David appeared to be falling for the scheme. He was to bring the money on Tuesday evening at nine oâclock. Insteadââ

Her voice faltered.

âWe should have known that David wasâa dangerous person. Charles is deadâmurderedâand but for me he would be alive. I sent him to his death.â

After a little she went on in a dry voice:

âYou can imagine what I have felt like ever since.â

âNevertheless,â said Poirot, âyou were quick enough to see a further development of the scheme? It was you who induced Major Porter to identify your cousin as âRobert Underhay?ââ

But at once she broke out vehemently:

âNo, I swear to you, no. Not that! No one was more astonishedâ¦Astonished? We were dumbfounded! when this Major Porter came down and gave evidence that CharlesâCharles!âwas Robert Underhay. I couldnât understand itâI still canât understand it!â

âBut someone went to Major Porter. Someone persuaded him or bribed himâto identify the dead man as Underhay?â

Frances said decisively:

âIt was not I. And it was not Jeremy. Neither of us would do such a thing. Oh, I dare say that sounds absurd to you! You think that because I was ready to blackmail, that I would stoop just as easily to fraud. But in my mind the two things are worlds apart. You must understand that I feltâindeed I still feelâthat we have a right to a portion of Gordonâs money. What I had failed to get by fair means I was prepared to get by foul. But deliberately to swindle Rosaleen out of everything, by manufacturing evidence that she was not Gordonâs wife at allâoh, no, indeed, M. Poirot, I would not do a thing like that. Please, please, believe me.â

âI will at least admit,â said Poirot slowly, âthat every one has their own particular sins. Yes, I will believe that.â

Then he looked at her sharply.

âDo you know, Mrs. Cloade, that Major Porter shot himself this afternoon?â

She shrank back, her eyes wide and horrified.

âOh, no, M. Poirotâno!â

âYes, Madame. Major Porter, you see, was au fond an honest man. Financially he was in very low water, and when temptation came he, like many other men, failed to resist it. It may have seemed to him, he can have made himself feel, that his lie was almost morally justified. He was already deeply prejudiced in his mind against the woman his friend Underhay had married. He considered that she had treated his friend disgracefully. And now this heartless little gold digger had married a millionaire and had got away with her second husbandâs fortune to the detriment of his own flesh and blood. It must have seemed tempting to him to put a spoke in her wheelâno more than she deserved. And merely by identifying a dead man he himself would be made secure for the future. When the Cloades got their rights, he would get his cutâ¦YesâI can see the temptationâ¦But like many men of his type he lacked imagination. He was unhappy, very unhappy, at the inquest. One could see that. In the near future he would have to repeat his lie upon oath. Not only that; a man was now arrested, charged with murderâand the identity of the dead man supplied a very potent motive for that charge.

âHe went back home and faced things squarely. He took the way out that seemed best to him.â

âHe shot himself?â

âYes.â

Frances murmured: âHe didnât say whoâwhoââ

Slowly Poirot shook his head.

âHe had his code. There was no reference whatever as to who had instigated him to commit perjury.â

He watched her closely. Was there an instant flash of relief, of relaxed tension? Yes, but that might be natural enough in any caseâ¦.

She got up and walked to the window. She said:

âSo we are back where we were.â

Poirot wondered what was passing in her mind.

Eleven

Superintendent Spence, the following morning, used almost Francesâ words:

âSo weâre back where we started,â he said with a sigh. âWeâve got to find who this fellow Enoch Arden really was.â

âI can tell you that, Superintendent,â said Poirot. âHis name was Charles Trenton.â

âCharles Trenton!â The Superintendent whistled. âHâm! One of the TrentonsâI suppose she put him up to itâMrs. Jeremy, I meanâ¦However, we shanât be able to prove her connection with it. Charles Trenton? I seem to rememberââ

Poirot nodded.

âYes. He has a record.â

âThought so. Swindling hotels if I remember rightly. Used to arrive at the Ritz, go out and buy a Rolls, subject to a morningâs trial, go round in the Rolls to all the most expensive shops and buy stuffâand I can tell you a man whoâs got his Rolls outside waiting to take his purchases back to the Ritz doesnât get his cheques queried! Besides, he had the manner and the breeding. Heâd stay a week or so and then, just when suspicions began to arise, heâd quietly disappear, selling the various items cheap to the pals heâd picked up. Charles Trenton. Hâmââ He looked at Poirot. âYou find out things, donât you?â

âHow does your case progress against David Hunter?â

âWe shall have to let him go. There was a woman there that night with Arden. It doesnât only depend on that old tartarâs word. Jimmy Pierce was going home, got pushed out of the Load of Hayâhe gets quarrelsome after a glass or two. He saw a woman come out of the Stag and go into the telephone box outside the post officeâthat was just after ten. Said it wasnât any one he knew, thought it was someone staying at the Stag. âA tart from London,â is what he called her.â

âHe was not very near her?â

âNo, right across the street. Who the devil was she, M. Poirot?â

âDid he say how she was dressed?â

âTweed coat, he said, orange scarf round her head. Trousers and a lot of makeup. Fits with the old ladyâs description.â

âYes, it fits.â Poirot was frowning.

Spence asked:

âWell, who was she, where did she come from, where did she go? You know our train service. The 9:20âs the last train up to Londonâand the 10:03 the other way. Did that woman hang about all night and go up on the 6:18 in the morning? Had she got a car? Did she hitch-hike? Weâve sent out all over the placeâbut no results.â

âWhat about the 6:18?â

âItâs always crowdedâmostly men, though. I think theyâd have noticed a womanâthat type of woman, thatâs to say. I suppose she might have come and left by car, but a carâs noticed in Warmsley Vale nowadays. Weâre off the main road, you see.â

âNo cars noticed out that night?â

âOnly Dr. Cloadeâs. He was out on a caseâover Middlingham way. Youâd think someone would have noticed a strange woman in a car.â

âIt need not have been a stranger,â Poirot said slowly. âA man slightly drunk and a hundred yards away might not recognize a local person whom he did not know very well. Someone, perhaps, dressed in a different way from their usual way.â

Spence looked at him questioningly.

âWould this young Pierce recognize, for instance, Lynn Marchmont? She has been away for some years.â

âLynn Marchmont was at the White House with her mother at that time,â said Spence.

âAre you sure?â

âMrs. Lionel Cloadeâthatâs the scatty one, the doctorâs wifeâsays she telephoned to her there at ten minutes past ten. Rosaleen Cloade was in London. Mrs. Jeremyâwell, Iâve never seen her in slacks and she doesnât use much makeup. Anyway, she isnât young.â

âOh, mon cher. Poirot leaned forward. âOn a dim night, with feeble street lights, can one tell youth or age under a mask of makeup?â

âLook here, Poirot,â said Spence, âwhat are you getting at?â

Poirot leaned back and half-closed his eyes.

âSlacks, a tweed coat, an orange scarf enveloping the head, a great deal of makeup, a dropped lipstick. It is suggestive.â

âThink youâre the oracle at Delphi,â growled the Superintendent. âNot that I know what the oracle at Delphi wasâsort of thing young Graves gives himself airs about knowingâdoesnât help his police work any. Any more cryptic pronnouncements, M. Poirot?â

âI told you,â said Poirot, âthat this case was the wrong shape. As an instance I said to you that the dead man was all wrong. So he was, as Underhay. Underhay was clearly an eccentric, chivalrous individual, old-fashioned and reactionary. The man at the Stag was a blackmailer; he was neither chivalrous, old-fashioned, nor reactionary, nor was he particularly eccentricâtherefore he was not Underhay. He could not be Underhay, for people do not change. The interesting thing was that Porter said he was Underhay.â

âLeading you to Mrs. Jeremy?â

âThe likeness led me to Mrs. Jeremy. A very distinctive cast of countenance, the Trenton profile. To permit myself a little play on words, as Charles Trenton the dead man is the right shape. But there are still questions to which we require answers. Why did David Hunter permit himself to be blackmailed so readily? Is he the kind of man who lets himself be blackmailed? One would say very decidedly, no. So he too acts out of character. Then there is Rosaleen Cloade. Her whole behaviour is incomprehensibleâbut there is one thing I should like to know very much. Why is she afraid? Why does she think that something will happen to her now that her brother is no longer there to protect her? Someoneâor something has given her that fear. And it is not that she fears losing her fortuneâno, it is more than that. It is for her life that she is afraidâ¦.â

âGood Lord, M. Poirot, you donât thinkââ

âLet us remember, Spence, that as you said just now, we are back where we started. That is to say, the Cloade family are back where they started. Robert Underhay died in Africa. And Rosaleen Cloadeâs life stands between them and the enjoyment of Gordon Cloadeâs moneyââ

âDo you honestly think that one of them would do that?â

âI think this. Rosaleen Cloade is twenty-six, and though mentally somewhat unstable, physically she is strong and healthy. She may live to be seventy, she may live longer still. Forty-four years, let us say. Donât you think, Superintendent, that forty-four years may be too long for someone to contemplate?â

Twelve

When Poirot left the police station he was almost at once accosted by Aunt Kathie. She had several shopping bags with her and came up to him with a breathless eagerness of manner.

âSo terrible about poor Major Porter,â she said. âI canât help feeling that his outlook on life must have been very materialistic. Army life, you know. Very narrowing, and though he had spent a good deal of his life in India, Iâm afraid he never took advantage of the spiritual opportunities. It would be all pukka and chota hazri and tiffin and pigstickingâthe narrow Army round. To think that he might have sat as a chela at the feet of some guru! Ah, the missed opportunities, M. Poirot, how sad they are!â

Aunt Kathie shook her head and relaxed her grip on one of the shopping bags. A depressed-looking bit of cod slipped out and slithered into the gutter. Poirot retrieved it and in her agitation Aunt Kathie let a second bag slip, whereupon a tin of golden syrup began a gay career rolling along the High Street.

âThank you so much, M. Poirot.â Aunt Kathie grasped the cod. He ran after the golden syrup. âOh, thank youâso clumsy of meâbut really I have been so upset. That unfortunate manâyes, it is sticky, but really I donât like to use your clean handkerchief. Well, itâs very kind of youâas I was saying, in life we are in deathâand in death we are in lifeâI should never be surprised to see the astral body of any of my dear friends who have passed over. One might, you know, just pass them in the street. Whyâonly the other night Iââ

âYou permit?â Poirot rammed the cod firmly into the depths of the bag. âYou were sayingâyes?â

âAstral bodies,â said Aunt Kathie. âI asked, you know, for twopenceâbecause I only had halfpennies. But I thought at the time the face was familiarâonly I couldnât place it. I still canâtâbut I think now it must be someone who has Passed Overâperhaps some time agoâso that my remembrance was very uncertain. It is wonderful the way people are sent to one in oneâs needâeven if itâs only a matter of pennies for telephones. Oh, dear, quite a queue at Peacocksâthey must have got either trifle or Swiss roll! I hope Iâm not too late!â

Mrs. Lionel Cloade plunged across the road and joined herself to the tail end of a queue of grim-faced women outside the confectionerâs shop.

Poirot went on down the High Street. He did not turn in at the Stag. Instead he bent his steps towards the White House.

He wanted very much to have a talk with Lynn Marchmont, and he suspected that Lynn Marchmont would not be averse to having a talk with him.

It was a lovely morningâone of those summer mornings in spring that have a freshness denied to a real summerâs day.

Poirot turned off from the main road. He saw the footpath leading up past Long Willows to the hillside above Furrowbank. Charles Trenton had come that way from the station on the Friday before his death. On his way down the hill, he had met Rosaleen Cloade coming up. He had not recognized her, which was not surprising since he was not Robert Underhay, and she, naturally, had not recognized him for the same reason. But she had sworn when shown the body that she had not even glanced at the face of the man she had passed on the footpath? If so, what had she been thinking about? Had she, by any chance, been thinking of Rowley Cloade?

Poirot turned along the small side road which led to the White House. The garden of the White House was looking very lovely. It held many flowering shrubs, lilacs and laburnums, and in the centre of the lawn was a big old gnarled apple tree. Under it, stretched out in a deck chair, was Lynn Marchmont.

She jumped nervously when Poirot, in a formal voice, wished her âGood morning!â

âYou did startle me, M. Poirot. I didnât hear you coming across the grass. So you are still hereâin Warmsley Vale?â

âI am still hereâyes.â

âWhy?â

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

âIt is a pleasant out-of-the-world spot where one can relax. I relax.â

âIâm glad you are here,â said Lynn.

âYou do not say to me like the rest of your family, âWhen do you go back to London, M. Poirot?â and wait anxiously for the answer.â

âDo they want you to go back to London?â

âIt would seem so.â

âI donât.â

âNoâI realize that. Why, Mademoiselle?â

âBecause it means that youâre not satisfied. Not satisfied, I mean, that David Hunter did it.â

âAnd you want him so muchâto be innocent?â

He saw a faint flush creep up under her bronzed skin.

âNaturally, I donât want to see a man hanged for what he didnât do.â

âNaturallyâoh, yes!â

âAnd the police are simply prejudiced against him because heâs got their backs up. Thatâs the worst of Davidâhe likes antagonizing people.â

âThe police are not so prejudiced as you think, Miss Marchmont. The prejudice against him was in the minds of the jury. They refused to follow the coronerâs guidance. They gave a verdict against him and so the police had to arrest him. But I may tell you that they are very far from satisfied with the case against him.â

She said eagerly:

âThen they may let him go?â

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

âWho do they think did do it, M. Poirot?â

Poirot said slowly: âThere was a woman at the Stag that night.â

Lynn cried:

âI donât understand anything. When we thought the man was Robert Underhay it all seemed so simple. Why did Major Porter say it was Underhay if it wasnât? Why did he shoot himself? Weâre back now where we started.â

âYou are the third person to use that phrase!â

âAm I?â She looked startled. âWhat are you doing, M. Poirot?â

âTalking to people. That is what I do. Just talk to people.â

âBut you donât ask them things about the murder?â

Poirot shook his head.

âNo, I justâwhat shall we sayâpick up gossip.â

âDoes that help?â

âSometimes it does. You would be surprised how much I know of the everyday life of Warmsley Vale in the last few weeks. I know who walked where, and who they met, and sometimes what they said. For instance, I know that the man Arden took the footpath to the village passing by Furrowbank and asking the way of Mr. Rowley Cloade, and that he had a pack on his back and no luggage. I know that Rosaleen Cloade had spent over an hour at the farm with Rowley Cloade and that she had been happy there, unlike her usual self.â

âYes,â said Lynn, âRowley told me that. He said she was like someone having an afternoon out.â

âAha, he said that?â Poirot paused and went on, âYes, I know a lot of the comings and goings. And I have heard a lot about peopleâs difficultiesâyours and your motherâs, for example.â

âThereâs no secret about any of us,â said Lynn. âWeâve all tried to cadge money off Rosaleen. Thatâs what you mean, isnât it?â

âI did not say so.â

âWell, itâs true! And I suppose youâve heard things about me and Rowley and David.â

âBut you are going to marry Rowley Cloade?â

âAm I? I wish I knewâ¦Thatâs what I was trying to decide that dayâwhen David burst out of the wood. It was like a great question mark in my brain. Shall I? Shall I? Even the train in the valley seemed to be asking the same thing. The smoke made a fine question mark in the sky.â

Poirotâs face took on a curious expression. Lynn misunderstood it. She cried out:

âOh, donât you see, M. Poirot, itâs all so difficult. It isnât a question of David at all. Itâs me! Iâve changed. Iâve been away for threeâfour years. Now Iâve come back Iâm not the same person who went away. Thatâs the tragedy everywhere. People coming home changed, having to readjust themselves. You canât go away and lead a different kind of life and not change!â

âYou are wrong,â said Poirot. âThe tragedy of life is that people do not change.â

She stared at him, shaking her head. He insisted:

âBut yes. It is so. Why did you go away in the first place?â

âWhy? I went into the Wrens. I went on service.â

âYes, yes, but why did you join the Wrens in the first place? You were engaged to be married. You were in love with Rowley Cloade. You could have worked, could you not, as a land girl, here in Warmsley Vale?â

âI could have, I suppose, but I wantedââ

âYou wanted to get away. You wanted to go abroad, to see life. You wanted, perhaps, to get away from Rowley Cloadeâ¦And now you are restless, you still wantâto get away! Oh, no, Mademoiselle, people do not change!â

âWhen I was out East, I longed for home,â Lynn cried defensively.

âYes, yes, where you are not, there you will want to be! That will always be so, perhaps, with you. You make a picture to yourself, you see, a picture of Lynn Marchmont coming homeâ¦But the picture does not come true, because the Lynn Marchmont whom you imagine is not the real Lynn Marchmont. She is the Lynn Marchmont you would like to be.â

Lynn asked bitterly:

âSo, according to you, I shall never be satisfied anywhere?â

âI do not say that. But I do say that, when you went away, you were dissatisfied with your engagement, and that now you have come back, you are still dissatisfied with your engagement.â

Lynn broke off a leaf and chewed it meditatively.

âYouâre rather a devil at knowing things, arenât you, M. Poirot?â

âIt is my mÃ©tier,â said Poirot modestly. âThere is a further truth, I think, that you have not yet recognized.â

Lynn said sharply:

âYou mean David, donât you? You think I am in love with David?â

âThat is for you to say,â murmured Poirot discreetly.

âAnd Iâdonât know! Thereâs something in David that Iâm afraid ofâbut thereâs something that draws me, tooâ¦â She was silent a moment and then went on: âI was talking yesterday to his Brigadier. He came down here when he heard David was arrested to see what he could do. Heâs been telling me about David, how incredibly daring he was. He said David was one of the bravest people heâd ever had under him. And yet, you know, M. Poirot, in spite of all he said and his praise, I had the feeling that he wasnât sure, not absolutely sure that David hadnât done this!â

âAnd are you not sure, either?â

Lynn gave a crooked, rather pathetic smile.

âNoâyou see, Iâve never trusted David. Can you love someone you donât trust?â

âUnfortunately, yes.â

âIâve always been unfair to Davidâbecause I didnât trust him. Iâve believed quite a lot of the beastly local gossipâhints that David wasnât David Hunter at allâbut just a boy friend of Rosaleenâs. I was ashamed when I met the Brigadier and he talked to me about having known David as a boy in Ireland.â

âCâest Ã©patant,â murmured Poirot, âhow people can get hold of the wrong end of a stick!â

âWhat do you mean?â

âJust what I say. Tell me, did Mrs. Cloadeâthe doctorâs wife, I meanâdid she ring up on the night of the murder?â

âAunt Kathie? Yes, she did.â

âWhat about?â

âSome incredible muddle she had got into over some accounts.â

âDid she speak from her own house?â

âWhy no, actually her telephone was out of order. She had to go out to a call box.â

âAt ten minutes past ten?â

âThereabouts. Our clocks never keep particularly good time.â

âThereabouts,â said Poirot thoughtfully. He went on delicately:

âThat was not the only telephone call you had that evening?â

âNo.â Lynn spoke shortly.

âDavid Hunter rang you up from London?â

âYes.â She flared out suddenly, âI suppose you want to know what he said?â

âOh, indeed I should not presumeââ

âYouâre welcome to know! He said he was going awayâclearing out of my life. He said he was no good to me and that he never would run straightânot even for my sake.â

âAnd since that was probably true you did not like it,â said Poirot.

âI hope he will go awayâthat is, if he gets acquitted all rightâ¦I hope theyâll both go away to America or somewhere. Then, perhaps, we shall be able to stop thinking about themâweâll learn to stand on our own feet. Weâll stop feeling ill will.â

âIll will?â

âYes. I felt it first one night at Aunt Kathieâs. She gave a sort of party. Perhaps it was because I was just back from abroad and rather on edgeâbut I seemed to feel it in the air eddying all round us. Ill will to herâto Rosaleen. Donât you see, we were wishing her deadâall of us! Wishing her deadâ¦And thatâs awful, to wish that someone whoâs never done you any harmâmay dieââ

âHer death, of course, is the only thing that can do you any practical good.â Poirot spoke in a brisk and practical tone.

âYou mean do us good financially? Her mere being here has done us harm in all the ways that matter! Envying a person, resenting them, cadging off themâit isnât good for one. Now, there she is, at Furrowbank, all alone. She looks like a ghostâshe looks scared to deathâshe looksâoh! she looks as though sheâs going off her head. And she wonât let us help! Not one of us. Weâve all tried. Mums asked her to come and stay with us, Aunt Frances asked her there. Even Aunt Kathie went along and offered to be with her at Furrowbank. But she wonât have anything to do with us now and I donât blame her. She wouldnât even see Brigadier Conroy. I think sheâs ill, ill with worry and fright and misery. And weâre doing nothing about it because she wonât let us.â

âHave you tried? You, yourself?â

âYes,â said Lynn. âI went up there yesterday. I said, was there anything I could do? She looked at meââ Suddenly she broke off and shivered. âI think she hates me. She said, âYou, least of all.â David told her, I think, to stop on at Furrowbank, and she always does what David tells her. Rowley took her up eggs and butter from Long Willows. I think heâs the only one of us she likes. She thanked him and said heâd always been kind. Rowley, of course, is kind.â

âThere are people,â said Poirot, âfor whom one has great sympathyâgreat pity, people who have too heavy a burden to bear. For Rosaleen Cloade I have great pity. If I could, I would help her. Even now, if she would listenââ

With sudden resolution he got to his feet.

âCome, Mademoiselle,â he said, âlet us go up to Furrowbank.â

âYou want me to come with you?â

âIf you are prepared to be generous and understandingââ

Lynn cried:

âI amâindeed I amââ

Thirteen

It took them only about five minutes to reach Furrowbank. The drive wound up an incline through carefully massed banks of rhododendrons. No trouble or expense had been spared by Gordon Cloade to make Furrowbank a showplace.

The parlourmaid who answered the front door looked surprised to see them and a little doubtful as to whether they could see Mrs. Cloade. Madam, she said, wasnât up yet. However, she ushered them into the drawing room and went upstairs with Poirotâs message.

Poirot looked round him. He was contrasting this room with Frances Cloadeâs drawing roomâthe latter such an intimate room, so characteristic of its mistress. The drawing room at Furrowbank was strictly impersonalâspeaking only of wealth tempered by good taste. Gordon Cloade had seen to the latterâeverything in the room was of good quality and of artistic merit, but there was no sign of any selectiveness, no clue to the personal tastes of the roomâs mistress. Rosaleen, it seemed, had not stamped upon the place any individuality of her own.

She had lived in Furrowbank as a foreign visitor might live at the Ritz or at the Savoy.

âI wonder,â thought Poirot, âif the otherââ

Lynn broke the chain of his thought by asking him of what he was thinking, and why he looked so grim.

âThe wages of sin, Mademoiselle, are said to be death. But sometimes the wages of sin seem to be luxury. Is that any more endurable, I wonder? To be cut off from oneâs own home life. To catch, perhaps, a single glimpse of it when the way back to it is barredââ

He broke off. The parlourmaid, her superior manner laid aside, a mere frightened middle-aged woman, came running into the room, stammering and choking with words she could hardly get out.

âOh Miss Marchmont! Oh, sir, the mistressâupstairsâsheâs very badâshe doesnât speak and I canât rouse her and her handâs so cold.â

Sharply, Poirot turned and ran out of the room. Lynn and the maid came behind him. He raced up to the first floor. The parlourmaid indicated the open door facing the head of the stairs.

It was a large beautiful bedroom, the sun pouring in through the open windows on to pale beautiful rugs.

In the big carved bedstead Rosaleen was lyingâapparently asleep. Her long dark lashes lay on her cheeks, her head turned naturally into the pillow. There was a crumpled-up handkerchief in one hand. She looked like a sad child who had cried itself to sleep.

Poirot picked up her hand and felt for the pulse. The hand was ice-cold and told him what he already guessed.

He said quietly to Lynn:

âShe has been dead some time. She died in her sleep.â

âOh, sirâohâwhat shall we do?â The parlourmaid burst out crying.

âWho was her doctor?â

âUncle Lionel,â said Lynn.

Poirot said to the parlourmaid: âGo and telephone to Dr. Cloade.â She went out of the room, still sobbing. Poirot moved here and there about the room. A small white cardboard box beside the bed bore a label, âOne powder to be taken at bedtime.â Using his handkerchief, he pushed the box open. There were three powders left. He moved across to the mantelpiece, then to the writing-table. The chair in front of it was pushed aside, the blotter was open. A sheet of paper was there, with words scrawled in an unformed childish hand.

âI donât know what to doâ¦I canât go onâ¦Iâve been so wicked. I must tell someone and get peaceâ¦I didnât mean to be so wicked to begin with. I didnât know all that was going to come of it. I must write downââ

The words sprawled off in a dash. The pen lay where it had been flung down. Poirot stood looking down at those written words. Lynn still stood by the bed looking down at the dead girl.

Then the door was pushed violently open and David Hunter strode breathlessly into the room.

âDavid,â Lynn started forward. âHave they released you? Iâm so gladââ

He brushed her words aside, as he brushed her aside, thrusting her almost roughly out of the way as he bent over the still white figure.

âRosa! Rosaleenâ¦â He touched her hand, then he swung round on Lynn, his face blazing with anger. His words came high and deliberate!

âSo youâve killed her, have you? Youâve got rid of her at last! You got rid of me, sent me to gaol on a trumped-up charge, and then, amongst you all, you put her out of the way! All of you? Or just one of you? I donât care which it is! You killed her! You wanted the damned moneyânow youâve got it! Her death gives it to you! Youâll all be out of Queer Street now. Youâll all be richâa lot of dirty murdering thieves, thatâs what you are! You werenât able to touch her so long as I was by. I knew how to protect my sisterâshe was never one to be able to protect herself. But when she was alone here, you saw your chance and you took it.â He paused, swayed slightly, and said in a low quivering voice, âMurderers.â

Lynn cried out:

âNo, David. No, youâre wrong. None of us would kill her. We wouldnât do such a thing.â

âOne of you killed her, Lynn Marchmont. And you know that as well as I do!â

âI swear we didnât, David. I swear we did nothing of the kind.â

The wildness of his gaze softened a little.

âMaybe it wasnât you, Lynnââ

âIt wasnât, David, I swear it wasnâtââ

Hercule Poirot moved forward a step and coughed. David swung round on him.

âI think,â said Poirot, âthat your assumptions are a little overdramatic. Why jump to the conclusion that your sister was murdered?â

âYou say she wasnât murdered? Do you call thisââhe indicated the figure on the bedââa natural death? Rosaleen suffered from nerves, yes, but she had no organic weakness. Her heart was sound enough.â

âLast night,â said Poirot, âbefore she went to bed, she sat writing hereââ

David strode past him, bent over the sheet of paper.

âDo not touch it,â Poirot warned him.

David drew back his hand, and read the words as he stood motionless.

He turned his head sharply and looked searchingly at Poirot.

âAre you suggesting suicide? Why should Rosaleen commit suicide?â

The voice that answered the question was not Poirotâs. Superintendent Spenceâs quiet Oastshire voice spoke from the open doorway:

âSupposing that last Tuesday night Mrs. Cloade wasnât in London, but in Warmsley Vale? Suppose she went to see the man who had been blackmailing her? Suppose that in a nervous frenzy she killed him?â

David swung round on him. His eyes were hard and angry.

âMy sister was in London on Tuesday night. She was there in the flat when I got in at eleven oâclock.â

âYes,â said Spence, âthatâs your story, Mr. Hunter. And I dare say youâll stick to it. But Iâm not obliged to believe that story. And in any case, isnât it a little lateââhe gestured towards the bedââthe case will never come to court now.â

Fourteen

âHe wonât admit it,â said Spence. âBut I think he knows she did it.â Sitting in his room at the police station he looked across the table at Poirot. âFunny how it was his alibi we were so careful about checking. We never gave much thought to hers. And yet thereâs no corroboration at all for her being in the flat in London that night. Weâve only got his word that she was there. We knew all along that only two people had a motive for doing away with ArdenâDavid Hunter and Rosaleen Cloade. I went bald-headed for him and passed her by. Fact is, she seemed such a gentle thingâeven a bit half-wittedâbut I dare say that partly explains it. Very likely David Hunter hustled her up to London for just that reason. He may have realized that sheâd lose her head, and he may have known that sheâs the kind who gets dangerous when they panic. Another funny thing: Iâve often seen her going about in an orange linen frockâit was a favourite colour of hers. Orange scarvesâa striped orange frock, an orange beret. And yet, even when old Mrs. Leadbetter described a young woman with her head tied up in an orange scarf I still didnât tumble to it that it must have been Mrs. Gordon herself. I still think the girl wasnât quite all thereâwasnât wholly responsible. The way you describe her as haunting the R.C. church here sounds as though she was half off her head with remorse and a sense of guilt.â

âShe had a sense of guilt, yes,â said Poirot.

Spence said thoughtfully, âShe must have attacked Arden in a kind of frenzy. I donât suppose he had the least idea of what was coming to him. He wouldnât be on his guard with a slip of a girl like that.â He ruminated for a moment or two in silence, then he remarked, âThereâs still one thing Iâm not quite clear about. Who got at Porter? You say it wasnât Mrs. Jeremy? Bet you it was all the same!â

âNo,â said Poirot. âIt was not Mrs. Jeremy. She assured me of that and I believe her. I have been stupid over that. I should have known who it was. Major Porter himself told me.â

âHe told you?â

âOh, indirectly, of course. He did not know that he had done so.â

âWell, who was it?â

Poirot put his head a little on one side.

âIs it permitted, first, that I ask you two questions?â

The Superintendent looked surprised.

âAsk anything you like.â

âThose sleeping powders in a box by Rosaleen Cloadeâs bed. What were they?â

The Superintendent looked more surprised.

âThose? Oh, they were quite harmless. Bromide. Soothing to the nerves. She took one every night. We analysed them, of course. They were quite all right.â

âWho prescribed them?â

âDr. Cloade.â

âWhen did he prescribe them?â

âOh, some time ago.â

âWhat poison was it that killed her?â

âWell, we havenât actually got the report yet, but I donât think thereâs much doubt about it. Morphia and a pretty hefty dose of it.â

âWas any morphia found in her possession?â

Spence looked curiously at the other man.

âNo. What are you getting at, M. Poirot?â

âI will pass now to my second question,â said Poirot evasively. âDavid Hunter put through a call from London to Lynn Marchmont at 11:5 on that Tuesday night. You say you checked up on calls. That was the only outgoing call from the flat in Shepherdâs Court. Were there any incoming calls?â

âOne. At 10:15. Also from Warmsley Vale. It was put through from a public call box.â

âI see.â Poirot was silent for a moment or two.

âWhatâs the big idea, M. Poirot?â

âThat call was answered? The operator, I mean, got a response from the London number.â

âI see what you mean,â said Spence slowly. âThere must have been someone in the flat. It couldnât be David Hunterâhe was in the train on his way back. It looks, then, as if it must have been Rosaleen Cloade. And if so, Rosaleen Cloade couldnât have been at the Stag a few minutes earlier. What youâre getting at, M. Poirot, is that the woman in the orange scarf, wasnât Rosaleen Cloade. And if so, it wasnât Rosaleen Cloade who killed Arden. But then why did she commit suicide?â

âThe answer to that,â said Poirot, âis very simple. She did not commit suicide. Rosaleen Cloade was killed!â

âWhat?â

âShe was deliberately and cold-bloodedly murdered.â

âBut who killed Arden? Weâve eliminated Davidââ

âIt was not David.â

âAnd now you eliminate Rosaleen? But dash it all, those two were the only ones with a shadow of a motive!â

âYes,â said Poirot. âMotive. It was that which has led us astray. If A has a motive for killing C and B has a motive for killing Dâwell, it does not seem to make sense, does it, that A should kill D and B should kill C?â

Spence groaned. âGo easy, M. Poirot, go easy. I donât even begin to understand what you are talking about with your Aâs and Bâs and Câs.â

âIt is complicated,â said Poirot, âit is very complicated. Because, you see, you have here two different kinds of crimeâand consequently you have, you must have, two different murderers. Enter First Murderer, and enter Second Murderer.â

âDonât quote Shakespeare,â groaned Spence. âThis isnât Elizabethan Drama.â

âBut yes, it is very Shakespeareanâthere are here all the emotionsâthe human emotionsâin which Shakespeare would have revelledâthe jealousies, the hatesâthe swift passionate actions. And here, too, is successful opportunism. âThere is a tide in the affairs of men which taken at its flood leads on to fortuneâ¦â Someone acted on that, Superintendent. To seize opportunity and turn it to oneâs own endsâthat has been triumphantly accomplishedâunder your nose so to speak!â

Spence rubbed his nose irritably.

âTalk sense, M. Poirot,â he pleaded. âIf itâs possible, just say what you mean.â

âI will be very clearâclear as crystal. We have here, have we not, three deaths? You agree to that, do you not? Three people are dead.â

Spence looked at him curiously.

âI should certainly say soâ¦Youâre not going to make me believe that one of the three is still alive?â

âNo, no,â said Poirot. âThey are dead. But how did they die? How, that is to say, would you classify their deaths?â

âWell, as to that, M. Poirot, you know my views. One murder, and two suicides. But according to you the last suicide isnât a suicide. Itâs another murder.â

âAccording to me,â said Poirot, âthere has been one suicide, one accident and one murder.â

âAccident? Do you mean Mrs. Cloade poisoned herself by accident? Or do you mean Major Porterâs shooting himself was an accident?â

âNo,â said Poirot. âThe accident was the death of Charles Trentonâotherwise Enoch Arden.â

âAccident!â The Superintendent exploded. âAccident? You say that a particularly brutal murder, where a manâs head is stove in by repeated blows, is an accident!â

Quite unmoved by the Superintendentâs vigour, Poirot replied calmly:

âWhen I say an accident, I mean that there was no intent to kill.â

âNo intent to killâwhen a manâs head is battered in! Do you mean that he was attacked by a lunatic?â

âI think that that is very near the truthâthough not quite in the sense you mean it.â

âMrs. Gordon was the only batty woman in this case. Iâve seen her looking very queer sometimes. Of course, Mrs. Lionel Cloade is a bit bats in the belfryâbut sheâd never be violent. Mrs. Jeremy has got her head screwed on the right way if any one has. By the way, you say that it was not Mrs. Jeremy who bribed Porter?â

âNo. I know who it was. As I say, it was Porter himself who gave it away. One simple little remarkâah, I could kick myself, as you say, all round the town, for not noticing it at the time.â

âAnd then your anonymous A B C lunatic murdered Rosaleen Cloade?â Spenceâs voice was more and more sceptical.

Poirot shook his head vigorously.

âBy no means. This is where the First Murderer exits and Second Murderer enters. Quite a different type of crime this, no heat, and no passion. Cold deliberate murder and I intend Superintendent Spence, to see that her murderer is hanged for that murder.â

He got up as he spoke and moved towards the door.

âHi!â cried Spence. âYouâve got to give me a few names. You canât leave it like this.â

âIn a very little whileâyes, I will tell you. But there is something for which I waitâto be exact, a letter from across the sea.â

âDonât talk like a ruddy fortune-teller! HiâPoirot.â

But Poirot had slipped away.

He went straight across the square and rang the bell of Dr. Cloadeâs house. Mrs. Cloade came to the door and gave her usual gasp at seeing Poirot. He wasted no time.

âMadame, I must speak to you.â

âOh, of courseâdo come inâIâm afraid I havenât had much time to dust, butââ

âI want to ask you something. How long has your husband been a morphia addict?â

Aunt Kathie immediately burst into tears.

âOh dear, oh dearâI did so hope nobody would ever knowâit began in the war. He was so dreadfully overtired and had such dreadful neuralgia. And since then heâs been trying to lessen the doseâhe has indeed. But thatâs what makes him so dreadfully irritable sometimesââ

âThat is one of the reasons why he has needed money, is it not?â

âI suppose so. Oh, dear, M. Poirot. He has promised to go for a cureââ

âCalm yourself, Madame, and answer me one more little question. On the night when you telephoned to Lynn Marchmont, you went out to the call box outside the post office, did you not? Did you meet anybody in the square that night?â

âOh, no, M. Poirot, not a soul.â

âBut I understood you had to borrow twopence because you had only halfpennies.â

âOh, yes. I had to ask a woman who came out of the box. She gave me two pennies for one halfpennyââ

âWhat did she look like, this woman?â

âWell, rather actressy, if you know what I mean. An orange scarf round her head. The funny thing was that Iâm almost sure Iâd met her somewhere. Her face seemed very familiar. She must, I think, have been someone who had passed over. And yet, you know, I couldnât remember where and how I had known her.â

âThank you, Mrs. Cloade,â said Hercule Poirot.

Fifteen

Lynn came out of the house and glanced up at the sky.

The sun was getting low, there was no red in the sky but a rather unnatural glow of light. A still evening with a breathless feel about it. There would be, she thought, a storm later.

Well, the time had come now. She couldnât put things off any longer. She must go to Long Willows and tell Rowley. She owed him that at leastâto tell him herself. Not to choose the easy way of the written word.

Her mind was made upâquite made upâshe told herself and yet she felt a curious reluctance. She looked round her and thought: âItâs goodbye to all thisâto my own worldâmy own way of life.â

For she had no illusions. Life with David was a gambleâan adventure that was as likely to turn out badly as to turn out well. He himself had warned herâ¦.

The night of the murder, over the telephone.

And now, a few hours ago, he had said:

âI meant to go out of your life. I was a foolâto think I could leave you behind me. Weâll go to London and be married by special licenceâoh, yes, Iâm not going to give you the chance of shilly-shallying about. Youâve got roots here, roots that hold you down. Iâve got to pull you up by the roots.â He had added: âWeâll break it to Rowley when youâre actually Mrs. David Hunter. Poor devil, itâs the best way to break it to him.â

But to that she did not agree, though she had not said so at the time. No, she must tell Rowley herself.

It was to Rowley she was going now!

The storm was just starting as Lynn tapped at the door of Long Willows. Rowley opened it and looked astonished to see her.

âHallo, Lynn, why didnât you ring up and say you were coming? I might have been out.â

âI want to talk to you, Rowley.â

He stood aside to let her pass and followed her into the big kitchen. The remains of his supper were on the table.

âIâm planning to get an Aga or an Esse put in here,â he said. âEasier for you. And a new sinkâsteelââ

She interrupted. âDonât make plans, Rowley.â

âYou mean because that poor kid isnât buried yet? I suppose it does seem rather heartless. But she never struck me as a particularly happy person. Sickly, I suppose. Never got over that damned air raid. Anyway, there it is. Sheâs dead and in her grave and oh the difference to meâor rather to usââ

Lynn caught her breath.

âNo, Rowley. There isnât any âus.â Thatâs what I came to tell you.â

He stared at her. She said quietly, hating herself, but steadfast in her purpose:

âIâm going to marry David Hunter, Rowley.â

She did not know quite what she expectedâprotests, perhaps an angry outburstâbut she certainly did not expect Rowley to take it as he did.

He stared at her for a minute or two, then he went across and poked at the stove, turning at last in an almost absentminded manner.

âWell,â he said, âletâs get it clear. Youâre going to marry David Hunter. Why?â

âBecause I love him.â

âYou love me.â

âNo. I did love youâwhen I went away. But itâs been four years and IâveâIâve changed. Weâve both changed.â

âYouâre wrongâ¦â he said quietly. âI havenât changed.â

âWell, perhaps you havenât changed so much.â

âI havenât changed at all. I havenât had much chance to change. Iâve just gone plodding on here. I havenât dropped from parachutes or swarmed up cliffs by night or wound an arm round a man in the darkness and stabbed himââ

âRowleyââ

âI havenât been to the war. I havenât fought. I donât know what war is! Iâve led a nice safe life here, down on the farm. Lucky Rowley! But as a husband, youâd be ashamed of me!â

âNo, Rowleyâoh, no! It isnât that at all.â

âBut I tell you it is!â He came nearer to her. The blood was welling up in his neck, the veins of his forehead were starting out. That look in his eyesâshe had seen it once as she passed a bull in a field. Tossing its head, stamping its foot, slowly lowering its head with the great horns. Goaded to a dull fury, a blind rageâ¦.

âBe quiet, Lynn, youâll listen to me for a change. Iâve missed what I ought to have had. Iâve missed my chance of fighting for my country. Iâve seen my best friend go and be killed. Iâve seen my girlâmy girlâdress up in uniform and go overseas. Iâve been Just the Man She Left Behind Her. My lifeâs been hellâdonât you understand, Lynn? Itâs been hell. And then you came backâand since then itâs been worse hell. Ever since that night at Aunt Kathieâs when I saw you looking at David Hunter across the table. But heâs not going to have you, do you hear? If youâre not for me, then no one shall have you. What do you think I am?â

âRowleyââ

She had risen, was retreating a step at a time. She was terrified. This man was not a man any longer, he was a brute beast.

âIâve killed two people,â said Rowley Cloade. âDo you think I shall stick at killing a third?â

âRowleyââ

He was upon her now, his hands round her throatâ¦.

âI canât bear any more, Lynnââ

The hands tightened round her neck, the room whirled, blackness, spinning blackness, suffocationâeverything going darkâ¦.

And then, suddenly a cough. A prim, slightly artificial cough.

Rowley paused, his hands relaxed, fell to his sides. Lynn, released, sank in a crumpled heap on the floor.

Just inside the door, Hercule Poirot stood apologetically coughing.

âI hope,â he said, âthat I do not intrude? I knocked. Yes, indeed, I knocked, but no one answeredâ¦I suppose you were busy?â

For a moment the air was tense, electric. Rowley stared. It looked for a moment as though he might fling himself on Hercule Poirot, but finally he turned away. He said in a flat empty voice:

âYou turned upâjust in the nick of time.â

Sixteen

Into an atmosphere quivering with danger Hercule Poirot brought his own atmosphere of deliberate anticlimax.

âThe kettle, it is boiling?â he inquired.

Rowley said heavilyâstupidlyââYes, itâs boiling.â

âThen you will, perhaps, make some coffee? Or some tea if it is easier.â

Like an automaton Rowley obeyed.

Hercule Poirot took a large clean handkerchief from his pocket; he soaked it in cold water, wrung it out and came to Lynn.

âThere, Mademoiselle, if you fasten that round your throatâso. Yes, I have the safety pin. There, that will at once ease the pain.â

Croaking hoarsely, Lynn thanked him. The kitchen of Long Willows, Poirot fussing aboutâit all had for her the quality of a nightmare. She felt horribly ill, and her throat was paining her badly. She staggered to her feet and Poirot guided her gently to a chair and put her into it.

âThere,â he said, and over his shoulder:

âThe coffee?â he demanded.

âItâs ready,â said Rowley.

He brought it. Poirot poured out a cup and took it to Lynn.

âLook here,â said Rowley, âI donât think you understand. I tried to strangle Lynn.â

âTscha, tscha,â said Poirot in a vexed voice. He seemed to be deploring a lapse of bad taste on Rowleyâs part.

âTwo deaths Iâve got on my conscience,â said Rowley. âHers would have been the thirdâif you hadnât arrived.â

âLet us drink up our coffee,â said Poirot, âand not talk of deaths. It is not agreeable for Mademoiselle Lynn.â

âMy God!â said Rowley. He stared at Poirot.

Lynn sipped her coffee with difficulty. It was hot and strong. Presently she felt her throat less painful, and the stimulant began to act.

âThere, that is better, yes?â said Poirot.

She nodded.

âNow we can talk,â said Poirot. âWhen I say that, I mean, really, that I shall talk.â

âHow much do you know?â said Rowley heavily. âDo you know that I killed Charles Trenton?â

âYes,â said Poirot. âI have known that for some time.â

The door burst open. It was David Hunter.

âLynn,â he cried. âYou never told meââ

He stopped, puzzled, his eyes going from one to the other.

âWhatâs the matter with your throat?â

âAnother cup,â said Poirot. Rowley took one from the dresser. Poirot received it, filled it with coffee and handed it to David. Once more, Poirot dominated the situation.

âSit down,â he said to David. âWe will sit here and drink coffee, and you shall all three listen to Hercule Poirot while he gives you a lecture on crime.â

He looked round on them and nodded his head.

Lynn thought:

âThis is some fantastic nightmare. It isnât real!â

They were all, it seemed, under the sway of this absurd little man with the big moustaches. They sat there, obedientlyâRowley the killer; she, his victim; David, the man who loved herâall holding cups of coffee, listening to this little man who in some strange way dominated them all.

âWhat causes crime?â Hercule Poirot demanded rhetorically. âIt is a question, that. What stimulus is needed? What inbred predisposition does there have to be? Is every one capable of crimeâof some crime? And what happensâthat is what I have asked myself from the beginning, what happens when people who have been protected from real lifeâfrom its assaults and ravagesâare suddenly deprived of that protection?â

âI am speaking, you see, of the Cloades. There is only one Cloade here, and so I can speak very freely. From the beginning the problem has fascinated me. Here is a whole family who circumstances have prevented from ever having to stand on their own feet. Though each one of the family had a life of his or her own, a profession, yet really they have never escaped from the shadow of a beneficent protection. They have had, always, freedom from fear. They have lived in securityâand a security which was unnatural and artificial. Gordon Cloade was always there behind them.

âWhat I say to you is this, there is no telling what a human character is, until the test comes. To most of us the test comes early in life. A man is confronted quite soon with the necessity to stand on his own feet, to face dangers and difficulties and to take his own line of dealing with them. It may be the straight way, it may be the crooked wayâwhichever it is, a man usually learns early just what he is made of.

âBut the Cloades had no opportunity of knowing their own weaknesses until the time when they were suddenly shorn of protection and were forced, quite unprepared, to face difficulty. One thing, and one thing only, stood between them and the resumption of security, the life of Rosaleen Cloade. I am quite certain in my own mind that every single one of the Cloades thought at one time or another, âIf Rosaleen was to dieâââ

Lynn shivered. Poirot paused, letting the words sink in, then went on:

âThe thought of death, her death, passed through every mindâof that I am certain. Did the further thought of murder pass through also? And did the thought, in one particular instance, go beyond thinking and become action.â

Without a change of voice he turned to Rowley:

âDid you think of killing her?â

âYes,â said Rowley. âIt was the day she came to the farm. There was no one else there. I thought thenâI could kill her quite easily. She looked patheticâand very prettyâlike the calves Iâd sent to market. You can see how pathetic they areâbut you send them off just the same. I wondered, really, that she wasnât afraidâ¦She would have been, if sheâd known what was in my mindâ¦Yes, it was in my mind when I took the lighter from her to light her cigarette.â

âShe left it behind, I suppose. Thatâs how you got hold of it.â

Rowley nodded.

âI donât know why I didnât kill her,â he said wonderingly. âI thought of it. One could have faked it up as an accident, or something.â

âIt was not your type of crime,â said Poirot. âThat is the answer. The man you did kill, you killed in a rageâand you did not really mean to kill him, I fancy?â

âGood Lord, no. I hit him on the jaw. He went over backwards and hit his head on that marble fender. I couldnât believe it when I found he was dead.â

Then suddenly he shot a startled glance at Poirot:

âHow did you know that?â

âI think,â said Poirot, âthat I have reconstructed your actions fairly accurately. You shall tell me if I am wrong. You went to the Stag, did you not, and Beatrice Lippincott told you about the conversation she had overheard? Thereupon you went, as you have said, to your uncleâs, Jeremy Cloade, to get his opinion as a solicitor upon the position. Now something happened there, something that made you change your mind about consulting him. I think I know what that something was. You saw a photographââ

Rowley nodded.

âYes, it was on the desk. I suddenly realized the likeness. I realized too why the fellowâs face had seemed so familiar. I tumbled to it that Jeremy and Frances were getting some relation of hers to put up a stunt and get money out of Rosaleen. It made me see red. I went headlong back to the Stag and up to No. 5 and accused the fellow of being a fraud. He laughed and admitted itâsaid David Hunter was going to come across all right with the money that very evening. I just saw red when I realized that my own family was, as I saw it, double-crossing me. I called him a swine and hit him. He went down as I said.â

There was a pause. Poirot said: âAnd then?â

âIt was the lighter,â said Rowley slowly. âIt fell out of my pocket. Iâd been carrying it about meaning to give it back to Rosaleen when I saw her. It fell down on the body, and I saw the initials, D.H. It was Davidâs, not hers.

âEver since that party at Aunt Kathieâs Iâd realizedâwell, never mind all that. Iâve sometimes thought Iâm going madâperhaps I am a bit mad. First Johnnie goingâand then the warâIâI canât talk about things but sometimes Iâd feel blind with rageâand now Lynnâand this fellow. I dragged the dead man into the middle of the room and turned him over on his face. Then I picked up those heavy steel tongsâwell, I wonât go into details. I wiped off fingerprints, cleaned up the marble curbâthen I deliberately put the hands of the wristwatch at ten minutes past nine and smashed it. I took away his ration book and his papersâI thought his identity might be traced through them. Then I got out. It seemed to me that with Beatriceâs story of what sheâd overheard, David would be for it all right.â

âAnd then,â said Poirot, âyou came to me. It was a pretty little comedy that you played there, was it not, asking me to produce some witnesses that knew Underhay? It was already clear to me that Jeremy Cloade had repeated to his family the story that Major Porter had told. For nearly two years all the family had cherished a secret hope that Underhay might turn up. That wish influenced Mrs. Lionel Cloade in her manipulation of the Ouija boardâunconsciously, but it was a very revealing accident.

âEh bien, I perform my âconjuring trick.â I flatter myself that I impress you and really it is I who am the complete mug. Yes and there in Major Porterâs room, he says, after he offers me a cigarette, he says to you, âYou donât, do you?â

âHow did he know that you did not smoke? He is supposed only that moment to have met you. Imbecile that I am, I should have seen the truth thenâthat already you and Major Porter, you had made your little arrangement together! No wonder he was nervous that morning. Yes, I am to be the mug, I am to bring Major Porter down to identify the body. But I do not go on being the mug for everâno, I am not the mug now, am I?â

He looked round angrily and then went on:

âBut then, Major Porter went back on that arrangement. He does not care to be a witness upon oath in a murder trial, and the strength of the case against David Hunter depends very largely upon the identity of the dead man. So Major Porter backs out.â

âHe wrote to me he wouldnât go through with it,â said Rowley thickly. âThe damned fool. Didnât he see weâd gone too far to stop? I came up to try to drive some sense into him. I was too late. Heâd said heâd rather shoot himself than perjure himself when it was a question of murder. The front door wasnât lockedâI went up and found him.

âI canât tell you what I felt like. It was as though I was a murderer twice over. If only heâd waitedâif heâd only let me talk to him.â

âThere was a note there?â Poirot asked. âYou took it away?â

âYesâI was in for things now. Might as well go the whole hog. The note was to the coroner. It simply said that heâd given perjured evidence at the inquest. The dead man was not Robert Underhay. I took the note away and destroyed it.â

Rowley struck his fist on the table. âIt was like a bad dreamâa horrible nightmare! Iâd begun this thing and Iâd got to go on with it. I wanted the money to get Lynnâand I wanted Hunter to hang. And thenâI couldnât understand itâthe case against him broke down. Some story about a womanâa woman who was with Arden later. I couldnât understand, I still canât understand. What woman? How could a woman be in there talking to Arden after he was dead?â

âThere was no woman,â said Poirot.

âBut, M. Poirot,â Lynn croaked. âThat old lady. She saw her. She heard her.â

âAha,â said Poirot. âBut what did she see? And what did she hear? She saw someone in trousers, with a light tweed coat. She saw a head completely enveloped in an orange scarf arranged turban-wise and a face covered with makeup and a lipsticked mouth. She saw that in a dim light. And what did she hear? She saw the âhussyâ draw back into No. 5 and from within the room she heard a manâs voice saying, âGet out of here, my girl.â Eh bien, it was a man she saw and a man she heard! But it was a very ingenious idea, Mr. Hunter,â Poirot added, turning placidly to David.

âWhat do you mean?â David asked sharply.

âIt is now to you that I will tell a story. You come along to the Stag at nine oâclock or thereabouts. You come not to murder, but to pay. What do you find? You find the man who had been blackmailing you lying on the floor, murdered in a particularly brutal manner. You can think fast, Mr. Hunter, and you realize at once that you are in imminent danger. You have not been seen entering the Stag by any one as far as you know and your first idea is to clear out as soon as possible, catch the 9:20 train back to London and swear hard that you have not been near Warmsley Vale. To catch the train your only chance is to run across country. In doing so you run unexpectedly into Miss Marchmont and you also realize that you cannot catch the train. You see the smoke of it in the valley. She too, although you do not know it, has seen the smoke, but she has not consciously realized that it indicates that you cannot catch the train, and when you tell her that the time is nine-fifteen she accepts your statement without any doubt.

âTo impress on her mind that you do catch the train, you invent a very ingenious scheme. In fact, you now have to plan an entirely new scheme to divert suspicion from yourself.

âYou go back to Furrowbank, letting yourself in quietly with your key and you help yourself to a scarf of your sisterâs, you take one of her lipsticks, and you also proceed to make up your face in a highly theatrical manner.

âYou return to the Stag at a suitable time, impress your personality on the old lady who sits in the Residents Only room and whose peculiarities are common gossip at the Stag. Then you go up to No. 5. When you hear her coming to bed, you come out into the passage, then withdraw hurriedly inside again, and proceed to say loudly, âYouâd better get out of here, my girl.ââ

Poirot paused.

âA very ingenious performance,â he observed.

âIs that true, David?â cried Lynn. âIs it true?â

David was grinning broadly.

âI think a good deal of myself as a female impersonator. Lord, you should have seen that old gorgonâs face!â

âBut how could you be here at ten oâclock and yet telephone to me from London at eleven?â demanded Lynn perplexedly.

David Hunter bowed to Poirot.

âAll explanations by Hercule Poirot,â he remarked. âThe man who knows everything. How did I do it?â

âVery simply,â said Poirot. âYou rang up your sister at the flat from the public call box and gave her certain precise instructions. At eleven-four exactly she put through a toll call to Warmsley Vale 34. When Miss Marchmont came to the phone the operator verified the number, then saying no doubt âA call from London,â or âGo ahead London,â something of that kind?â

Lynn nodded.

âRosaleen Cloade then replaced the receiver. You,â Poirot turned to David, âcarefully noting the time, dialled 34, got it, pressed Button A, said âLondon wants youâ in a slightly disguised voice and then spoke. The lapse of a minute or two would be nothing strange in a telephone call these days, and would only strike Miss Marchmont as a reconnection.â

Lynn said quietly:

âSo thatâs why you rang me up, David?â

Something in her tone, quiet as it was, made David look at her sharply.

He turned to Poirot and made a gesture of surrender.

âNo doubt about it. You do know everything! To tell the truth I was scared stiff. I had to think up something. After Iâd rung Lynn, I walked five miles to Dasleby and went up to London by the early milk train. Slipped into the flat in time to rumple the bed and have breakfast with Rosaleen. It never entered my head that the police would think sheâd done it.

âAnd of course I hadnât the remotest idea who had killed him! I simply couldnât imagine who could have wanted to kill him. Absolutely nobody had a motive as far as I could see, except for myself and Rosaleen.â

âThat,â said Poirot, âhas been the great difficulty. Motive. You and your sister had a motive for killing Arden. Every member of the Cloade family had a motive for killing Rosaleen.â

David said sharply:

âShe was killed, then? It wasnât suicide?â

âNo. It was a carefully premeditated well-thought-out crime. Morphia was substituted for bromide in one of her sleeping-powdersâone towards the bottom of the box.â

âIn the powders.â David frowned. âYou donât meanâyou canât mean Lionel Cloade?â

âOh, no,â said Poirot. âYou see, practically any of the Cloades could have substituted the morphia. Aunt Kathie could have tampered with the powders before they left the surgery. Rowley here came up to Furrowbank with butter and eggs for Rosaleen. Mrs. Marchmont came there. So did Mrs. Jeremy Cloade. Even Lynn Marchmont came. And one and all they had a motive.â

âLynn didnât have a motive,â cried David.

âWe all had motives,â said Lynn. âThatâs what you mean?â

âYes,â said Poirot. âThat is what has made the case difficult. David Hunter and Rosaleen Cloade had a motive for killing Ardenâbut they did not kill him. All of you Cloades had a motive for killing Rosaleen Cloade and yet none of you killed her. This case is, always has been, the wrong way round. Rosaleen Cloade was killed by the person who had most to lose by her death.â He turned his head slightly. âYou killed her, Mr. Hunterâ¦.â

âI?â David cried. âWhy on earth should I kill my own sister?â

âYou killed her because she wasnât your sister. Rosaleen Cloade died by enemy action in London nearly two years ago. The woman you killed was a young Irish housemaid, Eileen Corrigan, whose photograph I received from Ireland today.â

He drew it from his pocket as he spoke. With lightning swiftness David snatched it from him, leapt to the door, jumped through it, and banging it behind him, was gone. With a roar of anger Rowley charged headlong after him.

Poirot and Lynn were left alone.

Lynn cried out, âItâs not true. It canât be true.â

âOh, yes, it is true. You saw half the truth once when you fancied David Hunter was not her brother. Put it the other way and it all falls into shape. This Rosaleen was a Catholic (Underhayâs wife was not a Catholic), troubled by conscience, wildly devoted to David. Imagine his feelings on that night of the Blitz, his sister dead, Gordon Cloade dyingâall that new life of ease and money snatched away from him, and then he sees this girl, very much the same age, the only survivor except for himself, blasted and unconscious. Already no doubt he has made love to her and he has no doubt he can make her do what he wants.

âHe had a way with woman,â Poirot added dryly, without looking at Lynn who flushed.

âHe is an opportunist, he snatches his chance of fortune. He identifies her as his sister. She returns to consciousness to find him at her bedside. He persuades and cajoles her into accepting the role.

âBut imagine their consternation when the first blackmailing letter arrives. All along I have said to myself, âIs Hunter really the type of man to let himself be blackmailed so easily?â It seemed, too, that he was actually uncertain whether the man blackmailing him was Underhay or not. But how could he be uncertain? Rosaleen Cloade could tell him at once if the man were her husband or not. Why hurry her up to London before she has a chance to catch a glimpse of the man? Becauseâthere could only be one reasonâbecause he could not risk the man getting a glimpse of her. If the man was Underhay, he must not discover that Rosaleen Cloade was not Rosaleen Cloade at all. No, there was only one thing to be done. Pay up enough to keep the blackmailer quiet, and thenâdo a flitâgo off to America.

âAnd then, unexpectedly, the blackmailing stranger is murderedâand Major Porter identifies him as Underhay. Never in his life has David Hunter been in a tighter place! Worse still, the girl herself is beginning to crack. Her conscience is becoming increasingly active. She is showing signs of mental breakdown. Sooner or later she will confess, give the whole thing away, render him liable to criminal prosecution. Moreover, he finds her demands on him increasingly irksome. He has fallen in love with you. So he decides to cut his losses. Eileen must die. He substitutes morphia for one of the powders prescribed for her by Dr. Cloade, urges her on to take them every night, suggests to her fears of the Cloade family. David Hunter will not be suspected since the death of his sister means that her money passes back to the Cloades.

âThat was his trump card: lack of motive. As I told youâthis case was always the wrong way round.â

The door opened and Superintendent Spence came in.

Poirot said sharply, âEh bien?â

Spence said, âItâs all right. Weâve got him.â

Lynn said in a low voice:

âDid heâsay anything?â

âSaid heâd had a good run for his moneyââ

âFunny,â added the Superintendent, âhow they always talk at the wrong momentâ¦We cautioned him, of course. But he said, âCut it out, man. Iâm a gamblerâbut I know when Iâve lost the last throw.ââ

Poirot murmured:

ââThere is a tide in the affairs of men

Which, taken at its flood, leads on to fortuneâ¦.â

âYes, the tide sweeps inâbut it also ebbsâand may carry you out to sea.â

Seventeen

It was a Sunday morning when Rowley Cloade, answering a knock at the farm door, found Lynn waiting outside.

He stepped back a pace.

âLynn!â

âCan I come in, Rowley?â

He stood back a little. She passed him and went into the kitchen. She had been at church and was wearing a hat. Slowly, with an almost ritual air, she raised her hands, took off the hat and laid it down on the windowsill.

âIâve come home, Rowley.â

âWhat on earth do you mean?â

âJust that. Iâve come home. This is homeâhere, with you. Iâve been a fool not to know it beforeânot to know journeyâs end when I saw it. Donât you understand, Rowley, Iâve come home!â

âYou donât know what youâre saying, Lynn. IâI tried to kill you.â

âI know.â Lynn gave a grimace and put her fingers gingerly to her throat. âActually, it was just when I thought you had killed me, that I began to realize what a really thundering fool Iâd been making of myself!â

âI donât understand,â said Rowley.

âOh, donât be stupid. I always wanted to marry you, didnât I? And then I got out of touch with youâyou seemed to me so tameâso meekâI felt life would be so safe with youâso dull. I fell for David because he was dangerous and attractiveâand, to be honest, because he knows women much too well. But none of that was real. When you caught hold of me by the throat and said if I wasnât for you, no one should have meâwellâI knew then that I was your woman! Unfortunately it seemed that I was going to know itâjust too lateâ¦Luckily Hercule Poirot walked in and saved the situation. And I am your woman, Rowley!â

Rowley shook his head.

âItâs impossible, Lynn. Iâve killed two menâmurdered themââ

âRubbish,â cried Lynn. âDonât be pigheaded and melodramatic. If you have a row with a hulking big man and hit him and he falls down and hits his head on a fenderâthat isnât murder. Itâs not even legally murder.â

âItâs manslaughter. You go to prison for it.â

âPossibly. If so, I shall be on the step when you come out.â

âAnd thereâs Porter. Iâm morally responsible for his death.â

âNo, youâre not. He was a fully adult responsible manâhe could have turned down your proposition. One canât blame any one else for the things one decides to do with oneâs eyes open. You suggested dishonesty to him, he accepted it and then repented and took a quick way out. He was just a weak character.â

Rowley shook his head obstinately.

âItâs no good, old girl. You canât marry a gaolbird.â

âI donât think youâre going to gaol. A policeman would have been round for you before now if so.â

Rowley stared.

âBut damn it all, manslaughterâbribing Porterââ

âWhat makes you think the police know anything about all that or ever will?â

âThat fellow Poirot knows.â

âHe isnât the police. Iâll tell you what the police think. They think David Hunter killed Arden as well as Rosaleen, now they know he was in Warmsley Vale that evening. They wonât charge him with it because it isnât necessaryâand besides, I believe you canât be arrested twice on the same charge. But as long as they think he did it, they wonât look for any one else.â

âBut that chap Poirotââ

âHe told the Superintendent it was an accident, and I gather the Superintendent just laughed at him. If you ask me I think Poirot will say nothing to any one. Heâs rather a dearââ

âNo, Lynn. I canât let you risk it. Apart from anything else Iâwell, I mean, can I trust myself? What I mean is, it wouldnât be safe for you.â

âPerhaps notâ¦But you see, Rowley, I do love youâand youâve had such a hell of a timeâand Iâve never, really, cared very much for being safeââ

The
Agatha Christie
Collection

THE HERCULE POIROT MYSTERIES

Match your wits with the famous Belgian detective.

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

The Big Four

The Mystery of the Blue Train

Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirotâ€™s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labors of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

The Underdog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGintyâ€™s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Manâ€™s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Clocks

Third Girl

Halloweâ€™en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Curtain: Poirotâ€™s Last Case

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The
Agatha Christie
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THE MISS MARPLE MYSTERIES

Join the legendary spinster sleuth from
St. Mary Mead in solving murders far and wide.

The Murder at the Vicarag

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 From Paddington

The Mirror Crackâ€™d from Side to Side

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertramâ€™s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Complete Short Stories

THE TOMMY AND TUPPENCE MYSTERIES

Jump on board with the entertaining crime-solving
couple from Young Adventurers Ltd.

The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

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The
Agatha Christie
Collection

Donâ€™t miss a single one of Agatha Christieâ€™s
stand-alone novels and short-story collections.

The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

The Seven Dials Mystery

The Mysterious Mr. Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

Parker Pyne Investigates

Why Didnâ€™t They Ask Evans?

Murder Is Easy

The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

The Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories

Crooked House

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

The Pale Horse

Star over Bethlehem: Poems and Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

The Harlequin Tea Set

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About the Author

Agatha Christie is the most widely published author of all time and in any language, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her books have sold more than a billion copies in English and another billion in a hundred foreign languages. She is the author of eighty crime novels and short-story collections, nineteen plays, two memoirs, and six novels written under the name Mary Westmacott.

She first tried her hand at detective fiction while working in a hospital dispensary during World War I, creating the now legendary Hercule Poirot with her debut novel The Mysterious Affair at Styles. With The Murder in the Vicarage, published in 1930, she introduced another beloved sleuth, Miss Jane Marple. Additional series characters include the husband-and-wife crime-fighting team of Tommy and Tuppence Beresford, private investigator Parker Pyne, and Scotland Yard detectives Superintendent Battle and Inspector Japp.

Many of Christieâ€™s novels and short stories were adapted into plays, films, and television series. The Mousetrap, her most famous play of all, opened in 1952 and is the longest-running play in history. Among her best-known film adaptations are Murder on the Orient Express (1974) and Death on the Nile (1978), with Albert Finney and Peter Ustinov playing Hercule Poirot, respectively. On the small screen Poirot has been most memorably portrayed by David Suchet, and Miss Marple by Joan Hickson and subsequently Geraldine McEwan and Julia McKenzie.

Christie was first married to Archibald Christie and then to archaeologist Sir Max Mallowan, whom she accompanied on expeditions to countries that would also serve as the settings for many of her novels. In 1971 she achieved one of Britainâ€™s highest honors when she was made a Dame of the British Empire. She died in 1976 at the age of eighty-five. Her one hundred and twentieth anniversary was celebrated around the world in 2010.

www.AgathaChristie.com

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THE AGATHA CHRISTIE COLLECTION

The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

The Seven Dials Mystery

The Mysterious Mr. Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

Parker Pyne Investigates

Why Didnâ€™t They Ask Evans?

Murder Is Easy

The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

The Witness for the Prosecution and
Other Stories

Crooked House

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

The Pale Horse

Star over Bethlehem: Poems and
Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

The Harlequin Tea Set

The Hercule Poirot Mysteries

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

The Big Four

The Mystery of the Blue Train

Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirotâ€™s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labors of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

The Underdog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGintyâ€™s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Manâ€™s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Clocks

Third Girl

Halloweâ€™en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Curtain: Poirotâ€™s Last Case

The Miss Marple Mysteries

The Murder at the Vicarage

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 from Paddington

The Mirror Crackâ€™d from Side to Side

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertramâ€™s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Complete
Short Stories

The Tommy and Tuppence Mysteries

The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

Memoirs

An Autobiography

Come, Tell Me How You Live

Credits

Cover design by Faith Laurel

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the authorâ€™s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

This title was previously published as There Is a Tideâ€¦

AGATHA CHRISTIEÂ® POIROTÂ® TAKEN AT THE FLOODâ„¢. Copyright Â© 1948 Agatha Christie Limited (a Chorion company). All rights reserved.

TAKEN AT THE FLOOD Â© 1948. Published by permission of G.P. Putnamâ€™s Sons, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

ISBN 978-0-06-207384-6

EPub Edition Â© AUGUST 2011 ISBN: 978-0-06-175511-8

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