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She went over once more to the window and stood looking out. Poirot signed to me not to speak. I think he was hoping for some further revelation, now that the girl’s self-control had broken down.
When she spoke, it was in a different tone of voice, a dreamy far-away voice.
‘Do you know a queer wish I’ve always had? I love End House. I’ve always wanted to produce a play there. It’s got an—an atmosphere of drama about it. I’ve seen all sorts of plays staged there in my mind. And now it’s as though a drama were being acted there. Only I’m not producing it…I’m in it! I’m right in it! I am, perhaps, the person who—dies in the first act.’
Her voice broke.
‘Now, now, Mademoiselle.’ Poirot’s voice was resolutely brisk and cheerful. ‘This will not do. This is hysteria.’
She turned and looked at him sharply.
‘Did Freddie tell you I was hysterical?’ she asked. ‘She says I am, sometimes. But you mustn’t always believe what Freddie says. There are times, you know when—when she isn’t quite herself.’
There was a pause, then Poirot asked a totally irrelevant question:
‘Tell me, Mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘Have you ever received an offer for End House?’
‘To sell it, do you mean?’
‘That is what I meant.’
‘No.’
‘Would you consider selling it if you got a good offer?’
Nick considered for a moment.
‘No, I don’t think so. Not, I mean, unless it was such a ridiculously good offer that it would be perfectly foolish not to.’
‘Précisément.’
‘I don’t want to sell it, you know, because I’m fond of it.’
‘Quite so. I understand.’
Nick moved slowly towards the door.
‘By the way, there are fireworks tonight. Will you come? Dinner at eight o’clock. The fireworks begin at nine-thirty. You can see them splendidly from the garden where it overlooks the harbour.’
‘I shall be enchanted.’
‘Both of you, of course,’ said Nick.
‘Many thanks,’ I said.
‘Nothing like a party for reviving the drooping spirits,’ remarked Nick. And with a little laugh she went out.
‘Pauvre enfant,’ said Poirot.
He reached for his hat and carefully flicked an infinitesimal speck of dust from its surface.
‘We are going out?’ I asked.
‘Mais oui, we have legal business to transact, mon ami.’
‘Of course. I understand.’
‘One of your brilliant mentality could not fail to do so, Hastings.’
The offices of Messrs Vyse, Trevannion & Wynnard were situated in the main street of the town. We mounted the stairs to the first floor and entered a room where three clerks were busily writing. Poirot asked to see Mr Charles Vyse.
A clerk murmured a few words down a telephone, received, apparently, an affirmative reply, and remarking that Mr Vyse would see us now, he led us across the passage, tapped on a door and stood aside for us to pass in.
From behind a large desk covered with legal papers, Mr Vyse rose up to greet us.
He was a tall young man, rather pale, with impassive features. He was going a little bald on either temple and wore glasses. His colouring was fair and indeterminate.
Poirot had come prepared for the encounter. Fortunately he had with him an agreement, as yet unsigned, and so on some technical points in connection with this, he wanted Mr Vyse’s advice.
Mr Vyse, speaking carefully and correctly, was soon able to allay Poirot’s alleged doubts, and to clear up some obscure points of the wording.
‘I am very much obliged to you,’ murmured Poirot. ‘As a foreigner, you comprehend, these legal matters and phrasing are most difficult.’
It was then that Mr Vyse asked who had sent Poirot to him.
‘Miss Buckley,’ said Poirot, promptly. ‘Your cousin, is she not? A most charming young lady. I happened to mention that I was in perplexity and she told me to come to you. I tried to see you on Saturday morning—about half-past twelve—but you were out.’
‘Yes, I remember. I left early on Saturday.’
‘Mademoiselle your cousin must find that large house very lonely? She lives there alone, I understand.’
‘Quite so.’
‘Tell me, Mr Vyse, if I may ask, is there any chance of that property being in the market?’
‘Not the least, I should say.’
‘You understand, I do not ask idly. I have a reason! I am in search, myself, of just such a property. The climate of St Loo enchants me. It is true that the house appears to be in bad repair, there has not been, I gather, much money to spend upon it. Under those circumstances, is it not possible that Mademoiselle would consider an offer?’
‘Not the least likelihood of it.’ Charles Vyse shook his head with the utmost decision. ‘My cousin is absolutely devoted to the place. Nothing would induce her to sell, I know. It is, you understand, a family place.’
‘I comprehend that, but—’
‘It is absolutely out of the question. I know my cousin. She has a fanatical devotion to the house.’
A few minutes later we were out in the street again.
‘Well, my friend,’ said Poirot. ‘And what impression did this M. Charles Vyse make upon you?’
I considered.
‘A very negative one,’ I said at last. ‘He is a curiously negative person.’
‘Not a strong personality, you would say?’
‘No, indeed. The kind of man you would never remember on meeting him again. A mediocre person.’
‘His appearance is certainly not striking. Did you notice any discrepancy in the course of our conversation with him?’
‘Yes,’ I said slowly, ‘I did. With regard to the selling of End House.’
‘Exactly. Would you have described Mademoiselle Buckley’s attitude towards End House as one of “fanatical devotion”?’
‘It is a very strong term.’
‘Yes—and Mr Vyse is not given to using strong terms. His normal attitude—a legal attitude—is to under, rather than over, state. Yet he says that Mademoiselle has a fanatical devotion to the home of her ancestors.’
‘She did not convey that impression this morning,’ I said. ‘She spoke about it very sensibly, I thought. She’s obviously fond of the place—just as anyone in her position would be—but certainly nothing more.’
‘So, in fact, one of the two is lying,’ said Poirot, thoughtfully.
‘One would not suspect Vyse of lying.’
‘Clearly a great asset if one has any lying to do,’ remarked Poirot. ‘Yes, he has quite the air of a George Washington, that one. Did you notice another thing, Hastings?’
‘What was that?’
‘He was not in his office at half-past twelve on Saturday.’
Chapter 7
Tragedy
The first person we saw when we arrived at End House that evening was Nick. She was dancing about the hall wrapped in a marvellous kimono covered with dragons.
‘Oh! it’s only you!’
‘Mademoiselle—I am desolated!’
‘I know. It did sound rude. But you see, I’m waiting for my dress to arrive. They promised—the brutes—promised faithfully!’
‘Ah! if it is a matter of la toilette! There is a dance tonight, is there not?’
‘Yes. We are all going on to it after the fireworks. That is, I suppose we are.’
There was a sudden drop in her voice. But the next minute she was laughing.
‘Never give in! That’s my motto. Don’t think of trouble and trouble won’t come! I’ve got my nerve back tonight. I’m going to be gay and enjoy myself.’
There was a footfall on the stairs. Nick turned.
‘Oh! here’s Maggie. Maggie, here are the sleuths that are protecting me from the secret assassin. Take them into the drawing-room and let them tell you about it.’
In turn we shook
hands with Maggie Buckley, and, as requested, she took us into the drawing-room. I formed an immediate favourable opinion of her.
It was, I think, her appearance of calm good sense that so attracted me. A quiet girl, pretty in the old-fashioned sense—certainly not smart. Her face was innocent of make-up and she wore a simple, rather shabby, black evening dress. She had frank blue eyes, and a pleasant slow voice.
‘Nick has been telling me the most amazing things,’ she said. ‘Surely she must be exaggerating? Who ever would want to harm Nick? She can’t have an enemy in the world.’
Incredulity showed strongly in her voice. She was looking at Poirot in a somewhat unflattering fashion. I realized that to a girl like Maggie Buckley, foreigners were always suspicious.
‘Nevertheless, Miss Buckley, I assure you that it is the truth,’ said Poirot quietly.
