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‘I put that,’ said Nick, with some pride. ‘I remember putting that, and I said pay all debts and testamentary expenses. I remembered that out of a book I’d read.’
‘You did not use a will form, then?’
‘No, there wasn’t time for that. I was just going off to the nursing home, and besides Mr Croft said will forms were very dangerous. It was better to make a simple will and not try to be too legal.’
‘M. Croft? He was there?’
‘Yes. It was he who asked me if I’d made one. I’d never have thought of it myself. He said if you died in—in—’
‘Intestate,’ I said.
‘Yes, that’s it. He said if you died intestate, the Crown pinched a lot and that would be a pity.’
‘Very helpful, the excellent M. Croft!’
‘Oh, he was,’ said Nick warmly. ‘He got Ellen in and her husband to witness it. Oh! of course! What an idiot I’ve been!’
We looked at her inquiringly.
‘I’ve been a perfect idiot. Letting you hunt round End House. Charles has got it, of course! My cousin, Charles Vyse.’
‘Ah! so that is the explanation.’
‘Mr Croft said a lawyer was the proper person to have charge of it.’
‘Très correct, ce bon M. Croft.’
‘Men are useful sometimes,’ said Nick. ‘A lawyer or the Bank—that’s what he said. And I said Charles would be best. So we stuck it in an envelope and sent it off to him straight away.’
She lay back on her pillows with a sigh.
‘I’m sorry I’ve been so frightfully stupid. But it is all right now. Charles has got it, and if you really want to see it, of course he’ll show it to you.’
‘Not without an authorization from you,’ said Poirot, smiling.
‘How silly.’
‘No, Mademoiselle. Merely prudent.’
‘Well, I think it’s silly.’ She took a piece of paper from a little stack that lay beside her bed. ‘What shall I say? Let the dog see the rabbit?’
‘Comment?’
I laughed at his startled face.
He dictated a form of words, and Nick wrote obediently.
‘Thank you, Mademoiselle,’ said Poirot, as he took it.
‘I’m sorry to have given you such a lot of trouble. But I really had forgotten. You know how one forgets things almost at once?’
‘With order and method in the mind one does not forget.’
‘I’ll have to have a course of some kind,’ said Nick. ‘You’re giving me quite an inferiority complex.’
‘That is impossible. Au revoir, Mademoiselle.’ He looked round the room. ‘Your flowers are lovely.’
‘Aren’t they? The carnations are from Freddie and the roses from George and the lilies from Jim Lazarus. And look here—’
She pulled the wrapping from a large basket of hothouse grapes by her side.
Poirot’s face changed. He stepped forward sharply.
‘You have not eaten any of them?’
‘No. Not yet.’
‘Do not do so. You must eat nothing, Mademoiselle, that comes in from outside. Nothing. You comprehend?’
‘Oh!’
She stared at him, the colour ebbing slowly from her face.
‘I see. You think—you think it isn’t over yet. You think they’re still trying?’ she whispered.
He took her hand.
‘Do not think of it. You are safe here. But remember—nothing that comes in from outside.’
I was conscious of that white frightened face on the pillow as we left the room.
Poirot looked at his watch.
‘Bon. We have just time to catch M. Vyse at his office before he leaves it for lunch.’
On arrival we were shown into Charles Vyse’s office after the briefest of delays.
The young lawyer rose to greet us. He was as formal and unemotional as ever.
‘Good morning, M. Poirot. What can I do for you?’
Without more ado Poirot presented the letter Nick had written. He took it and read it, then gazed over the top of it in a perplexed manner.
‘I beg your pardon. I really am at a loss to understand?’
‘Has not Mademoiselle Buckley made her meaning clear?’
‘In this letter,’ he tapped it with his finger-nail, ‘she asks me to hand over to you a will made by her and entrusted to my keeping in February last.’
‘Yes, Monsieur.’
‘But, my dear sir, no will has been entrusted to my keeping!’
‘Comment?’
‘As far as I know my cousin never made a will. I certainly never made one for her.’
‘She wrote this herself, I understand, on a sheet of notepaper and posted it to you.’
The lawyer shook his head.
‘In that case all I can say is that I never received it.’
‘Really, M. Vyse—’
‘I never received anything of the kind, M. Poirot.’
There was a pause, then Poirot rose to his feet.
‘In that case, M. Vyse, there is nothing more to be said. There must be some mistake.’
‘Certainly there must be some mistake.’
He rose also.
‘Good day, M. Vyse.’
‘Good day, M. Poirot.’
‘And that is that,’ I remarked, when we were out in the street once more.
‘Précisément.’
‘Is he lying, do you think?’
‘Impossible to tell. He has the good poker face, M. Vyse, besides looking as though he had swallowed one. One thing is clear, he will not budge from the position he has taken up. He never received the will. That is his point.’
‘Surely Nick will have a written acknowledgment of its receipt.’
‘Cette petite, she would never bother her head about a thing like that. She despatched it. It was off her mind. Voilà. Besides, on that very day, she went into a nursing home to have her appendix out. She had her emotions, in all probability.’
‘Well, what do we do now?’
‘Parbleu, we go and see M. Croft. Let us see what he can remember about this business. It seems to have been very much his doing.’
‘He didn’t profit by it in any way,’ I said, thoughtfully.
‘No. No, I cannot see anything in it from his point of view. He is probably merely the busybody—the man who likes to arrange his neighbour’s affairs.’
Such an attitude was indeed typical of Mr Croft, I felt. He was the kindly know all who causes so much exasperation in this world of ours.
We found him busy in his shirt sleeves over a steaming pot in the kitchen. A most savoury smell pervaded the little lodge.
He relinquished his cookery with enthusiasm, being clearly eager to talk about the murder.
‘Half a jiffy,’ he said. ‘Walk upstairs. Mother will want to be in on this. She’d never forgive us for talking down here. Cooee—Milly. Two friends coming up.’
Mrs Croft greeted us warmly and was eager for news of Nick. I liked her much better than her husband.
‘That poor dear girl,’ she said. ‘In a nursing home, you say? Had a complete breakdown, I shouldn’t wonder. A dreadful business, M. Poirot—perfectly dreadful. An innocent girl like that shot dead. It doesn’t bear thinking about—it doesn’t indeed. And no lawless wild part of the world either. Right here in the heart of the old country. Kept me awake all night, it did.’
‘It’s made me nervous about going out and leaving you, old lady,’ said her husband, who had put on his coat and joined us. ‘I don’t like to think of your having been left all alone here yesterday evening. It gives me the shivers.’
‘You’re not going to leave me again, I can tell you,’ said Mrs Croft. ‘Not after dark, anyway. And I’m thinking I’d like to leave this part of the world as soon as possible. I shall never feel the same about it. I shouldn’t think poor Nicky Buckley could ever bear to sleep in that house again.’
It was a little difficult to reach the object of our visit. Both Mr
and Mrs Croft talked so much and were so anxious to know all about everything. Were the poor dead girl’s relations coming down? When was the funeral? Was there to be an inquest? What did the police think? Had they any clue yet? Was it true that a man had been arrested in Plymouth?
Then, having answered all these questions, they were insistent on offering us lunch. Only Poirot’s mendacious statement that we were obliged to hurry back to lunch with the Chief Constable saved us.
At last a momentary pause occurred and Poirot got in the question he had been waiting to ask.
‘Why, of course,’ said Mr Croft. He pulled the blind cord up and down twice, frowning at it abstractedly. ‘I remember all about it. Must have been when we first came here. I remember. Appendicitis—that’s what the doctor said—’
