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“Oh those! Any man who deals in the world’s finance in a big way is liable to that kind of attention from some crazy fanatic!”
“It might possibly be a cas
e of someone who is not a fanatic and not crazy.”
Blunt stared.
“What are you driving at?”
“In plain language, I want to know who benefits by your death.”
Blunt grinned.
“Chiefly the St. Edward’s Hospital, the Cancer Hospital, and the Royal Institute for the Blind.”
“Ah!”
“In addition, I have left a sum of money to my niece by marriage, Mrs. Julia Olivera; an equivalent sum, but in trust, to her daughter, Jane Olivera, and also a substantial provision for my only surviving relative, a second cousin, Helen Montressor, who was left very badly off and who occupies a small cottage on the estate here.”
He paused and then said:
“This, M. Poirot, is strictly in confidence.”
“Naturally, Monsieur, naturally.”
Alistair Blunt added sarcastically:
“I suppose you do not suggest, M. Poirot, that either Julia or Jane Olivera or my cousin Helen Montressor, are planning to murder me for my money?”
“I suggest nothing—nothing at all.”
Blunt’s slight irritation subsided. He said:
“And you’ll take on that other commission for me?”
“The finding of Miss Sainsbury Seale? Yes, I will.”
Alistair Blunt said heartily:
“Good man.”
VII
In leaving the room Poirot almost cannoned into a tall figure outside the door.
He said: “I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle.”
Jane Olivera drew apart a little.
She said. “Do you know what I think of you, M. Poirot?”
“Eh bien—Mademoiselle—”
She did not give time to finish. The question, indeed, had but a rhetorical value. All that it meant was that Jane Olivera was about to answer it herself.
“You’re a spy, that’s what you are! A miserable, low, snooping spy, nosing round and making trouble!”
“I assure you, Mademoiselle—”
